The living do not intrigue me as much. Or at least they didn’t used to. But then she came in. Hazel.
It was like lightning struck me when I first saw her. The shock kept me still. She was there, between the two aisles that everyone else avoids. The aisles where the spirits rest. And she was at home there, searching through the texts for a story I might have already known.
And I…didn’t make a move. I merely watched. What was she doing and why did they give her peace in their home here. I had to know, but I didn’t even know her name.
It was easy enough to get her name from some of the ladies in the knitting club, and even easier to find out that she took over the Bewitched Boutique, and even easier to walk down the street on one of my breaks and glance in the window of her shop.
The bells chimed as I came in for a cup of coffee in the corner of her shop. It didn’t take long for me to feel comfort with her as well. The allure is addictive. Watching her in the library on dark nights. Sharing stolen glances. I’m sure she understands the dead in the way I do.
Hazel has been studying the history of the town, and its most well-known coven, for as long as she’s been here.
I let out a curse into the books as the floorboards creak again. They know my fantasies of Hazel. They know what she does to me.
I’ve thought of a thousand different ways to approach her, and none of them seemed right. She doesn’t come here for me, and I don’t wish to startle her and scare her away as the ghosts do to others.
But then today…
She came in, and I felt it. I felt curiosity coming off her in waves. I’ve felt it before, but I didn’t want to assume it was about me no matter how many times I caught her looking.
Today, I knew. I can still feel her fingers brushing against mine like it’s still happening. This darker side of me is only one aspect of my life. Of course I have a life to share with someone. Friends and a home where I host parties and poker nights. With a PhD in archival studies and the occasional course at the local universities, I have a life I could share with another. They’d never have to know this secret of mine. But I’ve never wanted someone only to hide from them. Then there’s her and I just know if I were to tell her, she would understand. Although I fear I’ll scare her. It is not often I think of her so much. I close my eyes and grip the edge of the counter, there’s something in the air tonight.
“I have to do something for her,” I say out loud, then pick my head up. “What, though?”
I slide one book into place, then another, and just as I’m about to shelve the last one, an old, black book no taller than my hand jostles out from the titles around it. My body stills.
This book is one of my favorites. It’s a romance from another era. From the coven era. One of the women wrote it and had it hand-bound, and somehow it made its way from her house to her granddaughter’s house to this library. A romance book; romance her.
“Thanks,” I say to the ghosts, who don’t give any hint that they heard me.
I slide the last book in its place on the shelves, then take the old, leather bound romance up to the circulation desk.
I pull the antique carved-wood chair out from under the desk and take a seat.
Then I take out my grimoire. My scribbled notes of the stories they’ve told stare back at me. As do the sketches.
My grimoire is a simple watercolor sketchbook. Nothing obnoxious or suspicious. Merely a home to my thoughts and notes, and summonings of sorts. The pages are thick enough that I can write with ink and add illustrations if I need to, but to everybody else, it’s just a sketchbook—not worth stealing, not worth a glance.
I flip through a few pages, and the sketchbook falls open to exactly the spell I need for tonight. A chill flows through me as I read it over as if confirmation.
“She’d love this. Wouldn’t she?” I say beneath my breath.
It’s a spell that allows someone to feel what the writers felt while they were writing the book. It lasts as long as the candle is burning, and all you need to do is touch whatever book you want to experience. The spell awakens the spirit of the writer for as long as the flame still burns on the wick. She can experience the intensity of what the spirits wished to be known. Bringing them more to life for only a moment.
I could offer this gift to her. I could show her this side of me and see if she would enjoy this thinly veiled realm of life and death as I do.
If she desires more, I could give her so much more. I could give her anything and everything she could possibly want. Tomorrow night, I’ll see exactly what she thinks of me and exactly what she desires.
Chapter Four
Hazel
I’m late. I’m late! How am I running late for the only date I’ve ever been truly excited about in all my life?
Everything was going fine all day, except that I couldn’t sleep last night. My mind would not shut off, and my body was vibrating with excitement. My own anticipation of the very clear deadline I’d given the spell kept me up all night.
It made me anxious a bit as well, because that was bold, wasn’t it? Ordering the universe to show me the truth of his love in one single day? Bold but effective, I think.
What’s done is done, but that didn’t make it any easier to fall asleep.
