The fox goes still, ears flattening. He lowers himself to the ground and moves quickly toward a hollow log. I adjust the aim of my binoculars, and almost gasp again when I get a good look at what the fox is stalking.
It’s a mouse with leaves growing out of its body. Six total, sprouting from the spine like a stegosaurus’s ridges.
Stupendous! Baffling!
What on earth is the purpose? Who does this witch think she is, putting leaves on a mouse and casting spells on foxes to make them induce tinnitus in people? What a lunatic. Maybe it’s for the best if I never meet her. However, I havesomany burning questions, and a brain that won’t let me rest until I’ve received satisfying answers.
I want to protect the mouse, as it’s a paranimal and I feel a kinship with all these hiding-in-plain-sight creatures, but protecting the mouse would mean starving the fox. Which is also a paranimal.
A quandary!
I am right at the edge of the woods, and if I advance only a few inches, a voice drifts out from the trees. It’s the same voice that kept mentioning a clock, but it’s been speaking about something else today.
I slide forward.
“I’ll give you a cat’s-eye marble or a charm that fell off a dog collar. It’s the smoothest charm you’ll ever run your fingers over.”
I lean back, the voice disappears.
Forward again:“I’ll give you a cat’s-eye marble or a charm that fell off a dog collar. It’s the smoothest charm you’ll ever run your fingers over. And I can find any…”
Back, and gone.
The fox pounces on the mouse. But it’s thwarted when the mouse leapsoverit and disappears into a hole in the ground. Not for the first time, my thoughts divert to Morgan. I want to tell him what I’ve found, because he’s the only one who would believe me, and the only one who’d be equally interested.
But I don’t, of course. We haven’t spoken for a month.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.5:30 Date, the screen reads.
“Damnation.” Luna set me up on a date with some guy named Brant or Brent, and if I didn’t agree to it, I would’ve had to hear her complaints that I don’t get out of my shell enough (which is preposterous. Would she say this to a turtle? Shells have a valuable function). But this is terrible timing. I’ve got so much to research now, and there’s a stack of books in my car that I need to return to the library. I’ll just drop them off, and then be on my way to Brenton.
—
Ahh, the library.Society’s best invention. If there is a heaven, it is undoubtedly filled to a mile-high brim with dusty old tomes on magical theory.
Moonville’s library has milk glass sconces shaped like owls flanking the front door, and a plaque in the antechamber (a word that is close enough toanterior chamberthat I uncontrollably link foyers with eyeball anatomy) that readsFall Into a Story. It was donated by V. M. Macy, a Moonvillian author who does not know he is my professional rival because he died in the 1960s. Our town reveres him, and whenever there’s talk of local celebrities, V. M. Macy’s name is always trotted out.
Not that it is a competition, but someday I hope to have a plaque hanging here as well. It will be bigger than Macy’s and will say something more impressive than his (to be determined).
“Now,” I instruct myself sternly. “You will return your books, you will limit yourself to three new checkouts on common mice, andthenyou will leave in a timely manner so that you are not late for the date with Brandon.” I squint. “Anyway. Ten minutes, tops.”
Less than nine minutes later (well done, self!), I’m ambling toward checkout with five books on mice when I am waylaid by a powerful diversion.
There’s a new table!
Moonville Magic, a sign reads, overlooking a glossy wealth of books on local lore. I beeline.
I must broaden my knowledge on all magical fronts. Sly questioning of my sisters has revealed that even among witches, nobody quite agrees on everything, as every witch’s experience with the craft is unique.
I’m intrigued by Luna’s belief that magic is a renewable resource:Just like solar energy, wind energy, hydro energy, tidal energy, and geothermal energy. But it must be practiced often by those who use it, or magic will abandon them and cleave to a more powerful source. It feeds your energy, and vice versa. Why do you ask?
I am fully settled in my natural habitat, picking the bones of this establishment clean. Every book related to magic is plucked away to a table I’ve claimed with my jacket and purse. Dream magic. Salt magic. Blood magic. Root magic. From across the room, I spy a copy of Olaf Stapledon’sStar Makerand have to filch that, too, as it’s been a whole year since I read it last. Is there anything quite like the library? No, there is not. You’re allowed to walk right in, open a book, any book. You can read whatever you like until closing time, and nobody will bother you. Interrupting the immersed reader with small talk is distasteful here. I thrive like a cockroach in this social system.
Oh, how I love my space. I never had much of it growing up—a lack of bedrooms in the house meant I had to volley between sharing with Romina or sharing with Luna. This probably impacted my decision to run across the country once I was legally free to do so. Being alone is, in my experience, as energizing for the soul as plugging oneself into the sun. 10/10, would recommend.
“Maybe it’s under ‘cryptids’?” I hear Morgan ask alibrarian. “I’d be shocked if you don’t have it. V. M. Macy is Moonville’s most famous author.”
Bats and rats and frogs! The library is beset with evils today.
