A quick internet search ofapotropaic bottlesreminded me that they had been used by many cultures, mostly by benevolent folk healers specifically to protect against attack from entities and spirits. As I continued to search, I found a reference to the left-hand path. I knew this term. If I wasn’t mistaken, it first appeared in the works of Madame Helena Blavatsky, a nineteenth-century mystic and founder of Theosophy.
According to Blavatsky, there were two kinds of magicians. The first were those who followed the right-hand path that she recommended, operating within the confines of strict ethical rules, avoiding taboos, and believing that any bad magic practiced would come back threefold to the practitioner. Alternatively, adepts of the left-hand path broke taboos, had little considerationfor human suffering, and summoned demons in an attempt to harness their power. Their own selfish ends always justified the means. Apparently the bottles were often used to protect against these diabolical practitioners of the left-hand path.
But why did Isabelle have witch bottles in her basement? Was Isabelle really trying to protect herself from evil spirits? She was a scientist. She should have known better. Shouldn’t she?
Just then I heard a cough coming from over the garden wall and a magnificent cloud of pot smoke bloomed into the air. I started laughing, and a few moments later, I heard an embarrassedsorry,followed by another series of coughs.
I closed my computer and went over toward the wall. Stepping up on a rock, I peered over the wall to find Finn sitting there in board shorts and flip-flops, his hair tied into a messy bun atop his head. He looked incredibly sexy, but I tried to pretend I didn’t think so. He gave me a moderately embarrassed shrug, but didn’t say anything more. I waved and he nodded, and then, feeling awkward, I climbed down and went about the rest of my decidedly non-sexy day.
I spent the better part of the afternoon in the scriptorium, drifting from pharmacopoeia to pharmacopoeia, eventually landing on another series of ancient bestiaries. I was lingering over some of the images—dragons with tiger faces, snakes with multiple heads—when I looked up to see Dorian.
“How’s your research going?” he asked.
“Good. Just perusing some of your marvelous bestiaries.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad you found those. I would have pointed them out myself, but I was taught that one should never show his bestiary to a woman on the first date.”
“An outdated custom,” I said, leaning back in my chair.
Grinning, he took a seat opposite me and leaned forward,rested his chin on his hand like a girl with a crush. “So let me ask you. I know you study witchcraft and monsters and such, but you don’t believe in all that, do you?”
“Do I believe in witches and monsters?” I laughed. “Like real witches and monsters? No, of course not. When it comes to the supernatural, I’m a firm skeptic.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So you don’t believe in the supernatural, but what about biblical entities like angels and demons? Do you believe in those?”
“Hmm. Do I believe in demons?” I considered for a moment. “Not actual demons, of course. But every time I look at the news, I see something horrifying—brutality, inhumanity, seemingly ordinary people committing unspeakable acts. Part of me wants to believe in demons if only to point to their influence in such cases. I would rather believe that than the truth—that humans are inherently bad, and for some reason, getting worse.”
“That’s a cheery thought.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Do you believe in demons?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Really?” I said, laughing in a way that I realized was rude only after the fact.
“Yeah. But I haven’t really thought about it much. I believe in angels, though, and if you believe in angels, you must believe in demons.”
“Angels, huh?” I winced.
“You don’t believe in angels?”
“God knows we could use some, but no. I don’t believe in angels.”
His eyebrows shot so far up on his forehead it was almost comical. “But there have been sightings. People have seen angels.”
“Have you seen an angel?”
He froze, a pained expression crossing his brow. “Isabelle. She was an angel in human form.”
I tried to ignore the obvious cringiness of that statement. “That’s very sweet, but I’m being serious. Have you seen an actual angel? A holy spiritual being?”
“No, but people have. It has been documented.”
I set my pen down and leaned back in my chair. “That’s absolute bullshit. I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but angels don’t exist.”
“How can you prove somethingdoesn’texist?”
I groaned. “You’re not a conspiracy person, are you?”
