Page 19 of Disenchanted

“You get anonymous donations all the time, don’t you?” Robin asked.

“Exactly. It’ll be a load of old junk from someone’s loft,” Casimir told him.

“Sounds creepy,” Laurel said excitedly. “Be careful with that sort of unlabelled thing, though, Sage. What if it’s some kind of ancient, demon-ridden, wraith-drawing almanac?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Sage said into her coffee.

“I’m serious, Sage. You mess with some crazy stuff as it is. If it’s particularly suspicious, then you absolutely should not open it. What if it’s accidentally been delivered from a disturbed ancient Egyptian tomb or a desecrated sacred site? It’ll bring nothing but misfortune.”

“Ah, yes, the postal service does so often confuse Egypt with Port Sylvan,” Casimir chimed in.

“A mummy’s curse!” Laurel blurted out, getting more and more carried away as her vivid imagination tended to do. “Sage, some doors, once opened, can never be shut again. The same goes for old execration texts, you know.”

“You’re only making it even more irresistible to her by saying that,” Robin said with a knowing chuckle, shooing Sage away. “Go on, then.”

“Go?”

“Go,” he said, shouldering her. “As soon as Cas mentioned it, I knew that you wouldn’t be able to leave that alone for a whole night. You won’t sleep until at least a few notes are made. It’s the sort of thing that makes your skin itch, so best get it over with.”

“Yes, you’ve endured at least two hours in the confines of social company. Go back to your lair,” Laurel said to her sister. “I want to pick Robin’s brain about a couple of character edits anyway. No offence, but you haven’t the whimsy for it.”

Sage tried to be incredulous, but Laurel was right. She only ever managed to point out the glaring plot holes that Laurel was ignoring on purpose, rather than offer anything fun or creative.

She muttered an awkward half thank-you, half apology, with a twitch of a smile. At least they understood her ways.

She gathered up her many bags and belongings, and puffed the hair out of her face as she stumbled with the swing of another satchel over her shoulder. Before she could argue, Casimir lifted it back over her head and wore it himself.

“I don’t need you to come with me, Cas. Stay and have another drink.”

“And what would that do for my impeccable reputation? I’m hardly going to let you wander off in the dark by yourself, am I? I might need to keep you out of trouble.”

From the corner of her eye, Sage caught Laurel and Robin exchanging matching eye-rolls. Laurel pretended to swoon against the booth and Robin spluttered into the foam of his pint. It didn’t bother her as much as it used to. If she got annoyed with everyone who assumed there was something going on between her and Casimir, she’d never be in a good mood again.

“We live in the sleepiest town imaginable,” she said to Casimir. “Port Sylvan is simply teeming with untoward characters, isn’t it?”

“Just you, Specs. I’m worried you might accidentally blow the place up. If your magic suddenly throws a tantrum and sets fire to the archive, I know I’ll get the blame tomorrow. Lucky me, hey?”

9

The Book

Late-night strolls to the museum weren’t unusual for Sage. It was not a rarity that she would wake up at some godforsaken hour in the morning with a sudden thought about a note in a margin or a miscalculation that she’d made, and there was simply no point in even attempting to return to sleep. She had been known to throw a coat over her pyjamas, shove the bottoms into her wellies and trudge across town to put her mind at ease while there was still stardust lingering across the constellations.

The museum flickered to life as Sage turned on the lights, then blew into her hands to try to warm them after the walk.

“You can do the honours,” Casimir said as he took a seat on the pin-striped sofa in the foyer. He flopped down, threw his legs over the arm and nestled against the cushions. “I’m just going to rest my eyes for a minute.”

“That’s good of you,” Sage said, dropping her bags heavily onto his stomach as she passed by.

From the archive, she soon pulled out the box she was so desperate to open. It looked entirely unassuming, and she couldn’t help but feel a tad frustrated with herself for being so consumed by the thought of it. She could never just have a nice time, never truly relax. But they were here now, and once it was stowed away, she’d be able to concentrate properly on the rest of the work she’d taken home.

She gave a “hmm” of surprise at the weight but recognized the familiar density straight away as she lifted it. Casimir was right, there was definitely a book inside. Her books were the main reason she hadn’t moved house in seven years—the mere thought of lifting the entirety of her collection into boxes. Well, that and the housekeeping ghost, whom she had grown rather fond of.

Sage carried the box through to the exhibition hall, placed it carefully on the floor, then swiped the dust from her hands. It was a little grimy and cobwebbed, but that wasn’t unusual for donations. They were often uncovered in long-neglected attics or damp-ridden basements, cleared out of private collections when people passed away. Taking a seat on the carpet, she curled her legs underneath her checked skirt and slid a letter opener through the tape. A cough of dust exhaled through the gap the moment she opened it, and she had to fan away the unpleasant stale air with a splutter.

Casimir peeped one eye open and rose languidly from the sofa. He strolled over to the gilded mirror they had hung opposite Lilara Mournfell’s cloak.

“Where did you say this came from?” Sage’s voice was quiet.