An hour or so later, I had removed the outermost layer of each. Volumes one, two, four, and five were lined up on the floor in front of me. Each sported a burgundy leather cover decorated with gilt silver flourishes and my mother’s hand apparent in the embossed drawings. Volume three had nothing written on the front and was similarly blank on the inside. I touched my tongue to an inside page, half hoping my saliva would unveil the first of many secret words, but the page stayed blank.
Volume three was the best candidate for my grimoire, but before I laid my claim, I would show it to Maritza.
Thirsty from my efforts, I filled a glass with water and lemon slices, drank it down, and set to my next task. Removing books and personal things out of my office required trip after trip. When it came time to move my desk—something I wished I had done first rather than last—I had to heft the desktop off the sawhorses and lean it against the doorjamb. With the help of old towels to protect the floors, I dragged the heavy slab of wood across the hall. Once the desktop was back on the sawhorses, hunger drove me to the kitchen.
A quick check of my phone showed I had texts from Thatcher and a voice mail from Rose.
“We took the ferry to VAN.”
“Going to Ikea for furniture.”
“Will be home around midnight. Love you.”
Well, an evening to myself. And no Tanner in sight. The pang in my chest at being left alone was unexpected. I curled my fingers around the pouch I’d reclaimed and rehung around my neck, and contemplated my options. Eating was an obvious start.
I set a plate on the counter and rifled through the refrigerator. Buffalo mozzarella cheese floated in a bowl of cloudy water next to half of a Black Krim heirloom tomato. I pulled those out, dashed to my garden for a few basil leaves, and swore at the lack of bread when ransacked cupboards yielded only rice crackers. I stacked slices of cheese and tomato, added a basil leaf and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar, and ate my dinner standing by the sink. Made cleaning up all the easier.
The slapdash meal filled my belly, but the hollow spots in my heart weren’t reacting well to the poke of jealousy’s pointy nails. I didn’t want to be that person who was quick to judge or anger, but I was riled up.
Jack’s explanation about lures could explain some of Tanner’s behavior, not all. Viewed dispassionately, I could take what Wes said about the Tanner and the Apple Witch and their history and simply stay out of it. But she’d drawn me in deep by taking Abi and Cliff, and Tanner’d used his own kind of lure to keep me interested.
I wasn’t desperate for another man in my life. In the short time I’d known Tanner Marechal a lot had happened—good, bad, strange, enlightening. I was willing to wait, and I was wary of comparing his actions to those of my ex.
Slipping my washed and dried plate atop the stack, I returned to my bedroom.
My desk fit nicely into the corner across from my bed. I plugged in my laptop, certain there would be communications from Kerry. I could spend tomorrow—Sunday—catching up.
Sure enough, my work email box was full but not unwieldy. And nothing seemed urgent. My personal email was much sparser, especially now that I wasn’t active on any dating sites. Rose had sent two, the first labeled Lessons and the other, Directory of Witches. Before opening either, I listened to her message.
“Calliope, this is Rose. I’ve emailed a lesson plan to you, along with a list of witches who are willing to personally share their expertise. Many of them are located on Vancouver Island or the greater Vancouver area. Please read through everything and have a look at the calendar. The summer module has six more sessions, all of which take place on Sundays. We do group lessons via the internet. The practicum takes place after. You’re getting a late start, but I believe you will catch up. Contact me if you have any questions.”
No goodbye. Just the sharp click signaling the end of a typical communiqué from Rose de Benauge.
Tanner mentioned he was in possession of a directory of all the Magicals in British Columbia. We already knew the listing wasn’t entirely accurate—my name was nowhere in there—but it was high time I got my hands on a physical copy of the book. At the least, it would give me a better sense of what I was walking into when I knew I would be meeting with other witches, shifters, and the like.
I continued reading through Rose’s email.
The rudimentary training for a witch like me consisted of modules. So. Many. Modules. I continued to scroll until I read, “Thus ends year one of five.”
I propped my elbows on the edge of my desk and exhaled a thoroughly dramatic sigh. Five years of this. And I was probably the only one over the age of forty. Heck, I was probably the only witch-in-training over the age of twenty-five. All the witches I’d met thus far, from Rose on down the line, impressed me as being embodied in themselves and comfortable with their magic, able to call up their inherent gifts and learned skills and use them, especially when the situation was dire.
What could I do?
I stuck out one finger. I could call people by their full name. If I happened to be holding my wand and directing the point at the person at the same time, they froze. And as I learned when throwing names at Meribah the night of my party, I shouldn’t count on that ability to hold for very long if I was trying to get the words to immobilize a powerful Magical.
I added a second finger. I could call on invasive species of vines and ask them to act
