Before the plane had landed at Heathrow, she’d reached the last page of The Book of the Raven. Her skin continued to blister as she touched the paper, but that didn’t faze her. A practitioner of left-handed magic must not flinch or fear. So said the raven, the writer of the book. Without courage, you will never find the answer. The book was divided into six sections. “How to Gain Your Deepest Desire.” “How to Make Him Love You.” “How to Protect Yourself and Others.” “How to Seek Revenge.” “How to Curse Those Who Have Wronged You.” “How to Break a Curse.”
There it was, the last chapter, exactly what Kylie needed, yet despite all attempts, the last two pages were inexorably bound together. Kylie feared she would ruin the book in her attempts to separate the fragile vellum. She must discover a way to convince the book to open to her, to decide that she was worthy, the person the book had been waiting for. Now, in her hotel room in Bayswater, so far from home and from everyone she knew and loved, thinking of Gideon, she stood in the circle and breathed in the scent of sage and sandalwood, hoping the smoke would not set off the fire alarm and bring the desk clerk running. She recited her vow to do what she must, cutting her hand with a corkscrew left atop a tiny, foul-smelling fridge, and adding her own blood to the fire. When thick beads of blood, so dark they appeared black, spilled into the mixture, the smoke billowed a brilliant red. Kylie ran to open the window and waved her arms to disperse the crimson swirls, but the smoke would leave its mark on the ceiling, so the next guest would wonder what on earth had happened, never knowing that in this small room, the door to left-handed magic had been flung open on an ordinary day. It was here that a young woman gave herself over to the darkness, to blood and bones, to black thread and knives and ashes, to the curse that had been growing stronger for three hundred years, once planted in the earth in Salem, Massachusetts, and now blooming here, in London, and inside her heart.
* * *
Kylie paid for a two-night stay, informing the clerk that she was a student whose goal was to finish up some research at the British Museum. She then found her way to a store near Covent Garden known for its collection of magical provisions. It was a small, untidy shop, rather seedy, mostly frequented by women in search of herbal remedies for beauty or health. Here one could find infusions that contained yarrow and rue for women’s monthly problems, peppermint for ailing stomachs, white willow for headache. The owner was a retired midwife named Helene Jones.
“How did you find us, dear?” Helene asked as Kylie bought a small bundle of herbs, along with a bottle of cologne containing rosewater and a wand made of hazel wood.
She’d looked up a directory of magic stores and this particular shop, Helene’s House of Magic, was simply first on the list. “Just lucky,” Kylie said, and Helene had given her a discount since she appeared to be a student, newly arrived in the country and new to the Nameless Art. The girl was clearly naive, for she asked Helene where she might find those who practiced left-handed, an issue that was never discussed, for those who practiced did so in private.
“I’m so sorry,” Helene said in a clipped tone, not quite as affable as she’d been previously, her expression revealing her distaste. “I have no idea what you mean.”
A clerk named Edward had overheard, a shady young fellow looking after his own interests. When Kylie left the shop, Edward was waiting outside, finishing up a cigarette. “I know where you can find what you’re looking for.” Edward looked over his shoulder to make certain no one could overhear, before turning back to Kylie. “It’ll cost you.”
Kylie offered up the locket that her mother had given her on her birthday, which contained a photo of Jet. Edward studied it with a suspicious glance. The color was black, not silver as she said, and that confused him. Kylie witnessed an aura blazing around the clerk. Green, the color of a fool. “Believe me, it’s silver and it’s worth more than you deserve for some information you should willingly share.”
“Keep your jewelry. I’d rather have cash,” Edward informed her. “People don’t share information about the Crooked Path for nothing,” he said scornfully. Americans were so entitled, even in matters of magic.