Girl's Guide to Witchcraft (18 page)

With each category of cosmetic, Neko became more of the man I knew and—well, not quite loved—but expected. He offered bitter criticisms of some products. “Can you
imagine
who buys that? She’d have to have the skin of an elephant and the coloring of a 300-year-old witch. Oh. Present company excepted.” I bit my tongue and kept from pointing out that I had a few years left before I hit the three-century mark.

He was on a roll. “Orange? Who needs orange lipstick? There isn’t a woman alive who would look good in orange lipstick.” My favorite was when he checked out the sample of glittery body powder. He shook the powder puff against its ornate cardboard box with an expert flick of his wrist before he highlighted his collar bones with the faintest hint of gold sparkles. “Stunning!” he pronounced himself.

“Enough!” I said, figuring that we had done sufficient retail therapy. “I can’t buy all this stuff.”

“Why not?”

“Fifty dollars is my limit. I’m just a working librarian, remember?” The Peabridge might be paying my rent, but I didn’t have a stash of hundred-dollar bills for all Neko’s treasures.

“There are
ways,
” he countered, waggling his eyebrows in a manner that suggested something utterly unethical. Or at least immoral.

I was afraid to ask if he meant shoplifting or peddling my own pitiful body to pay for the wares. “David Montrose would have you turned back into a cat statue faster than you can blink if he even heard you make that suggestion.”

I watched him contemplate retorts. One even bubbled to his lips. But he thought better of his words and settled for a shrug. “Well, you have to get the eyeliner. And the nail polish. The stuff you have on is working wonders. You really need it to remind yourself not to gnaw.”

He made me sound like a rabbit, but I decided not to take offense. Instead, I said, “And we’ll add the blush. I’ll get lipstick another day—stay with Pick-Me-Up-Pink for a bit longer.”

He gazed wistfully at the products we were abandoning. “Can’t we just add the foundation?”

“Nope.”

“The Tarte Clean Slate?”

“You are incorrigible! It would cost half my budget. No.”

He pouted. “I can’t be held responsible for the damage if you don’t take my advice.”

“No one is holding you responsible for anything. And there won’t be any damage. Besides, if I spend all my money here, I won’t be able to get my hair cut.”

“You’re getting your hair cut?” I might have told him I was giving him a pony for his birthday. He clasped his hands and held them close to his chest. “You’re having Roger cut it, aren’t you! Tell me that you are! Tell me that you’ll let him do it! Please, please, please!”

“Yes!” I said, laughing.

“Then I forgive you for getting my hopes up here.” He fondled the mascara and bid it farewell with one last sigh.

We paid a small fortune for my three new cosmetics, and I let the salesgirl put my loot into a cute bag. Neko prattled on about the choices that we’d made, debating the considerable merits of blue-green over green-blue. At least he’d recovered from his heartbreak.

Melissa greeted us at the back door to Cake Walk. She already had the drinks made, and she was sipping from her own well-iced glass. We followed her upstairs to the Snuggery, her name for the cozy one-room apartment on the townhouse’s second floor. She raised her eyebrows at Neko’s streaming commentary about her throw pillows, her coffee table, her breakfast nook and the color of her walls. I shrugged when she gave me a questioning look, but we both knew that it was better to ignore his transition from moping and lovesick to hyper and designer-obsessed.

“So,” she said, when we were gathered on her couch and matching love seat. “When am I going to see you work some of your magic, Jane?”

I wriggled deeper into the pillows and sipped from the mojito she had just passed me. “Not tonight. I promised David I wouldn’t combine alcohol and magic.”

“You’ve had one sip.”

I looked at Neko. He shrugged elaborately. “My lips are sealed,” he said, taking great care to lock them with an invisible key.

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t have a lot of skills yet. If you want to fall in love with me at first sight, then great, I’ve got that covered. Or if you want to set your kitchen on fire—I know how to handle that.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything big.”

“Neko?” I asked, uncertain of what I should try.

“How about that candle?” He gestured to the three-wick monster that Melissa had centered on her coffee table. I knew that she lit it for a few minutes each night, using it to calm her thoughts before she went to bed.

“I don’t know the spell for lighting it.” I tried to hide the exasperation in my voice.

“Well, I do, silly. That’s my job, remember?”

I stuck my tongue out at him. Of course I knew that was his job, but I wasn’t exactly sure how all this worked. He grinned and moved closer to me, pressing his leg up against mine in a comforting way. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, quiet enough that Melissa would not be able to make out his words. “I’ll tell you the spell. You just repeat after me. This is a fire spell, in the same family as the one you did on Thursday. Do you remember how to start it?”

I nodded, glancing at Melissa to see if she thought I was nuts. She was staring in rapt fascination, but she didn’t seem ready to call the men in white coats. Yet. “Four deep breaths,” I said to Neko. “Then I touch my head, my throat and my heart.”

“Perfect,” he said, and he settled even closer to me as I went through the routine. I felt the same thrum that had risen earlier in the week, the tingling energy that had released itself into water and air and earth. “Now point to the first wick,” he said. I did. “And say after me…

Well, that was simple enough. I repeated the words, but I couldn’t keep from gasping when the first wick blossomed with golden light. The vibrating power inside me ratcheted down a notch.

Neko nodded. “Go ahead, then. You can do the other two.”

And he was right. I could. I repeated the little rhyme, pointing at each wick. Obediently, they also bloomed with little tongues of fire.

I felt calm inside when I had finished. I knew that I had spent some energy, but I was not at all exhausted. In fact, I felt a little as if I had successfully completed a supported headstand, the same rush of pleased success. “Salamba Sirsasana,” I whispered, wondering how I had remembered
that
phrase.

“What?” Melissa asked, finally pulling her eyes away from the candle.

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just remembering something else.”

“That is amazing,” Melissa said, clearly not listening to my answer. Instead, she was craning her neck, checking her candle as if she thought I might have worked some sleight of hand with smoke and mirrors. When she looked up at me, there was a hint of awe in her face. “What happens now?”

I glanced at Neko.

“Now, you feed us something,” he said. “Do you have any tuna?”

Before Melissa could think about searching her kitchen, I gave her the real answer to her question. “Now we wait for David Montrose to appear. He’ll read me the riot act and tell me what I’ve done wrong.”

But I was mistaken. David did not arrive. And, when I finally gave up waiting for him and drank the rest of my mojito, I realized that I was just a little bit disappointed. Not as disappointed as Neko, though, when he found out that Melissa’s cupboards were bereft of canned-fish products.

I poured a second drink and reminded myself that I did
not
want to see my warder when I was working new spells during cocktail hour. And for a few minutes, I even believed myself.

On Monday morning, Evelyn was waiting for me beside my desk the instant I arrived at the library. “Just a second,” I said. “I’ll turn on the latte machine.”

“This is more important.”

More important than the precious aroma of Colombian Roast filling the lobby? Evelyn had always insisted that I prepare our coffee service first thing; we could lure early-morning researchers that way. Besides, if we were ready to serve them right when the doors opened, we were more likely to get their repeat business before they finished their library work.

I locked my purse into my desk drawer and straightened to look at her. Deep lines cut beside her lips, making her face look even more jowly than usual. I was sure that Neko would know some cosmetic fix, but I didn’t have the courage to suggest such a thing. “Is everything okay?” I asked, apprehension twisting my stomach.

“Come into my office.”

Gulp. This was serious.

I followed Evelyn into her glassed-in office, shutting her door as she took her seat. She was wearing a brown-and-green tweed suit, with a large, loose weave. The colors weren’t terrible on her, but the cut was far too boxy. More advice that I’d absorbed from Neko. More advice that I wouldn’t share.

Evelyn nodded her head toward one of the guest chairs. I sat down, but I did not lean back. Something told me not to get too comfortable. “What?” I finally asked.

“Saturday night, something came to my attention, and I spent all day yesterday trying to figure out the best way to discuss it with you.”

Saturday night. She had been strolling by Cake Walk, and she had looked up to see me light the candle in Melissa’s apartment, without benefit of match or Zippo. Or she had watched Neko and me frolicking in Sephora. Could she have stopped by the cottage while I wasn’t home? Oh my God—had she stumbled on the collection of books?

That must be it. She had discovered the trove of witch books. She had found the valuable leather and parchment, noted its complete and utter disarray. Even if she weren’t furious with me for keeping the collection a secret, she must be angry that I had done nothing to preserve the rare tomes.

Every fiber of my being wanted to explain. I wanted to tell her all about my witchcraft experiences, let her know that I completely understood the responsibility that had fallen into my lap. I wanted to say that I would never harm the books, and that I
would
get them into some semblance of order, and that I was only using my powers for good and not for evil.

I mean, putting out the fire in my kitchen had been good, hadn’t it?

The fire in my kitchen. Oh no. Was
that
what she was upset about? Had she heard that I’d invited Jason over for dinner?
Had he complained to my boss?

“Evelyn, I can explain.”

He’d been my Imaginary Boyfriend for almost a year, I would tell her. I’d watched him every day that he’d come in. I knew his study habits. I knew his writing style. I knew everything about him, and I knew that he and I would be perfect together. Once he got around to recognizing the same. Once he thought to ask me out.

“I can’t tell you how embarrassed I was,” Evelyn said, shaking her head. She really should think about getting her hair cut. That length was just so unflattering, the way the ends of her hair curled under right beside her jaw. Of course, if she colored it, instead of leaving it that mousy gray…

Wait. Evelyn was embarrassed? What had Jason said that embarrassed
her?
I was the one who should be mortified. Just what had he told her?

“Whatever Jason said, I can explain, Evelyn. Just let me tell you the whole story.”

“Jason?” Her lips thinned.

Should I have called him Professor Templeton?

Evelyn said, “You mean Justin. You don’t even remember the man’s name.”

Justin. Justin? I hadn’t invited any Justin over for dinner. I hadn’t ignited my oven for any Justin. I could hear Neko’s snarky voice whispering,
Ignited your oven? Is
that
what they’re calling it these days?
I tried to tamp down the smile at the corner of my lips, but I wasn’t really successful. If Evelyn was upset over someone called Justin, then my Jason had not spoken to her. He had not complained to my boss, had not told her that the pyromaniacal librarian she had living on Peabridge property had attempted to work a spell in front of him. Had
actually
worked a spell which, from Evelyn’s perspective, just might be worse.

Well, thank God for small favors.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Justin?”

“Justin Cartmoor.” I must have looked blank, because Evelyn gusted out a sigh. “Justin Cartmoor? The executive director of the Library Foundation.”

Oh.

I didn’t even bother to make my words into a question. “He told you I applied for a grant.”

“He assumed that I knew all about it. He told me that he was terribly sorry, that if he’d known we were interested earlier in the year, he might have been able to do something. I had no idea what he was talking about, of course, and so I made a fool out of myself, trying to get details about what I’d allegedly done.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I really, truly was. “Evelyn, it was just an idea I had. I thought that if I could line up some grant funding, then we wouldn’t have to wear our costumes. We might not have to turn the library into Starbucks, just to keep going for another year.”

“Jane, I was horribly embarrassed. It looked like I have no idea what my employees do. It looked like I don’t keep track of our day-to-day operations, or—worse—that I’m a forgetful old…old…
biddy!
”

Tears were starting to build up in her eyes, and her voice had grown thick. My belly twisted, and I caught my breath. I had never intended to cause anyone
harm.
I really had thought that I’d be helping—helping me, of course, but also helping Evelyn and the Peabridge.

“Of course you’re not a biddy, and anyone who would imply that is absolutely insane!” The words came out a bit more vehemently than I’d intended, but they made Evelyn smile. I took that as a good sign and carried on. “The applications were totally a spur-of-the-moment thing. I spent a morning putting them together.” Hmm. That might not reflect well on me—it made me sound like I’d gone off half-cocked. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Applications?” Evelyn said, stressing the plural.

I nodded, suddenly wary, but I knew I needed to come clean. “Thirteen of them.”

“Thirteen!” She looked out the windows of her office as if she expected the Inspector General of Grant Applications to be waiting for her, black briefcase and bad suit at the ready.

“Those were only the strongest leads. For historic collections. And original materials. Like ours. There are lots of other possibilities. That. I. Can. Follow up on later.” I ended in a rush, realizing that there would be no “later.”

Evelyn shook her head. “Jane. Jane, Jane, Jane.” When she finally looked at me, though, her face had relaxed. I thought that there might even be a hint of a smile behind her powdered cheeks. “Jane, you are an excellent librarian. You really have a flair when it comes to research, and I am often amazed at the obscure details that you’re able to come up with in our collection. You are personable. You are flexible. You understand customer service.”

Any other time, I would have preened at the compliments, but I knew there was some giant
but
coming.

“But—” There it was. “But, you are not a fund-raiser. You aren’t trained in development. We have board members who specialize in that, people who have retired from successful careers working with some of the largest nonprofits in the country.” She leaned back in her chair. “The Library Foundation is one of the ‘big guys.’ Applications to them should include complete records of our finances and plenty of graphs, charts about our past, present and future needs. If we’re going to ask them for money, we need to make sure that we’ve dotted every single one of our i’s and crossed each of our t’s. It’s a tremendous job. Much more than any one of us should take on, on our own. And even so, the Peabridge is likely below their radar screen.”

I felt as if I had shrunk to the size of a munchkin. Smaller. To a fairy. A gnat.

What had I been thinking of? I walked by one guy on the street, found out that he was thinking of donating money—to a theater company—and I believed that there were thousands of dollars just waiting to be taken?

“I’m sorry,” I said, and now I was surprised to hear tears in my own voice. “I only wanted to help. I thought that I’d surprise you, that you’d be happy—”

“I
am
happy, Jane. I’m happy that you care enough about the Peabridge to have tried. And I’m happy that we understand each other going forward. We’ll wait for a few years. Get our collection under control. Once we’re running a little more smoothly, we can try to go after the big grant people. All right?”

It wasn’t all right. I wanted to ask how we were going to get our collection under control without additional funding, without qualified cataloging help. But Evelyn knew the situation as well as I did. Better. I wasn’t going to teach her anything she didn’t already know. I nodded. “All right.”

“Thank you.” She nodded.

I pushed back my chair and crossed to the door. When my fingers touched the knob, Evelyn said, “Oh, one more thing.” I froze, afraid to turn around. “Justin was quite impressed with the essay that you wrote. He said that you were clearly passionate about your work, that your true librarian interest shone through. He was particularly taken with your quoting that line about Prospero’s books, and how you tied it in with the magic of learning.”

Well, that made it a little easier to head back to my desk and face another workweek. But I wasn’t any more enthusiastic about getting the latte machine set up.

I had ground the first batch of coffee beans when Harold came through the library doors. Great. Frosting on my Monday-morning cake.

“Did you have a wonderful weekend?” he asked. “You deserve the very best.”

Poor guy. I looked into his eyes and saw the patient trust and loyalty of a basset hound. “Yeah, Harold. I did. I helped my grandmother out with a party on Friday night and then I mostly hung out with friends. How about you?”

“Well, my mother needed a ride to her bridge club.” That’s right. I’d forgotten that Harold lived with his mother. “I brought along a book to read, instead of driving back and forth. The ladies there were really nice. They offered me treats, but all they had were those nasty cookies. You know, the pink-and-green ones? From the Watergate Bakery?”

I actually laughed out loud, and I was rewarded with the first pure, unworried smile I had seen on Harold’s face for a long time. “I know those cookies,” I said. “My grandmother loves them.” I added freshly ground coffee to the paper filter and set the first batch of drip coffee to brew. Harold liked his black, although he sometimes treated himself to one of the sugar packets at the end of the counter. “What book are you reading?”

“Oh, nothing interesting.”

“You never know.” I smiled, amused by his hangdog look. “I’m interested in a lot of things.”

He blushed, and I wondered if he was reading the secret erotic diary of some desperate Victorian lady. He looked carefully to either side before he replied,
“Linux for Dummies.”

He looked so uncertain when he said it that I wanted to assure him that the
dummies
part was a joke, that he didn’t have to be dumb to want to learn. Especially about Linux.
I
barely knew what Linux was—some sort of computer operating system, a gold standard with geeks who managed computers. “Do you program computers, Harold?”

I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to blush more. The strands of hair that he had carefully combed across his bald pate looked as if they might catch fire from his embarrassment. “Not yet,” he said. “But I want to.”

I remembered the day that he had fixed my computer, pushing it past its annoying blue screen of death. “I’m sure you can, then. Especially if you’re willing to spend your weekends reading up on the subject.”

“You don’t think it’s stupid? For me? I mean, I’ve never been to college.” He lowered his eyes, suddenly overcome with bashfulness. “Like you have.”

Ach! What had I done working that spell? Sure, I’d gone to college, but so had most women in the world around us. Certainly Evelyn had. And Marie, our intern in the mail room. Harold was putting me on a pedestal, and I had no right to the special treatment. Oh well, I might as well see if I could use my power for good. “If there’s one field that you
can
break into without college, it’s likely to be computers. Take Bill Gates—he never got his degree.”

Well, that might have been a little overly optimistic. I mean, how many billionaires dropped out of Harvard? I thought that I should temper things a bit. “You might want to look into some of the technical schools around town. Or one of the community colleges. An associate degree may open just the doors you want.”

“An associate degree,” he repeated the words as if they were a mantra. I’d better watch what I said, or he’d be filling out college applications right in front of me. A quick beep let me know that the coffee had finished brewing, and I gratefully filled a cup for him, ready to send him on his way.

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “You make the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

“That’s very nice of you to say.” I made the best coffee. Right. He hadn’t even tested this batch. All I’d done was grind the beans, put them in the filter and let the machine work its magic. Still, I supposed it was a nice sentiment. I said, “I’d better get back to work.” I nodded toward Evelyn’s office. “I don’t want her to think that I’m slacking off.”

“Who could ever think that of you?” Harold sounded astonished. So this is what it felt like to have a knight in shining armor, ready to ride to one’s defense. Poor guy. He took his coffee and shambled off to the front door.