Girl's Guide To Witchcraft Read online

  And then, it ended. He stepped back and straightened his arms. The autumn air swirled between us.

  He looked down, avoiding my eyes, but then he seemed to remember some silent promise he had made. He looked directly into my face. "That was wrong," he whispered. He cleared his throat, and said again, loud enough to make both of us start. "Wrong."

  "No! I mean—I wanted—" And then I fell silent, my cheeks flaming as I remembered just how much I had wanted his kiss the other night. Had that desire been in my aura? Had he read my thoughts as clearly as words on a page?

  "I shouldn't have done that," he said. "I'm your warder."

  "So what does that mean?" I was trying to make the best of this, but my legs were trembling so hard that I was having trouble standing.

  "I shouldn't have blurred the boundaries. You're my witch. I'm your warder. We're going to work at being friends. It is too complicated for us to do anything more. Not while you're still coming into your powers. Not while you're still learning."

  Of all the patronizing, controlling, master-of-the-universe, pigheaded—

  But maybe he was right. I didn't know the first thing about being a witch. Okay. I knew the first thing—I could read spells in a spell book. But I didn't know the second. And I didn't even know what might be on the list for third.

  "Were you reading me just now?" I asked. "Reading my aura?"

  "No!" He sounded shocked. "The Coven sent me to be your warder. A warder can't read a witch unless she invites him to." My relief was almost a physical thing. I glanced toward the cottage just in time to see a dark shape jump back behind the curtains. Neko.

  "Friends?" David asked, and he took another step back as if to clarify his stance.

  "Friends," I said, managing a nod that felt almost jaunty.

  "Get some rest, then. We'll continue with your training. And be kind to poor Harold Weems."

  My lips still tingled as I worked my key in the front door lock.

  It took half a dozen calls to Melissa to finish dissecting the night before. In between her providing baked goods to cus­tomers and my providing reference information to patrons, we worked the entire rainbow of emotions—from red anger (over Roger having the gall to make an appointment for me with Clara), to orange speculation (over what, exactly, David's kiss meant), to yellow caution (over the need to take small, precise steps as I learned more about the actual boundaries of all this witchcraft stuff), to green jealousy (over David's ability to eat both onion soup and tagliatelle without com­mitting sartorial disaster), to blue sorrow (over that kiss, again, and whether there'd ever be another, and whether I wanted there to be another, and why my years with Scott had left me such an emotional mess), to, finally, violet intrigue (over the powers that I could harness, once I'd done a bit more study).

  All in all, it was a very busy morning, made more so by the fact that Harold Weems stopped by my desk on three separate occasions. The first time, he was carrying a small vase filled with yellow mums, a spray of brightly colored dried leaves and a curling frond of fern. "I thought that these would look nice on your desk," he'd said, and he blushed crimson.

  "Thank you, Harold." For the first time, a twinge of guilt nibbled at the back of my mind. "They're lovely."

  An hour later, he'd come by to bring me my mail—the mail that I had thus far managed to pick up from the library's shipping room every single day of my employment—and an hour after that, he'd stopped by to ask if I'd serve up a cup of coffee for him to sip on his break. At least I was able to give him a staff discount on the coffee.

  "I've got a very busy afternoon," I said to the poor guy, trying to head off more hours of witch-inspired attention as I handed him his cup and a cardboard sleeve. I extem­porized: "I'm working on a special project for Evelyn."

  "What project?" he asked, perfectly reasonably.

  "Umm..." I glanced back at my desk. I obviously wasn't a practiced liar, if I prepared so poorly. A flash of inspiration hit, though, as I remembered walking home with David the night before. "Foundations! I need to research foundations! Ones that might fund the Peabridge." That was it. Just like Mr. Shakespeare, who was trying to decide whether to fund another show. If I could find a handy donor or two, the library could be in the black, and I might shed my colonial garb.

  "Well, good luck," Harold said. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

  "Mmm, hmm." I muttered noncommittally, and I crossed back to my desk. I'd have to research the collection in my basement to see if there was some sort of counterspell I could administer. I mean, poor Harold was getting more social exercise than he'd had in months, but it was only going to add up to heartbreak.

  I glanced toward the second table in the reading room, the one where Jason would sit all afternoon. I could only hope that my spell had worked as strongly on him. My stomach did a somersault, and my fingers curled into fists. Jason, thoroughly bespelled. What a thought....

  After all, nothing was going to happen with David. He had flat out said that it was inappropriate for him to have kissed me. And I had a lot more invested in my Imaginary Boyfriend than in my brand-new warder—months of getting to know Jason, letting him see the true me as I assisted him with his reference work. I'd spent the time to build a solid base because I didn't want anyone—myself included—to question if he was only my rebound rela­tionship after Scott.

  I was no fool. I knew all about rebound. I had carefully measured every twinge of interest that I'd ever had for Jason Templeton, making sure that it was true, pure, legit­imate. Not some figment of my Scott-tortured mind.

  And Jason was real. Jason was my future.

  But that future might not arrive if the Peabridge was forced to shut down, despite my cut salary, my charming colonial clothes and the latte bar that perfumed the lobby. Foundation money. That really wasn't a bad idea.

  Rolling up my proverbial sleeves (my overdress fit too tightly around my forearms to permit the literal action), I dug into Google, refining set after set of search results to track down potential donors. This was the type of research project I loved—one lead ran into another, and I was swept along with the pleasure of learning new things. I was in­terrupted a few times by patrons, but my enthusiasm did not flag. My printer started to hum as I churned out pages from likely prospects. Some even included grant applications online.

  It was midafternoon by the time I'd finished my infor­mation gathering. The stack on my desk was impressive, if I did say so myself. I glanced toward Evelyn's office and con­templated telling her about what I'd done, but I figured that it was still such a long shot that there was no reason to raise her hopes. I slipped the materials into a white Tyvek envelope; I'd follow up tomorrow, when I was fresh.

  Of course, the rest of my library work had hardly dis­appeared while I was doing my independent study. I glanced at the massive carts beside the circulation desk. We'd had a number of patrons in for the morning—it seemed as if each person who had walked through the door had carried his own weight in books, returning them to our collection.

  Well, no time like the present to get started on reshelving. Besides, Jason would arrive at any moment. He should see me busily working, not waiting for him like some lovesick puppy. Squaring my shoulders, I wrestled one of the heavy wooden carts toward the back of the stacks.

  I've never been a big fan of shelving. It is actually a lot of work. It's amazing how many books are on the very bottom row of the collection, or the very top, and how many neighboring books can slip sideways during a one-month checkout span. Inevitably, I end up breaking finger­nails (when mine are long enough to break; maybe there's a reason that I routinely chew them to the quick).

  Today's job was made more challenging by the fact that I had inadvertently chosen the Death Sled. The Sled was our oldest shelving cart. One wheel locked intermittently to the right, periodically pitching the entire cart to the side with a lurch strong enough to pull a poor librarian's arms from their sockets. When using the Sled, I'd been known to gru
nt like Maria Sharapova at Wimbledon.

  But today I was determined to keep those grunts to myself. I strongly suspected that Harold was lurking nearby, ready to leap forward with a helping hand if he sensed my slightest need. And right now, I didn't want to see the man. Not until I'd figured out some way to recall my spell. Or, at the very least, dilute it.

  I finished shelving all the books on the right side of the cart. The last two were destined for bottom shelves in the collection. I knelt down to place the first one, and then I stretched to the next rank of shelves to shove the other one in place. My heel, though, caught the hem of my petticoat, and I heard the fabric start to rip. Swearing a most un-colonial oath, I tried to hop forward, to free my foot. Un­fortunately, that only succeeded in throwing my weight against the Death Sled, where one of my long, ruffled sleeves snagged a corner. True to its name, the book cart chose that moment to leap forward at an impossible angle.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a patron standing in the path of the Sled. I threw my hip against the cart, hard, using ray full body weight to yank my sleeve free and set the Sled off course. That fine football tactic, however, only upset my fragile, hem-bound balance. As I tumbled to the floor, my mobcap went flying, and my glasses were knocked askew. The Death Sled, weighted on only one side because of my industrious—if unbalanced—shelving, teetered pre­cariously for the longest minute in the history of library science before it crashed to the ground, sending treatises, essays and bound manuscripts flying.

  I waited until the crash had stopped echoing through the stacks before I pulled myself to my knees. I was blinking like Rip Van Winkle awakened from a nap, and I fumbled to straighten out the earpiece of my glasses, to get the lenses settled back on my face.

  On the bridge of my nose, to be exact. The bridge of the nose that was now at hip-level to the rest of the world, as I knelt by the wreckage of the Death Sled. Hip-level. Or, to be more specific, crotch-level.

  With a sickening swoop in the pit of my stomach, I rec­ognized that khaki crotch. Even without my glasses properly placed, I knew the crisp cotton fabric. I'd spent enough days staring at it across the library. I'd wasted enough daydreams about the package behind it, about the manly gifts of my Imaginary Boyfriend.

  Jason.

  Jason Templeton.

  The man who now cleared his throat and took a single, polite step backward.

  "I'm sorry!" I gasped, finally forcing my glasses back on my nose. My embarrassment crisped the back of my neck. At the crash of the cart, people had come running—Evelyn, Harold and at least two other patrons.

  Harold stepped forward and righted the Sled. Evelyn started to collect the books, clicking her tongue over them as if they were naughty children. The patrons stared at me as if I were some sort of freak—I mean, what sort of li­brarian sends books crashing to the floor in the middle of a quiet afternoon of study?

  Jason was trying to keep from laughing. "I'm sorry," I said again. "I didn't mean—"

  "Are you all right?" Harold interrupted, taking advantage of the situation to reach for my forearm and haul me to my feet.

  "Harold!" Evelyn said, as if he were responsible for the chaos I'd created. "This cart is dangerous! Someone might have been hurt. Can you fix the wheel?"

  Even though he was besotted by my spell, Harold managed to turn to his direct supervisor. "Sure thing," he said.

  "Well, take care of it now, so that this doesn't happen again."

  Harold looked at me solicitously, but I assured him that I was fine. I raised my voice to let the others know, as well, and it took only a few minutes for the patrons to return to their work. Evelyn shook her head and went back to her office.

  That left me with Jason. With Jason of the Impeccably Pressed Khakis. The khakis that I had just studied much too closely. "I'm sorry," I said for a third time.

  "I don't think you have anything to apologize for."

  "I've never done that sort of thing before."

  "What? Knocking over a book cart?"

  "No. Kneeling—" I realized that I did not have a digni­fied way to complete my sentence. "Yeah. That's what I meant. Knocking over a book cart."

  "No blood, no foul." Jason shrugged, and his smile was blinding enough that I nearly forgot my mortification.

  I don't know what possessed me. Maybe it was a bounce back from my grimoire spell. Maybe it was the wild confi­dence that had fueled my morning of foundation research. Maybe it was the realization that it was time to move this relationship forward, time to push Jason from the Imaginary category over to Real. But I heard myself speaking before I had even thought through the words in my head. "I've been wondering," I said, and my voice was calm and col­lected, as if I spoke to dream boyfriends every day of my life, "would you like to come over for dinner on Friday?"

  "Friday?" For just a second, he looked surprised.

  Had I been too forward? Had I been too bold, to propose the first night of the weekend? Um, that would be tomorrow night. Had I ruined my entire romance before it even had a chance to start?

  He shook his head. "My schedule is crazy this semester. I have office hours on Friday afternoon. Then I go to dinner with Ekaterina. It's a standing thing—wind up the workweek, you know?"

  "Oh!" I said, cursing the Russian ballerina princess. It made sense that he'd see her after office hours. If she was his star grad student, he probably had to give her a lot of support, a lot of personal attention.

  "Any other night, though," Jason was saying. "Any week-night, I mean."

  Any weeknight. He was offering me any night, Monday through Thursday. Any night we could wrap up our work here at the library and head out to my cottage. I could send Neko packing (lucky for me that my familiar was free to roam), and I could whip up a little something special....

  "Thursday!" I said, like a drowning woman who had just found a raft.

  He grinned. "Like a week from today?"

  "Um, yes." Like a week from today. An entire week. What was I thinking? Was the power of an Imaginary Boyfriend so strong that he could make me forget the days of the week? Romeo and Juliet had an easier time planning their balcony trysts. "Exactly like that."

  "What time?"

  "Eight?"

  "Eight." He nodded and treated me to another one of his grins. "Where do you live?"

  That's right! He didn't know! He didn't realize that my home was so close to the library. I told him about the cottage, and he was suitably impressed.

  "All right, then," he said. "Next Thursday, eight. The cottage in the garden." He took a step toward me. For just a moment, I thought that he was going to kiss me. Me. The librarian standing like an idiot, with twisted glasses and a rucked up colonial skirt. I took a step toward him, which made him move away.

  "I—" he said, then gestured toward the shelves be­hind me.

  "What?" I asked, trying to hide my confusion.

  "I was going to get an atlas."

  "An atlas?" I might never have heard of the word before.

  "From that shelf over there. Behind you."

  "Oh! An atlas!" Of course. I was an idiot. That was why he'd come over here in the first place. Why he'd been in range of the Death Sled. I stepped to the side. "I need to get back to my desk, anyway."

  "I'll see you next Thursday, then."

  I was dialing Melissa's phone number before I sat down at my desk.

  Melissa replaced the pot of Caramel Karma coffee on its heating element and gestured toward the canisters of loose tea, silently asking me if I wanted my preferred form of caffeine. I shook my head. As it was, I was almost bouncing off the ceiling. Eleven-fifteen, and Clara had not yet made her appearance.

  "Go on," I said, and I could hear the nervousness in my voice. "Who knows when she'll get here? Tell me about last night's dating game."

  Melissa glanced at the red-X'ed calendar and sighed. "This one was a Washington Today."

  I grimaced. The magazine was known for its funky articles about D.C. life, but its restaurant
critics were more discerning than its personals editor. Most of the men Melissa had met through the ads had grossly overstated their qualifications. I'd encouraged her to stop using the silly thing—married men looking for action on the side, shrimpy self-professed giants and "fit" poster boys for obesity clinics were not going to make Melissa happy. (Not, I hasten to add, that there's anything wrong with short or fat men—-just short or fat men who lie about their status to unsuspect­ing, openhearted bakers whose biological clocks are ticking louder than Big Ben.)

  "So," I said, fiddling with a packet of turbinado sugar. "What did this one say?"

  She looked up at the ceiling, as if the ad were printed there. "Single white male, thirty-eight years old, brown hair, green eyes."

  "Thirty-eight!"

  "That's what he said," she replied grimly "I thought that I could make the age difference work. After all, we all know that women are more mature than men."

  I gave her a look that told her exactly what I thought of that logic, but I waved a hand to get her to go on. She con­tinued to recite: "Gourmet chef in brown paper package. Can spice things up with salsa or cool them down with raita. Take a chance and feed your curiosity today."

  I frowned. "A little gimmicky."

  "Come on. I'm a baker. He should have been perfect for me.

  "And?"

  "Who knew that McDonald's is experimenting with recycled brown paper bags? And that they actually offer a raita burger?" I shook my head as Melissa went on. "Only in major metropolitan areas, but still. And a salsa burger? Did you know that they're testing them in the southwest right now?"

  "This guy owns a McDonald's?"

  She nodded grimly. "Thirteen of them. He's a franchise king. A graduate of Hamburger University."

  I couldn't keep from laughing. "You've always said not to be too snobby about things like education."

  "Want a coupon for a free Big Mac? I have several."

  I swallowed hard. Poor Melissa, with her childlike pref­erence for plain burgers. That special sauce would all be wasted on her. "But how was he, aside from that?"