Thank you for the opportunity to examine this book. My colleague was correct—this is absolutely in my wheelhouse, and I was delighted to have the chance to dig around and discover what I could about it. None of us could have been prepared for just how much this book and I have in common. I’m still reeling from it.
It turns out that this book, a grimoire, as I explained when you came to see me, is not only tied to my very niche field of study, but also to my very own family. I am actually descended, distantly but nonetheless, from the coven that created this grimoire. I have enclosed a rough family tree that explains the connection. I have long been aware of my family’s connection to witchcraft. It was, as you have probably guessed, the spark that lit the flame of my academic pursuits. It has been the thrill of my career holding this book in my hands, and I shall be sorry to no longer have it in my possession. I am, however, delighted that I can return it to the relatives to whom it rightfully belongs. When you do return it, please pass along my contact information. If they would be amenable, I would love to connect with this branch of my family tree and glean what I can of our shared history.
With Gratitude,
Dr. Camilla Vesper
I set the letter aside, along with the business card that had been enclosed, which had Dr. Vesper’s phone number and email addressprinted on it. Much like Jess, it seemed Dr. Vesper thought of this book more in the sense of a family heirloom than as any sort of legitimate magical object. For some reason, this calmed me. After all, if she had believed the book to contain any sort of real power, she wouldn’t have relinquished it so willingly. Next, I picked up the family tree, smoothing out the creases in the paper so that I could examine it more closely.
It was handwritten in blue ink, a series of lines and dashes and scribbled names and dates. The name Vesper appeared over and over again; even when a female family member was joined to a man—presumably her husband, if I was reading it correctly—there was no change to her name. And what was more, the name Vesper was passed down to the children. Curious, I searched for a familiar name and finally found Asteria. I’d never stopped to consider that Vesper hadn’t been her married name. I traced the line that joined her name to my grandfather’s: John Templeton, and then the lines that led to her three girls: Rhiannon, Persephone, and Kerridwen Vesper.
My mother had told me her father had died of a heart attack when she was only five years old. Had Asteria changed all of their names after his death, or had they always been Vespers? Somehow, I thought it must be the latter.
“There is great power in a name. A name, known and spoken, can hold as much power as an incantation,” Rhi had told me a few weeks ago, as she led me through my studies. To be a Vesper was a powerful thing, I had come to learn. Perhaps carrying on the name was part of that power. I would have to ask my mother or one of my aunts about it.
I followed the dashed ink line from my mother down to where my own name stared up at me like an unanswered question. Jess’s words floated back to me on the surface of my memory.
I’ve traveled a very long way under strict instructions to give this to no one but you.
The words suddenly felt strange. Whose instructions? Dr. Vesper’s, surely. But why? Dr. Vesper’s chart was very thorough. She had included birth and death dates for all the Vespers going back centuries. She knew that Asteria had passed—there was her death date—my birthday—staringup at me like a thorn ready to prick me. And under my mother, Rhi, and Persi’s names, just their birthdays followed by a dash. Dr. Vesper knew that my mother and her sisters were still alive. So why in the world would she insist that the book be passed along to me, specifically? She could do the math—she knew I was just a kid. Even if I had been studying witchcraft all my life, it still made no sense to pass the book along to me. Surely Rhi, as the oldest living Vesper, was the rightful recipient? I frowned, thinking hard, but no matter how I considered it, it made no sense that Jess Ballard had been told to give the book to me.
I set the family tree aside and with it, my questions for the time being. I looked instead at the book itself—the grimoire. Prepared for it this time, the surge of energy through my fingertips didn’t startle me, though it did intrigue me. I wondered if Jess had felt the same thing when she’d handed me the book. She hadn’t let on, if she had. I turned the pages carefully, through sketches and notes.
In sanguine tuo, clavis ad vim occultam
I muttered the words over and over again under my breath. I wasn’t sure what language it was—Latin, maybe? They were the only words on the page. They reminded me of a dedication in the front of a novel, or a title page. The words were clearly important, set apart as they were at the beginning of the book, but what did they mean?
I flipped forward through more pages, and realized that there were many blank pages scattered randomly throughout the book. In fact, the further through the pages I searched, the more blank pages I found. What was more, when I touched these blank pages, the zing of energy that pulsed through my fingertips grew stronger.
“Wren?”
“GAH!”
I leaped out of my seat, hand pressed to my now pounding heart, to find my mother standing in the doorway to the kitchen, earth smudged across her cheeks and down the front of her overalls.
“Sorry! Did I scare you?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“No, it’s… I mean yes, but don’t worry, it’s not your fault. I was kind of wrapped up in something,” I said, as I attempted to catch my breath.
“What’s Rhi got you working on now?” my mom asked, smiling as she pulled her gloves off and headed for the fridge. “Or is it homework from Xiomara?”
“Neither, actually,” I said. “It’s this book.”
“Hmm? A book?” My mother was barely listening as she poured herself a glass of Rhi’s lavender lemonade and started gulping it down.
“Yeah, this woman came by today to deliver it to me. It’s… I guess it’s some kind of family heirloom?”
This made my mother turn. “What woman?”
I shrugged. “I’ve never seen her before. She said her name was Jess B?—”
“Is that the book?” She had set her glass down and was pointing with a dirt-smudged finger at the book, where it still lay open on the kitchen table.
“Yeah,” I said, closing it carefully and holding it out to her. “She said she had strict instructions to deliver it to me.”
My mother seemed to drift toward me, like she was in some kind of trance. I watched as with every step, her eyes widened, her complexion paled, until she arrived at my side, trembling and paper-white.
“Mom?”
