“It’s fake,” I say, removing my hand and pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen onto my forehead.
“You’re certain?” Evander asks. He seems more excited than disappointed.
“Yes, I saw him. The forger. Another wizard, not Hubert. Besides, he was using a particular shade of blue paint that didn’t exist during Hubert’s time.”
“I had my suspicions. I guessed this acquisition was too good to be true.” He sighs, but he seems relieved. “It appears we have our own in-house art detective.”
I burn with pleasure.
“I see a great future for you, Mr.Winthrop. Now let’s put you towork. Keep those gloves off.” He leaves me alone in another room, where the curators have arranged objects for inspection. It feels like a closet, lit dimly by candles burning behind red glass and cramped with shelves full of boxes of artifacts.
There are dozens: gilded chests from the Ming dynasty whose contents change every time you open the lid, porcelain dolls from Paris that have beating hearts, heirloom rings from Cairo that glow with magical light.
I pry open a lid and push aside the straw to find a necklace of carved beetles and an onyx ring with snakes entwined around the band. Next to them is a thin piece of wood about as long as my forearm. It looks like it was picked up off the beach, the bark having long ago been stripped, leaving the wood smooth, revealing the knots and whorls. I’ve never seen one in real life before, but I know what it is: a wizard’s wand.
I reach to touch it, then hesitate. It has a strange quality, a kind of dark aura. Almost as if the memories within it are so strong that I can feel them before I make contact. Something deep within me tells me not to touch it, to move on to the next object. I ought to listen to that voice, but instead I push it aside. I came here to take risks and to learn. So I extend my index finger nervously, my whole body twitching.
It’s just a piece of wood,I try to tell myself, but I know in my soul it is something far more potent. The instant I touch it, my eyes roll back into my head. I’m pulled, drawn downward, deep into myself. It’s like I’m being dragged underwater, falling to the bottom of the ocean, my feet heavy, the water dark and silent.
I am subsumed in the blackness of space.
And then the memories come, rolling over me like tidal waves, pushing me down deeper. These images don’t belong to me, butthey consume me, haunt me. They are ghosts of a past belonging to someone else.
The visions arrive in bursts. Rolling thunder. Crack of lightning. Roaring fire. A glyph on a marble floor. A pointed star, drawn in blood. The coppery smell in my nose. Red staining my hands. Burning incense. Cloying smoke. Candles. A voice chanting. Another screaming.
“Adelina! Adelina! Please!”
There’s a body. Wearing a Sibylline cloak. Spread-eagle. Chained. Dead. And thensomething’shere, a shadow.
The vision is over in an instant, but it feels as if hours have passed. And when I release the wand, my knees lock up and I keel backward, darkness taking me.
Then I wake, hearing Professor Evander speak some sort of incantation, his voice low and soothing. My head aches, and my whole body is sore. I try to move, but I’m sluggish and dazed. Professor Evander’s face fades in above me, looking concerned. Light hovers around his hand, and he gently lowers it as my eyes open fully.
“There you are,” says Professor Evander softly. “Are you all right, Mr.Winthrop? What happened?”
I try too quickly to sit up, and the world spins. The professor calms me with a gentle hand on my shoulder and then helps me to my feet, slowly this time. He guides me to a nearby chair before my knees give out.
“I touched this,” I explain, motioning to the wand. “Who owned it?” I ask, shaking, the vision still swirling in my thoughts.
He frowns. “It’s a wand said to have belonged to the goddess of witches, Hecate. It’s supposed to contain great magic.”
I say nothing for a moment. Memories of the vision choke me.Someone used it far more recently. They were wearing Sibylline robes. But what they were doing…I lift my hand, almost expecting to see it covered in blood like in the vision, but it’s not. My stomach sours at the thought it might be.
“Is there something I should know? Is it a fake?” Evander asks, waiting, his eyes expectant. He doesn’t seem to know its history.
I shake my head. “No,” I say. The visions were real. The wand, whether it belonged to Hecate or not, is certainly powerful.
4
Raven
This pure little drop from a pure little source was too sweet: it penetrated deep, and subdued the heart.
—Charlotte Brontë,Villette
A library islike a dream made of endless possibilities.
I push the wheeled cart down the aisle and slot a book into its place on the shelf.
