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She’d been lying on the bed, tracing the beautiful vining tattoos that ran up her mother’s arms and onto her shoulders.

“You must always keep the atlas safe,” Halcyon Glass had told her.

“But why, Mama?” Tempest had flipped the book open excitedly, expecting it to be a storybook. Instead, she’d found nothing but blank pages.

“Because this book is special, my love. It’s been in our family forever. Some witches have grimoires. But we have our Atlas. It tells us everything we need to know, when we need to see it. Someday it will be yours and you’ll see.”

Her mother had passed away not long after that, and she hadn’t seen the book again. Her things were boxed up and cleared out. Tempest had asked Clement about it on several occasions, and he’d acted like he had no idea what she was talking about. He’d told her she must be confused. She must have dreamed it. He’d assured her that there was no such book amongst her mother’s things.

And she’d believed him.

She was a fool.

A wave of self-loathing shadowed and crashed over her.

Tempest peeled off her gloves and laid her bare hands on the luminous cover. She half expected it to be wet. It was not. It felt cool and smooth. Like glass. And yet, even though the cover was dry, the touch of her fingertips caused waves to form. They traveled outwards in concentric, rhythmic circles. She lifted the front cover. The pages, made from a soft, pale, ancient parchment, were inexplicably blank.

No maps. No text. Nothing except the inscription written inside the cover. It said, “For my daughter, Tempest” and it was signed: Halcyon Glass.

Nothing else. Nothing. Tempest turned the atlas over in her bare hands, bracing herself, waiting for the flood of information, feelings, something to hit her. This had been her mother’s book. It had been meant for her. She would gladly, gratefully, receive whatever it gave to her.

But nothing happened. She felt nothing. She understood nothing. She might as well have been holding anything besides a book.

“How on earth did you get here?” she wondered aloud.

“Out with the old and in with the new! Squawwwwk!”

It was a perfect pitch imitation of Clement that could only be Fortune. The outburst was followed by a fit of frantic scratching. The sounds were coming from inside a closed box, in the dead center of an adjacent stack. There were three heavy boxes of hardcover texts on top of it.

“Thirty-Three, soon we’ll see!” the trapped parrot squawked. “Heigh-ho!”

Once again Tempest wished she had the magic to move things. The overloaded boxes were too heavy for her to lift. The only thing she could do was shove them over. The boxes fell with a sickening thud, the books inside tumbling out onto the wet, filthy pavement. As she toppled the third box, she heard a clattering sound. The box had fallen against something that was leaning up against the brick wall, knocking it over.

It was only after Fortune was freed and flapping up to her shoulder that Tempest glanced down and recognized what the box had knocked over.

Her mother’s sign.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Clement had his hands in his jacket pockets as he strode into the alley. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to stay away.” His smile was bland, which made it more menacing. He looked relieved to find her there. Pleased with himself for being correct.

“I’m glad I found you. And I’m not even upset about the drink. I know what a hard time you Glass women have keeping a lid on your emotions. Which is why I thought it best we continue our conversation in private. There are a few things I’ve been meaning to say to you, Tempest.” Clement had the air of a man who had been rehearsing something for ages and was now eager to perform.

“Listen,” he began, as if she had a choice. “You know I’ve always tried to do my best by you. I’ve seen to your needs, and I’ve let you stay in the apartment above the shop for a pittance of the going rate.”

Which he had more than recouped by keeping her salary at minimum wage.

“There comes a time though when we all have to face reality and⁠—”

“No!” Tempest held up her hand, in what was probably a pointless effort to silence him. She didn’t expect it to work. But surprisingly, he stopped speaking. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows at her, daring her to continue. This was usually the point at which she backed down, stepped away, deciding it wasn’t worth it.

But tonight Tempest felt herself unspooling. All the tension that normally held her together, had come undone. Tonight she could not hold her tongue.

“This shop belonged to my mother,” she said. “And her mother before her. The books in these boxes have been in my family for generations. They were never meant to be yours. None of this is yours, Clement. You’re a thief! How can you live with yourself?”

The words unwound in a fury, flinging themselves out of her without any planning. There would be no taking them back. She kept saying them anyway.

“This store, and these books mean something to me. You know that. You’ve always known that. And you’ve used it, and used me, to your own advantage.”

Clement didn’t get angry. He didn’t do her the honor of being shocked by her sudden, uncharacteristic outburst. He just blinked and waited for her to finish. He looked vaguely bored. Like a parent having to endure their child’s unreasonable tantrum.