She picked it up with shaking hands. The redCLASSIFIEDstamp under the title stared back at her, mockingly. Beneath that was another stamp:TOP SECRET.
It was like standing at the edge of a cliff right before jumping off.
Blackwell wasn’t due back for well over an hour. There was no monitoring spell to worry about and—if the classified book that slipped out of her hands yesterday was typical—no alarm that would blare when the document was opened. Who would know?
She ran around the room, pulling the curtains closed, before perching on the leather chair behind the desk. Heart pumping fit to burst, she picked up the report and turned to the first page.
CHAPTER 10
It was brief and mind-boggling.
Dated 1933, the report was written a few months after the country elected its first wizard as president, and its contents were meant for him. It explained in dry prose that none of the seventh-grade girls who showed up for the magic entrance exams—girls being allowed to participate in those days—could successfully cast a spell. Butwomencould.
Nearly every woman the authorities tested, in fact.
Ninety-eight percent of the subjects in the secret examinations were able to levitate a five-pound weight at least a foot off the ground. Nearly as many could preserve leaves, “results weak overall but sufficient to protect from rot for an average of six months.” Eighty-nine percent could perform minor brewing spells.
“It is our opinion that the female sex could—if necessary—be educated to handle many of the duties of anomnimancer,” the unnamed authors concluded. “But we do not recommend it, unless a war or other calamity demands desperate measures. Ladies are not suited for such tasks. Only twenty percent of the test subjects could lift their weights four feet, the minimum requirement of the entrance exam. Many were exhausted by the effort. And most significantly, allowing females to work as omnimancers would take jobs from men when we can least afford it.”
Beatrix stared blankly at the wall after finishing, hardly able to believe it. Then she carefully put the report back into the drawer with the end sticking out as before and dashed to the brewing room to find theStarter Spellstextbook.
She would try levitation. Again. And this time, she’d make it work.
The book, for first-year wizardry students, came complete with general casting instructions, ones that brought back memories of examiners addressing a line of boys and one disguised girl twenty years earlier. Stand ramrod straight. Hold a leaf in your writing hand, aiming at the object you wish to manipulate. Focus on your goal, allowing no emotions or extraneous thoughts to interfere.
The specific instruction for levitation was just as advertised: simple. Say “ahebban”—chanting if necessary.
She ran to the cellar for a handful of leaves and was halfway up the stairs before extraneous thoughts seeped in. Would Blackwell be able to sense if she’d cast magic in his absence? Could it instantly change her or leave telltale remnants in the house?
She pulled out the massive encyclopedia, one of the books he’d had her shelve in the brewing room the day before, and looked up everything she could think of that might cause a problem.
Hair color: “Students may find a few silver hairs soon after beginning their studies, but it frequently takes five years or more for a full transformation. Eyebrows retain their original color.”
Spells, monitoring the use of: “Unlike radio waves, magical activity cannot be picked up on long-range scanners.”
Spells, tracing the casting of: “The idea of connecting a spell to its caster has captured the imagination of magicists through the decades. But traces of spellwork disappear within minutes, and no one has yet found a fingerprint-like identifier in those traces while they last.”
That all sounded promising. Then “Spells, unauthorized use of” caught her eye. “It is a federal offense for persons not selected for wizardry training to attempt to spellcast, or for any wizard to instruct or offer to instruct such persons in spellcasting. The minimum penalty is ten years in prison.”
Ten years.
She pushed the book back into place, rubbing her arms to stave off a chill.
She tried to rekindle her courage with bracing thoughts. Blackwell wouldn’t be back for nearly an hour, for instance. And how amazing it would feel to bend the rules of physics to her bidding. Butten yearskept echoing in her mind.
Then it hit her—she needed a copy of that 1933 report, and she needed it now, before Blackwell decided to move it somewhere more secure. Casting a spell was the only way she could get a duplicate before he came back. Having a duplicate was the only way she could convince a reporter to take the information and run with it.
If a newspaper splashed “Women Capable of Magic” across the front page, the effect could ripple all the way to equality. The revelation would be a bit awkward for a certain anti-magic group, granted, but wasn’t her sister interested in equal rights above all else? In this very house she’d found the lever they needed to move the world. Maybe it would change society so dramatically that the life she wanted would no longer be impossible.
Thatwas worth the risk of ten years in prison.
Beatrix, glancing at her watch, paged frantically though several books until she found the carbon-copy spell (“sorry, boys, it doesn’t work on money”). She brought that andStarter Spellsto the receiving room, searching for something to levitate—surely a safer first attempt at magic than messing around with a top-secret document that could presumably be ruined if something went wrong.
An aging telephone directory that felt as if it weighed at least five pounds fit the bill. She set it on the floor, stood ramrod-straight, took several deep breaths to slow her racing heart and tried to clear her mind.
Grasping two leaves, hand trembling, she murmured,“Ahebban.”
Nothing happened.
