Page 58 of The Spellreader and the Phoenix

They made no attempt to talk for several minutes as they ate, apart from Rory exclaiming happily over all the food, which made Mr. Jones smile faintly.

Finally, the old man pushed his plate away—he’d managed about half of it—and spoke. “So, what do you think of the collection?”

“I think it’s fantastic,” Max said honestly. “The best private collection I’ve ever seen.”

“But?” Mr. Jones prompted.

Max had actually been trying to be polite for once, but if the man asked? “I think it’s a shame that it’s not available to the public.”

Mr. Jones huffed a noise. “Think I’m hoarding, do you?”

Max shrugged. “Almost all of the witch families did. I think we’re past that now, or we should be. We’ve got more connectivity than ever, and we’re terrible at using it. I know there are dangers, and we still need to be careful. But we have reliable means of duplicating spells. We have witches who spring up from seemingly non-magical families. We have an easier time finding out about possibilities, which means a witch who cares about gardening might be in a family of witches who specialize in healing.”

Grimacing, Max said, “Honestly, I think what we’re doing more than anything right now is enabling the Spellsmiths. Why shouldn’t we all use the spells that exist and only get help for truly new or nuanced problems? Your collection, mine, and those around the world show just how much of this knowledge has been collected, but the problem is that it’s stopping there. Some people know to come to me, but that’s still being filtered through me, and it takes time.”

Max was warming to his topic. “I think all these spells should be correctly identified by a Spellreader. The dangerous ones should be locked up, and the terrible ones should be destroyed. And then I think someone should make a damn catalogue so that witches around the world can look them up and learn whatever spell they want. There’s so much we could do.”

Mr. Jones was silent for a long moment, and then he nodded. “Yes, you’ll do. I’m old now, too old to do any of that myself, but you’ve reassured me that I found the right people for the job. When I’m gone, I’m going to leave the library to you.”

Max straightened abruptly. “Wait, what?”

Mr. Jones nodded, looking rather serene for a crotchety old man. “Yes, to you and your friend. I would like you to take care of it, to do all of what you’ve just said. I collected spells for years, rescued some that were going to be used by unscrupulous witches or thrown out by people who didn’t understand. I’d like something more durable that will serve people for the decades and centuries to come.”

Max blinked at him. He’d gotten all fired up about his plan, but he hadn’t expected Mr. Jones to be convinced. In his experience, people like Mr. Jones were more likely to want to preserve the status quo and hoard their wealth and knowledge.

The man had said that it was going to be upon his death, sure… but everyone in the room knew that couldn’t be that far away. Might it have been better if Mr. Jones had done this himself decades ago? Sure. But that wasn’t where they were now. And the man could have easily passed all these spellbooks on to someone else who would keep them all private, like a family member or a collector.

Instead, Mr. Jones was trying to do the right thing now.

“That’s very generous of you,” Max said, realizing he hadn’t responded and everyone was looking at him. “I’d be happy to add your spellbooks to my collection and work to make them more accessible to everyone.”

In a perfect world, Max wouldn’t charge anyone for spells. His current method was a sliding scale based on the client, their actual need and urgency, and how annoying they were.

“You know,” Mr. Jones observed, “I’ve always wondered why more people weren’t Spellreaders. Spellsmiths, I can kind of understand. We run amok as it is, and if more people could create spells with nothing more than a thought, perhaps we would be in an even worse place than we are now. But Spellreaders have a different gift.”

“I don’t know why there aren’t more,” Max admitted.

Like with Spellsmiths, the Spellreader ability often went in families, although no family had been pretentious enough to name themselves “Spellreader” or treat themselves the same way the Spellsmiths did. And family heritage was no guarantee. Max’s grandparents hadn’t been Spellreaders; it had skipped from his great-grandfather to his mother. Evie wasn’t a Spellreader. Max wasn’t likely to have children. Thankfully, there were multiple families, and Max had to believe that the ability would just keep reappearing.

Spellswells, the third unique type of witch, were even more rare—or at least more hidden. They had the ability to magnify existing spells so that they had a much larger or stronger effect. They tended to be badly misused by those in power. Spellsmiths could get themselves out of almost any predicament, and Spellreaders held a certain amount of power because they could read what others could not. What Spellswells could do was amazing—and nefarious witches treated them like personal batteries. Max would never blame them for hiding.

It was Rory who said, “The Magic works in mysterious ways. Spellreaders usually help to keep the Spellsmiths in check. They verify their work, and they do exactly what Max is trying to do, preserving and confirming existing spells. We’ve got better ways of replicating spells now, and people are better able to travel and could come to a repository of spellbooks. Maybe this is all happening exactly when it should. Maybe more Spellreaders and fewer Spellsmiths will be born in the coming years. Or maybe it’s all random chance.”

Max still wasn’t saying he believed in fate, but… there did seem to be an argument that things were happening at the right time.

Mr. Jones pointed at Rory with a trembling index finger. “You don’t believe it’s all chance.”

Rory smiled infectiously. “Well, perhaps not. But I don’t know everything. I could be wrong.”

Mr. Jones didn’t look convinced, and he gave a little huff, but he didn’t argue with Rory, just announced that it was time for dessert.

Rory went back to the sideboard with obvious glee, face lighting up at each new offering. There were two different pies—pecan and blueberry—little lemon tarts, apple crisp, cheesecake squares, and a mound of fresh berries. Plus, there was whipped cream and vanilla ice cream.

Max trusted that this was pulling out all the stops for company, or it would be a lot of wasted food with Mr. Jones. Peter had served Mr. Jones a small scoop of vanilla ice cream with a tiny portion of apple crisp. Rory’s and Max’s plates looked overflowing by comparison.

Rory made rapturous noises as he tried each new dessert.

As Max ate, he pointed out, “I don’t have somewhere as secure as you do to store all the books.”