Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“Yes, I do,” I said, frowning. “Just because I don’t have the kind of access everybody here considers ‘normal’ doesn’t mean I can’t get to my magic.”
The black key had sharpened in my hand again, as though it knew what I was thinking.
Avery’s eyes grew wide but before he could protest, I had stuck the pad of my right index finger with the needle-sharp point at its end and allowed a single ruby droplet of blood to fall into the tiny keyhole.
65
For a moment, nothing happened. The drop of blood just sat there—long enough that I began to consider with horror that I had probably stained a priceless manuscript with my blood and left DNA evidence of the crime into the bargain.
But then the ruby droplet was suddenly sucked down into the lock. There was a faint but distinct clicking sound from within and the brass bindings began to move, drawing back and telescoping in on themselves like some kind of ancient puzzle being solved. After a moment, they had disappeared entirely and I was able to—very gently—pull back the front cover of the grimoire.
Written on the inside cover in a flowing, feminine hand in faded ink was the inscription:
Herein lies the journal and spell book of Corinne Latimer—being her most private thoughts and those spells which she has found to be most effectual to general use.
Under this was something else, written in Latin. To my surprise, I saw it was the same motto I had seen at the bottom of my acceptance letter to Nocturne Academy:
Qui Dominatur in Omni Noctem.
“The Night Reigns over All,” I murmured, tracing the motto with my eyes. “But…isn’t that the Nocturne motto? Why would it be in a witch’s grimoire?”
“Who knows?” Avery said. He was staring wide-eyed at the open book in front of us. “Go on, turn the pages—maybe you’ll find out.”
Delicately, being careful only to touch the very edge of each page, I turned the yellowing parchment. There were pages of spells—big ones like love spells and revenge spells—as well as little ones that told how to make a wart disappear or cure a cow of milk fever.
Drawings of plants and flowers and notes on the different uses of herbs took up many pages as well. There were also lots of healing spells, I noticed, all written in the same flowing script as the inscription, which must be Corinne’s handwriting.
There were also notes about her daily life—journal entries interspersed with the spells. Many of them seemed to talk about day-to-day things—the fabric she had bought for a dress or how many eggs her hens had laid that morning. The language and spelling were a bit obscure, but thanks to my interest in Old English, I was able to translate well enough for Avery.
Towards the middle of the book, I came to an entry which caught my eye.
“The plague has come,” Corinne had written. “We think a traveling tinker brought it with his wares. John Cotton and Goody Cotton, his wife, already are dead. Their three boys sick as well—may the Goddess have Mercy!”
“Oh, no,” Avery whispered, as caught up in the ancient narrative as I was. “How awful!”
“It gets worse,” I said grimly. “Look at this.”
I pointed to an entry further along where Corinne had written,
“Half the towne is now beplagued. Seven funerals alone today with twice as many again tomorrow. If I cannot find a spell to cure this illness, we all shall die.”
Her flowing hand was shaky in this entry and there were blotches on the ink, as though tears had fallen while she was writing. I felt a great surge of pity for my long-ago ancestress. I knew the bitter pain of not being able to save people you loved—of watching them slip away from you while you were helpless to keep them safe.
“Do you think they all died?” Avery asked as I paged through the book, seeing many more healing spells which Corinne must have tried, one after another, with little to no success.
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “I hope not. Oh, no!”
For Corinne’s next entry said,
“I have taken ill myself. Today I woke with the aching joints and feverish ague that betokens the first stages of the malady. I pray the Goddess to spare my life, if only that I may go on seeking for a cure. But I fear that soon I must join her, in the Glade Beyond the Woods.”
I looked up at Avery.
“The Glade Beyond the Woods?”
“The afterlife,” he murmured. “She must have thought she was going to die. Oh my God, Megan—this is worse than one of those stories on that What’s Next? app. Hurry and turn the page! What happened to her?”
I thought about pointing out that we knew Corinne had lived—if she hadn’t I wouldn’t be there. But I understood his sense of urgency. Somehow we had both gotten caught up in the ancient history of my ancestress and I wanted to know what had happened to her as badly as Avery did.