This morning a spoon had fallen while the librarian had made his tea, which predicted company coming, although he hadn’t imagined this childlike tall young woman, clearly lost. Yes, the rule was you needed to be a member to be admitted to the library, but rules didn’t always apply. It was an extraordinary place, after all, in both form and content. The floor was marble throughout, the hanging lamps were crystal, and the extraordinarily elaborate ceiling moldings had been painted a deep, glossy red. The fabric of the draperies was a rich scarlet velvet that didn’t let in the sunlight, for the books must be protected from light and greed and misusage.
The librarian introduced himself as David Ward. He was tall and distinguished looking, his eyes a cloudy blue that revealed nothing of what he felt inside, a man who was calm even in the midst of a storm. He’d had a storm in his life, and it had ruined him, and he’d vowed never to allow his raw emotions to control him again. He had recently passed his seventy-fourth birthday, but despite his vow, he had never been able to escape his past. He often felt too much, as he did now when he saw a girl who was on the edge of taking the Crooked Path.
“I suppose you’ve come for a book,” David said.
“Actually, I already have a book. I just can’t open it.” Kylie reached into her backpack to bring forth the small black text she now cradled in her hands.
David Ward narrowed his gaze, astonished by what he saw before him. He was well aware of the author of the book and of her reputation as a poet and a courtesan. There were those who believed that Amelia Bassano was the Dark Lady of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and others who were convinced she was the true author of his plays. Though she was the woman few had heard of, it was possible she had been the author of the greatest plays ever written.
David hadn’t been aware that Amelia Bassano had written this second book, but he understood its purpose after one glance. The Book of the Raven was a Book of Shadows, a dark Grimoire, one she’d written both for herself and for the benefit of others. “I assume you’re here to donate the text.” He was actually quite excited about it. There was no doubt that however dark it might be, the book was a treasure.
“Absolutely not.” The girl looked fiercely territorial upon hearing his suggestion; she held the book more tightly, refusing to relinquish it. “I need to find information about the author and about my family.” It was then that she dropped her brave face. “I’m cursed,” she said in a reedy voice.
David felt prickles down his neck. He gazed at his left hand and saw that his fate was changing as the girl spoke.
He brought Kylie to the reference room where there were dozens of oak cabinets set under glass fixtures shining down pools of dull yellow light. The library still made use of the old method of cataloguing, each entry written on a white card, some of them three hundred years old. David had begun to digitize the library’s holdings, but some of the material was resistant to technology and there were books that spat at him when he attempted to nudge them into the modern age. He had found references to Amelia Bassano in other Grimoires on the library’s shelves in the past, for she had moved in both royal and literary circles, and had been a student of Queen Elizabeth I’s astrologer, Dr. Simon Forman, but he had never seen a direct reference to The Book of the Raven.
When Kylie pointed out that her ancestor Faith Owens’s name had been written down in the seventeenth century as the owner of the book, David wondered how it had fallen into her hands. He brought them both cups of tea and set to work beside Kylie, so that they shared an unexpected intimacy. They had a similar style, neither spoke while researching and assessing the information they gleaned, much of it in bits and pieces. After an hour more in which they had little success locating the Owens name, the librarian realized Kylie held her hands over her eyes. Daunted, having discovered nothing of any use, tears had welled up. David wanted to say something reassuring, but he was no good at sympathy. Instead he handed the girl a handkerchief. That was when he saw that the tearstains were black.
“You might have mentioned you were a witch,” he said gently. “It will help with our research.”