Girl's Guide To Witchcraft

by Mindy L. Klasky

"I like the people," she conceded. "But the operas? I might as well listen to cats yowling at the moon." She sipped her milk. "George loves it, though. At first, I was afraid to tell him how I really felt, and now it's far too late. So I suffer half a dozen nights a year. I'm an idiot."

  "Six times a year!" Clara said, helping herself to another cookie. "I was locked into a weekly meditation group for six entire years. That's one of the main reasons I decided to move back here."

  "What happened?" I stared at her.

  "I met a man at the food co-op in Sedona. He had the most sensitive hands I'd ever seen...." She sighed, and I tried to picture her scooping quinoa from a bin, standing next to her Adonis. "He told me about a meditation group he was setting up. Group chanting in the box canyon. It was utter crap."

  I snorted. "Why?"

  "He chose nonsense words for us to chant. Had us yip like coyotes and howl like wolves, communing with our inner carnivores. Every Wednesday night. For six long years."

  "Why did you keep going back?" I asked.

  "I told you. He had these hands..." Clara sighed and flexed her own fingers. Then she shook her head. "I finally stopped going when I found out that he was showing Megan McDonald those hands. Those hands, and quite a bit more. We're idiots!"

  I laughed at the same time that Clara did, and it felt wonderful to share her disdain. Melissa took advantage of the moment to refill my glass. "Don't look at me," she said. "You know my ways with men."

  I couldn't help but turn to Neko. "And you?"

  "What about me?" He tilted his head at a delicate angle.

  "Aren't you going to defend your gender?"

  "Do I look like a fool?" He set down his empty glass of milk and stretched his arms high above his head. "I could tell all of you stories that would make your hair curl." He redirected his gaze at my tangle of drying hair. "Or straigh­ten. Suffice to say that Roger found a way to come out to his family when he was home for his cousin's wedding. A way that involved a waiter at the reception, a microphone from the band and way too many glasses of champagne."

  "Oh, Neko," I said, catching a glint of true hurt behind his blase recitation. "I'm sorry. I thought that I just hadn't seen him around because I'd been busy."

  "No," he said, shaking his head sharply. "You haven't seen him around because men are jerks."

  I patted his hand. "Not all men," I said.

  I immediately pictured Harold Weems. Poor, bespelled Harold, gaping at me like a fish out of water.

  Fish. I put that image out of my mind. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. Not the time to mourn a super­annuated tetra that was the last remnant of eleven wasted years. I should be grateful that I was through with Stupid Fish. That I had moved beyond him, and the rotten man he represented.

  For there were good men. As long as we women remembered to be strong. As long as we remembered to be true to ourselves.

  I took another cookie from the plate and held it high, waiting until everyone around me had one. "To ourselves," I said, saluting the air.

  "To ourselves!" they echoed, and then we collapsed into a corny, girly loving, supportive group hug.

  Evelyn was sitting behind her desk, her tweed suit boxier than ever, her blunt-cut hair still hovering along her jawline at the absolute wrong length for her features. How did she maintain that exact cut? I ran my fingers through my own mop nervously, only to come up against the gathered band of my muslin cap. This was my first day back in colonial garb after nearly a week of heartbroken sulking, and I missed the casual comfort of my fleece pants.

  "Jane, I'm very pleased that you were able to make it in to work today. I have to say, you still look a little pale. I'm glad you're back, though. So much happened while you were out."

  I faked a slight cough into my hand. I'd figured that I should come in to the office and salvage at least one day of the workweek. I didn't want my boss thinking that I was a total slacker, just pretending to be sick. Somehow, I didn't think that Evelyn would give me a lot of leeway for destroying my love life with one of our patrons. (Although she might have been interested in the cataloging project that I'd taken on in my basement—in my classification skills, if not the subject matter.)

  Evelyn leaned forward and settled her doughy features into her "concerned" look. "I'm afraid that you didn't have a chance to say goodbye to Harold."

  "Goodbye?" What? Harold had left? Where had he gone? Icy dread painted my throat. What exactly had I screamed at him last Sunday?

  Evelyn sighed deeply. "Yes, goodbye. He gave us seven long years, but it had been clear to me for quite some time that he needed to move on. I'd told him as much in his annual reviews for two years running, but he always seemed too timid to take the chance. I'd love to know exactly what you said to him."

  I stammered. "I—I really don't remember. I think that I was already coming down with the flu when I saw him on Sunday. I'd been away for the weekend, and he startled me when I was opening my front door. I wasn't really thinking—"

  "Well, whatever it was, it did the trick."

  "The trick?" I stopped fumbling for an explanation. "What trick?"

  "Helping Harold find the strength to tender his resigna­tion," she said matter-of-facdy. "He said that you always showed him the importance of being true to himself. You encouraged him to follow up on his computer skills, to hone his abilities."

  I was shocked by his generous gloss on our relationship. "So what is he doing?"

  "He set up his own computer firm—SuperGeek. He said that he'd been thinking about doing it for years, but your conversation on Sunday afternoon made him realize that it was finally time." She pursed her lips into a small pout. "Perhaps you were a little too effective with your pep talk, though. Harold insisted that he couldn't give us two weeks' notice. He was too eager to reach his first wave of cus­tomers."

  "I'm sorry," I said, still stunned.

  Evelyn smiled. "Don't be. It was time. Past time. I'm just sorry Harold couldn't have thanked you himself. Harold, or Professor Templeton."

  "Jason?" My belly turned to ice so quickly I scarcely had time to worry about using my so-called Boyfriend's given name.

  "Oh yes," Evelyn said. "We had a long conversation on Monday morning. Professor Templeton told me how hard you worked to meet his manuscript deadline. He said that he sincerely appreciated the extra hours that you put in on his behalf. He'll be donating a copy of his book to our col­lection when it comes out next summer, but he wanted me to know that the footnote mentioning the Peabridge does not begin to express how useful you'd been."

  Useful.

  Well, that was one way of looking at it. I blinked away a mental image of his hands under my sweater as we huddled beneath the stairs at La Perla. Unfortunately, it was replaced by another snapshot—our bodies tangled on the bed in the Blue Cottage. I gritted my teeth.

  I supposed I should be grateful that he hadn't elaborated on my skills. Evelyn waited for me to say something. "I was only doing my job," I finally managed.

  It wasn't the truth, but it seemed to match whatever wholesome scenario Jason had carved out for us. I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder, back into the reading room, toward the table where he usually sat. How many times had I primped and preened to walk past the man? How many coats of Pick-Me-Up Pink had been wasted on him? I scratched my knee through my petticoats, wonder­ing just how much my silly costume had turned him on, had led him to his cruel manipulation.

  Cruel manipulation. Well, it sounded all grand and tragic when I thought about our relationship that way. I was the one who had fallen for a married man. I was the one who had tried to muscle in where I wasn't wanted, where I didn't belong. I was the one who had cast the grimoire spell.

  The heartsick queasiness that I had battled during my time off swept over me with a vengeance. Still, I probed deeper into my thoughts, like a patient testing a bad tooth. Jason had made himself available to me. And of course he had known that he was married, that he should have been off the market. Even
if he were caught in my love spell, he should have respected the truth. I couldn't really be at fault. At least not completely.

  But there was something in me, something that had made me reach out for him. I had wanted him, was attracted to him, was drawn to him. Was that because of his very un­availability? Because I somehow sensed that I could never truly have him? Because I could tell that he was emotion­ally bound to someone else, and I would never have to commit, never have to hurt the way that I'd hurt for the past year, getting over Scott?

  Yeah, right. I could ask myself questions all day, but the reality was I had fallen really hard for a jerk.

  Evelyn was continuing to speak. "Professor Templeton made it clear that he won't be using our reading room in the near future. He said he's had a family emergency come up, and he'll have to spend more time at home. He specif­ically asked me to thank you for your... how did he phrase it? Your professional enthusiasm."

  Professional, my ass.

  Before I could summon up a few polite words, Evelyn leaned back in her chair. "And that brings me to the last thing I wanted to talk to you about."

  I couldn't read her expression. Usually, her chair-leaning signaled something bad. It generally accompanied grave news, announcements where she wanted to read my reaction completely. In fact, the last chair-leaning conver­sation we'd had was the one where she'd informed me that I was not going to get a raise, that I'd be living in the cottage.

  "Yes?" I said, because she seemed to need a prompt to continue. What could it be now? Maybe Harold had told her something about what had happened; maybe he had mentioned his so-called love for me.

  Or maybe Ekaterina had called, demanding that I be dis­ciplined for poaching her husband. Husband. I shivered.

  Or maybe there was something else going on at the library, some particularly dank corner of the basement that needed organizing, some obscure collection of impossible cramped-handwriting letters that needed to be sorted through, and Evelyn had decided that I was just the woman for the job.

  Finally, she spoke. "There comes a time in every library where the director has to consider the long-term viability of the institution."

  Oh. My. God.

  She was breaking up with me. She was giving me the "it's not you, it's me" speech, tailor-made for the reference desk. She was firing me.

  I was going to be out on the street. No job. No home. No decent references, courtesies of Harold and Jason and all the insanity of my life in the past couple of months.

  How was I going to feed myself? How was I going to feed Neko? And where would I put the books on witch­craft that now marched along the orderly shelves in the cottage basement?

  "Evelyn, I—"

  She shook her head, effectively cutting me off. "You and I face one of those times." She settled her palms on her desk blotter and finally looked me in the eye. "Jane, I spent all day yesterday in an emergency meeting with the Board."

  "The Board?" I tried to keep my voice from quavering.

  "The Board, and a special guest. I supposed I shouldn't be surprised that you never mentioned Mr. Potter to me. Not after our discussion about Justin Cartmoor and your grant applications."

  "Mr. Potter?" I could not begin to figure out how he fit into this discussion.

  "He came to see me on Monday afternoon. He brought pictures of Lucinda."

  Mrs. Potter. The owner of the shih tzu. "I never met her," I said, because it sounded like I should say something.

  "That's what Mr. Potter said. But he seemed certain that she would have liked you. Liked you and us. Our building. Our collection." Evelyn's face suddenly split into a broad grin. "That's why he decided to endow the Lucinda Potter Library Enhancement Fund."

  "The Lucinda—" My grimoire spell had struck again. Besotted, Mr. Potter had solved the Peabridge's fiscal night­mare.

  "Yes!" She couldn't contain herself any longer; she actually leaped up from her chair. "The Lucinda Potter Library En­hancement Fund. Mr. Potter—Samuel—has already spoken with his lawyers, and the paperwork is all complete. He's setting aside one pool of money for our daily operations, and another for special projects. He mentioned our diary collec­tion in particular, said that you had told him how desperately we needed to get it in order. With his generous gift, we can hire one full-time cataloger, and at least two part-time people."

  I collapsed back in my chair, thoroughly shocked. Mr. Potter had said that he and Lucinda had no children, that she would have loved to help us out with our collection needs. Nevertheless, I'd never really believed him. I'd thought that he was just engaging in cocktail-party chatter. Two full-time equivalents, plus money to run the place on a daily basis?

  Somewhat dazed, I pulled off my mobcap, running my hands through my hair to collect any stray bobby pins. Was it ethical to accept the gift of a man blinded by magic? Could my spell change the way he thought of Lucinda, of his wife and what she loved, what she believed in? I tried a shaky laugh. "Then I guess we're through with the costumes, aren't we?"

  Evelyn's own guffaw was loud, horsey. "Through with the costumes! You are a kidder, aren't you! We'll need them more than ever, with all the new people who are going to come flooding through our doors! We're going to issue press releases, Jane. Host a party. We're on the Georgetown map at last!"

  Well, a girl could try, couldn't she? Grudgingly, I asked, "Then I guess the coffee bar stays, as well?"

  "I wouldn't think of changing a thing!" Evelyn shook her head. "Not the coffee, not the costumes and most cer­tainly not you. Thank you, for everything you've done."

  I shook my head and dropped my mobcap into my lap. "Really," I said. "It was nothing."

  All's well that ends well, I tried to justify. Those were Shakespeare's words, and they should be good enough for me. But I promised myself that I would think twice, no three times—four!—before I worked another spell.

  For the rest of the day, I was ridiculously happy. A lot of things suddenly made sense in my life. Burdens that I hadn't even realized I carried were suddenly lifted, and for the first time in ages, I found myself able to fill my lungs completely, to walk with my head high and my spirits light.

  I thought about calling Melissa—it was only fair that she should hear from me on the good days, as well as the bad. Arriving home, though, I remembered that she was out on yet another First Date. The woman's persistence was re­markable, even if her choices were flawed.

  Neko was waiting for me in the living room, stretched out on the couch, soaking up the last beam of afternoon sunlight. "Did you bring the candy?"

  "Candy?" I looked behind me, as if some explanation for the strange request might lurk on the doorstep.

  "Ghosts? Goblins? Snack-size Snickers bars? Tonight is Halloween."

  Halloween. How had I forgotten that? Somehow, all of the autumn days had run together—I could have sworn that it was still September, and I had just moved into my cottage. I shrugged. "There aren't that many trick-or-treaters here in Georgetown, anyway. And I can't imagine any of them will come back here in the library gardens."

  "I wanted cream caramels." Neko pouted.

  "Too bad they don't make sardine taffy," I said, collaps­ing on the couch, then shifting to ease my whalebone stays.

  "That would be heaven," Neko sighed. He stretched and got to his feet. "Should I make some mojitos?"

  "For just the two of us?"

  "You'd make them if Melissa were the only one here."

  "That's different. She and I always have mojito therapy." I shrugged. "Besides, I don't feel like mojitos. I'm going down to the basement." All afternoon, I'd been trying to figure out some magic I could work, something that would be com­pletely selfless, completely dedicated to the peace, harmony and well-being of another. Something to atone for my love spell and to offer up thanks for all the good news in the library.

  Neko's face twitched with interest, and if he'd been an actual cat, I think his tail would have quivered in expecta­tion. "What were you thinking of?"

 
; "A spell. An incantation. Whatever. I have all this positive energy, and I should use it. I'm just going to change out of this stuff-—" I gestured at my colonial costume "—and I'll meet you downstairs.

  Neko was waiting for me when I showed up, feeling fresh and clean in jeans and a bulky sweater. He sidled up to the shelves in the farthest corner of the basement, where I'd placed the most repugnant books in the collection. "What are you thinking of? Another love spell?"

  "No!" That sounded too sharp, and I forced myself to lower my voice. "No more love spells. No more love. At least for a while."

  Neko curled up on the cracked leather couch to watch me. "What, then?"

  "I want to do something to thank them. Gran, Clara and Melissa. Something to let them know that I appreciate their being here last night, the stories that they told me."

  Neko arched his back and settled into a more comfort­able position. "You could brew an elixir of joy. Add a drop or two to a hot beverage, and the drinker feels happy for no good reason."

  I turned a doubtful glance toward the spice chest, occu­pying place of pride beneath the reading stand. "What's in it?"

  "You'd have to check the potion book for the precise amounts. It has a rainwater base, and you add a bit of blue­bird wing. Some dried apple blossoms, a pinch of powdered dove's blood... You pour the whole thing over toad's skin, to filter out any lingering negativity, and then you drink it out of a silver thimble."

  "Toad's skin?"

  "If you don't believe me, you can read it in the potion book!"

  "No, no, I believe you." And I did. For all his vanity, his narcissism, his absolute belief that the world rotated around him and only him, Neko had not led me astray about a single aspect of witchcraft.

  "What then?" he asked.

  "I promised Gran." I thought back to that early Sep­tember day. Was it only seven weeks ago? "The day that Evelyn told me I'd be living here in the cottage. Gran called at work and made me promise not to lick any toads."

  "What sort of fool would lick a toad?" Neko sounded scandalized.