Page 42 of The Witches of Cambridge

“Will I pay a price?” Lauren said.

Sharpe kissed her then, so deeply that if she’d been another woman she might have fainted. “We all do,” he told her before he kissed her again. “That’s lesson number one.”

When Lauren went home she decided to test to see whether Eugene Sharpe was the man for her based on an enchantment that had once been discussed at the Sunday meeting. She boiled an egg, removed the white and the yolk, and filled the shell with salt. After she ate it, she went to bed, so that her true love could appear to her in her dreams. She realized she was thirsty, so thirsty she couldn’t bear it, and then she saw Carrick in her dreams. He was there, sitting on the steps outside his studio, with a glass of water in his hands. This is what happens when you eat salt, he told her. You can’t tell the difference between the truth and a lie.

Every day at the museum, Lauren unpacked cartons and itemized all that they held, listing the death axes, and potion bottles, and a clutch of rings to be worn on every finger that were sharp as knives. There were dolls with human hair, set to resemble both those who were beloved and those who had been cursed. When handling these artifacts, Lauren made certain to wear black cotton gloves of the sort she slipped on when she read the poisonous green grimoires in the Bell family library. She wrote detailed descriptions, focusing on dating the objects found in the Ural Mountains, appropriated and taken from their rightful home to Harvard in the 1920s. When she was alone after hours, she found herself gently holding each artifact and feeling its essence. A woman who had been cursed by her husband’s first wife. A mother who had begged for the life of her child. A man who was thought to turn into a wolf and kill young girls. A star that had fallen from the sky and terrified a city and a people.

Some of the pieces were so filled with sorrow that Lauren packed them up, for it was better for them not to be displayed. A bow used to shoot heretics, beads belonging to a queen who was tortured and cast away, a lamp to light up the nights when witches were walked to their deaths.

“You’re almost too good at this,” Sharpe said thoughtfully when she handed in her first report.

“I’m good at everything,” she informed him, but it wasn’t true, and she knew it. She wasn’t any good at love.

Lauren wore Chanel’s cherry-red lipstick when she went to see Carrick. Red lipstick had been worn in ancient Egypt and could be traced to prehistoric times; it was a spell that signified women’s rights and their sexuality and had originally contained fish scales, crushed insects, and gemstones, an erotic red potion of love and faith. She wanted him to do as she wished, no questions asked.

She reached the alleyway in Central Square and knocked. Carrick wrenched the door open, intending to shout at whoever had come to annoy him, but as soon as he saw who his visitor was, he backed up and allowed Lauren to come inside. People in the neighborhood said something had happened to him lately. They whispered that monsters always withdrew from the world sooner or later, so it made sense that he was rarely seen at the local market or in the seedy bar on Mass Ave he’d frequented in the past, where he sat at a rear table in the dark, drinking beer.

“Let me guess. You need more letters,” Carrick said. “For your writing.”

Lauren frowned. “What makes you think you know what I want?”

“You’re in love with words, what else would you be doing?”

“I’m not in love with anything,” Lauren insisted. She seriously hoped the love potion wouldn’t accidentally open as it rolled around in her purse. She’d been a fool to think of using it. Having someone be in love with her would only be a bother, one she was sure she would tire of within hours. She took out her new grimoire and asked Carrick if he could decorate the cover.

“You’re writing a book?” he asked.

“More or less,” she told him. “I intend to put everything I know into it.”

“You’ll need a bigger book,” Carrick said. All the same, he agreed. It felt like an honor to be asked to do so.

The kitchen counter was strewn with art supplies. It was mayhem, but he knew what he was looking for. He had wooden blocks of the alphabet carved in different fonts and he immediately set to work on the book.

“I saw your painting in the window of Grolier’s,” Lauren said.

“I had it with me when I looked around the shop, and they asked to display it. They may know a lot about poetry, but they know nothing about art.”

“They know,” Lauren said.

She watched Carrick, marveling at the delicate work he could accomplish. When he handed her the book, gold letters had been stamped into the dark blue leather. He’d known the word she’d wanted. Magic. She tried to pay him, but he refused. “Don’t come back,” he said.

“I’m not planning to,” Lauren told him. It hurt to say those words, but they needed to be said all the same. He might be a man who was falling in love, which was the last thing she wanted. That’s what she told herself. That’s what she believed. So why did she feel a flush of panic? Why did she force herself to look away from him? She’d made sure to wear long sleeves so he couldn’t see the indentations from ropes on her wrists. Her collar was up in an attempt to hide the bite marks on her throat. “I’m involved with someone anyway.”

Carrick nodded. He was observant, as artists are. He’d also seen the marks on her throat. “I get it. You found someone to treat you badly. Maybe that will make you happy.” He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. “Though I doubt it.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t be happy either,” Lauren said.

“I don’t expect to be,” Carrick said. “I just wanted you to be.”

Lauren instantly regretted insulting him. Carrick looked so hurt, and he was already hurt enough. She reached out to formally shake his hand, but when she did, he drew her to him. His hand was big and callused and stained with gold ink. She could never use a potion on him. She would never have to.

“Don’t come back unless you can tell me the word I’m looking for,” he told her.

Carrick let go of her, then opened the door, gesturing for her to leave. When she stayed where she was he said, “Is there something you’ve forgotten?”

It wasn’t forgetting that made her hesitate, and so she shook her head. She turned from him and went down the steps, walking through the alley. The truth was, she didn’t want to leave him. Standing there in his doorway, she had remembered who she’d been before she climbed into a cherry tree on the darkest night of her life. She was still that same girl, whether or not she wanted to admit it.

She had a heart after all.