“May I see it?”
She leaves and returns with a book almost as thick as the tomes kept in the room, and just as dusty. “It automatically registers the Imprints of whomever walks into the room, staff excluded.”
There aren’t many entries for this room. Aside from his name, there are five others.Nadir Christianson, Sybil Brice. Ariadne Byers, Nicholas Dobbs. Deanna Gibbs.Hiram scans the names again, returning to one.
Ariadne Byers.
The name isn’t one he knows, but he faintly remembers it being whispered a few times when no one thought he was listening. He can’t remember when or by whom, but he checks the date of entry. Fifteen years ago. Asking the librarian, who barely looks thirty, if she remembers one name is a waste of time. “May I borrow this book?”
She looks like he’s asked to set it on fire. “I’m sorry, but you can’t. This book—”
“Is useless unless you break the hex.” He shows her the page, the letters ungrouping and regrouping in nonsensical words. “You’ll need to report this and explain why no one noticed the spell. They’ll run audits on your process, notify the owners of the rare books, andIknow what will happen if they find discrepancies or if the owners want the books moved.”
Judging from the librarian’s ashen face, she knows, too.
“How about this: Allow me to leave with this book, and I will fix this without taking it out of the building. You can’t tell anyone it’s fixed, and if anyone comes into this room after I leave, you’ll have to notify me.”
She looks stricken but relents. “Okay, Mr. Ellis.”
“Thank you.” He pulls out his wallet and offers her his card.
Hiram leaves the room soon after she retreats. With ten minutes left before his meeting and armed with an extra book, he walks to the last room in the row—only to find it occupied.
By Clinton.
He’s dressed like he’s on his way to give a lecture at the closest college: tweed sports coat and khakis, walking cane in hand, glasses covering his eyes.
“Punctual as always, Mr. Ellis.”
“I’m fifteen minutes early.”
“To be early is to be on time.”
Hiram leans heavily on tenacity to propel himself forward. Dialing Clinton’s number was difficult, but talking to him long enough toschedule today’s meeting was an exercise in endurance. He closes the door and sits at the table across from the blind man. The talisman hanging next to the door flashes blue, and the glass instantly frosts. For privacy. Hiram places the tome from the Authorized Book Room on the table with Grace’s book on oddities. “These have scrambling hexes on them. I was told that you were skilled at undoing hexes.”
“Ah, howisyour father?”
“Alive,” Hiram replies. “And not the subject of today’s meeting.”
How Clinton’s expression is probing without looking at him is a mystery, but finally he touches the cover of the first book, then the second. “Very well. In the spirit of alliance, I will assist.”
“We don’t have an alliance.”
“What do you think this is?” Clinton smiles.
“A favor.”
He flexes his hands over the books but stops. “The talisman will neutralize my Imprints, so there will be no record of my spell work, but while this room permits the use of magic, the laws do not. All I ask for in return is your discretion about what you witness.”
“Okay.”
Clinton removes his glasses. “As a Sensitive, you might want to mute your senses.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Hiram is wrong. Very wrong.
A single spell floods the room. Power pours into the space until the air thrums. Ozone and petrichor smother Hiram’s senses, leaving the hair on his arms standing, stomach roiling, and eyes burning. Clinton’s lips move, but Hiram can’t hear, deafened by a pressure he’s never gotten used to. Clinton’s eyes flash silver as both books tremble and smoke. Just when he thinks they will catch fire, everything stops.
