The Book of Peril

by Melissa McShane

  “I wanted to ask you about your ex-boyfriend.”

  The bite in my mouth went sour. “What about him?”

  “It sounded like it ended badly.”

  I swallowed and wiped my lips. It was too early in the morning for this conversation. “Sort of. When I realized I didn’t care about him the way he wanted, I told him that, and he went a little nuts and threw a crying fit in public. It embarrassed everyone. I guess he isn’t as over it as I’d thought.”

  Judy nodded. “You realize you can’t date Campbell.”

  I almost choked on my second bite. “What—why would you say that? You’re not interested in him, are you?”

  Judy snorted. “Hardly. I’m saying it’s against the Accords.”

  “My personal life, which by the way doesn’t include Malcolm Campbell, is part of the Accords?”

  “You think a custodian could stay impartial if she’s dating an Ambrosite? Or a Nicollien?” Judy got up to refresh her mug but stayed leaning against the counter. “I’m telling you this as a friend. He’s not interested in you, but I figured you should know.”

  Her casual certainty hurt, but I concealed my pain. “How do you know how he feels?”

  “I can tell. I’m good at reading people. Look, it’s not like I don’t get it. He’s handsome, even if he is an arrogant jerk. But I don’t want you thinking there’s a chance.”

  I threw my donut back into the box. “Thanks so much for your concern.”

  To my surprise, Judy looked hurt. “I thought you’d be better off knowing.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because he really is just a friend, whatever you think about it.”

  Judy gathered up her mug and stood. “I’m sorry,” she said. She sounded like she meant it. I watched her leave the kitchen, heard the door shut, and picked up my donut, which had broken into two pieces. I wasn’t stupid. I had a huge crush on Malcolm Campbell, who was way too old for me, so it was a hopeless crush as well, but it still hurt to have Judy point out in her usual unfeeling way that I didn’t have a chance. I took a fierce bite out of the donut, spraying crumbs across the table. Did everyone look at me with such pity?

  I ate donuts and drank coffee until I felt bloated and miserable. Then I dressed and went downstairs. Judy had disappeared into the basement, which was fine by me. I’d started to feel guilty about yelling at her. By Judy’s standards, she’d shown loving concern.

  I went into my office, which, thanks to my cleaning jag, smelled as nice as the rest of the store, and sat behind the tan melamine and chrome desk. I’d only been able to think of it as my office last month when I’d called it Mr. Briggs’ office in front of Judy, and she’d given me an incredulous look like I’d suggested she strip down and dance on the front counter.

  Silas Abernathy’s photo smiled down at me, and my bad mood evaporated a little more. Silas, last of the Abernathys who’d founded the store, had overseen its transfer across the Atlantic and the entire United States, then abdicated his custodial duties to become a stone magus. He’d written a book about his travels that I’d found, or been drawn to—written it to me, it seemed, and I felt a connection to him because of that. It sat on my nightstand upstairs, and I read passages out of it on nights when I couldn’t sleep. In his photo, he wore a three-piece suit and a fedora, and that was how I always pictured him despite knowing he must have traveled rough throughout the world. The photo kept the office, a generic beige cube, from feeling bland and soulless.

  I checked my phone for the time. 9:44. I sighed and unlocked the middle drawer of the desk. It held the mailing list we used for sending out Abernathy’s catalogue three times a year, not something I’d have thought needed protecting until I learned the identities of some of the people on that list. Abernathy’s prided itself on its discretion and security, and protecting those identities was part of the package. At the moment, though, I was concerned with the green buckram tome lying atop the mailing list. Abernathy’s instruction manual, worth its weight in far more expensive metals than gold. I set it on the desk, closed my eyes, and flipped it open, sticking my finger out to prod the first page I came to.

  Instructions for filing augury transactions, the handwritten header to the page read. I slumped. I hadn’t expected that to work, but the manual was two inches thick and had no index, and I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. What to do if the oracle is wrong probably wasn’t even an entry in the book. But I couldn’t take any chances. All the auguries I’d done since Branch’s had been normal, but what if it happened again? I’d have to read the whole book. I slumped lower until my chin rested on the thick pages of the book. Ah, the glamorous life of Abernathy’s custodian.

  The phone on the desk rang. It was the color of putty and older than me, with square buttons and a handset connected to the base by a long spiral cord. I let it ring a couple of times, then picked it up. “Abernathy’s.”

  “I’m calling to request an augury,” the woman said. “Bridget Smith.”

  “Just a moment, Ms. Smith.” I rooted around in the top drawer for a pen and a scrap of paper. “Go ahead.”

  “I need to know if my boyfriend is trustworthy. If he’s cheating on me.”

  I heard way too many of these. “You need to phrase your request as a question, ma’am.”

  “Oh. I didn’t—this is my first augury. Um. Is Walter cheating on me?”

  “Are you sure you want this as an augury? It might be a better question for the catalogue, and would save you money.”

  “The catalogue isn’t clear. I want to be sure.”

  She sounded so insecure I had to quash my impatience. Not knowing if your boyfriend was faithful had to be awful. “All right. Give me your address, and I’ll mail you the book.”

  “Can’t you just tell me the title?”

  I heard this way too often, too. “Ms. Smith, the point of an augury is it’s more complex than just the title. You’ll have to search the book for your answer. That’s why it’s so valuable.”

  “So expensive, you mean.”

  “That too. Look, why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll call you back to tell you how much it will cost. If it’s too much, you don’t have to accept it.”

  “… Okay.” She rattled off a phone number, which I scribbled next to her name and question. “Call back soon?”

  “I’ll do this right away.” It was seven minutes to ten, but I didn’t feel like tackling the instruction manual, and this seemed like a good excuse. “Have a nice day, Ms. Smith.”

  Having finally let go of the onion smell, Abernathy’s seemed to have decided to experiment with fragrances. Today it smelled of delicate lilacs, a scent I normally found overwhelming, but this was the faintest hint of flowers and fresh air. I breathed it in and my bad mood dissipated enough I felt calm enough to face the oracle. I folded the slip of paper, put it in my pocket, and walked into the stacks.

  The lilac scent vanished, replaced with something oily and cold. I checked the ceiling out of habit, half expecting to see the tarry blob, but there was nothing there. Blue lights played across it, ripples like an indoor pool makes on its roof when light shines on the water. I made my way around a couple of bookcases and found the glowing book—The Revenant of Thraxton Hall, which sounded ominous and, I thought, boded ill for Bridget Smith’s question. I took it from the shelf and opened it to the title page. Ms. Smith’s name, and $2000. That seemed reasonable for asking the oracle to play private detective.

  I closed the book and hesitated. Its blue glow still outlined my hands where I touched it. Normally the glow disappeared once I’d pulled the book from its shelf, replaced by an almost electric tingle. But I felt nothing except the smooth paper cover, which was worn down at the corners from use and had a small tear near the spine. I laid it flat atop the row of books I’d taken it from. The steady blue glow remained the same.

  I stepped backward, pressing against the bookcase opposite, and looked around. More blue light came from deeper within the oracl
e, limning the shelves like the corona of a blue-white star. I took Revenant and followed the second glow through the maze to another book, calmly glowing amid the others on its shelf. The Research Virtuoso. I opened it. Bridget Smith’s name, again, and the number $1750.

  I shoved aside a row of books and set both Bridget’s auguries facing me, front covers out. Dust jackets aside, they both looked the same, neither one glowing brighter than the other, patiently waiting for me to remove them from the oracle.

  I closed my eyes, willing one of them to change. The instructions were clear: one augury, one book. The exception was the big augury I’d done to choose the new Ambrosite leader, and that had been exceptional in every way. I had no reason to believe Ms. Smith’s desire to know if her boyfriend was cheating on her was that kind of important. I opened my eyes. Both books still glowed a placid, patient blue—and there was more light coming from beyond the bookcase.

  I left the two books where they were and followed the new glow to a spot near the entrance, where a third book waited for me. Check These Out. It, too, had Ms. Smith’s name inside, though this augury cost $2250. I gathered it up and returned to where I’d left the other books, set it down next to its sisters, and put my hands on my hips. What now? They couldn’t all be for Ms. Smith, could they? Never mind the one augury, one book rule; they were supposed to lose their glow when I took them off the shelf, so they didn’t look like anything special to the uninitiated. I touched the middle book and felt nothing but the hard edge of the front cover. Lovely. Something else was wrong with Abernathy’s, and I had no idea what, let alone how to fix it.

  I gathered up the three books and left the oracle. I’d have to send her all three, assuming she was willing to pay six thousand dollars to find out the truth about her boyfriend. But when I walked out of the stacks toward the front counter, the books grew heavier in my hands. The blue glow vanished, leaving the top book’s cover looking dull and matte-soft, and the bottom book began giving off an electric buzz that tingled my fingers. I hurried to the counter and set the top two books aside. Research Virtuoso. I checked inside the cover, just in case. Apparently, Abernathy’s had decided on the least expensive option, which was nice. Or would have been, if I hadn’t been so unsettled by the whole thing.

  Tapping footsteps drew near. “There’s an estate sale going on in Beaverton tomorrow morning if you want me to go,” Judy said. “There’s supposed to be a library. Not that anyone has a library anymore. They probably mean a box of Agatha Christie paperbacks. But it would restock the shelves.”

  “What? Oh. Sure, that would be nice. Thanks.”

  “I do just want to help.” She swept past me, unlocked the front door, and turned the sign to OPEN. I recognized an apology mixed with a rebuke and nodded. Judy hated being thanked for anything.

  I left the other “auguries” on the front counter and took the third into my office, where I called Ms. Smith and verified she was willing to pay for the augury. Judy brought the mail in and silently dumped it on my desk while I took down Ms. Smith’s information for shipping and billing. More requests for auguries to be sent out via mail. If this new and unsettling habit of Abernathy’s persisted, filling those requests would take hours. Wrong auguries, too many auguries. I’d have to set aside tonight for reading the instruction manual—damn. I’d told Viv I’d come to her gig tonight. That was all after whoever came into the store today for auguries or a catalogue or access to their safe deposit box.

  I banged my head on the pile of mail and groaned. I needed three of me. Surely Mr. Briggs had had an easier time of it?

  I was used to doing auguries by this time. They usually left me feeling energized by my time alone with the oracle. Today felt more like arm-wrestling alligators. About a quarter of the auguries were either false like Branch’s or in multiple volumes like Ms. Smith’s. By lunchtime, I’d made it through half the requests that came by mail and had done three others, walk-ins, one of which was problematic. I had to have him rephrase his question twice before Abernathy’s came up with the right book. The look on his face as he left made me cringe. He would tell this story to his Warden friends, and make Abernathy’s—no, make its custodian seem flawed and unstable.

  That thought made me pause. What if it was me? What if something had changed in me that affected the oracle? I’d never heard of anything like that, but then there was still a lot I didn’t know about the job. On the other hand, I knew someone who did.

  I sent Judy to the sandwich shop to buy our lunch and called Lucia Pontarelli, custodian of the Neutrality called the Gunther Node and local law enforcement for the magical community. “Lucia, it’s Helena,” I told her voice mail. Lucia never picked up the phone when you called, preferring to let her voice mail do the screening for her. “What’s the relationship between Neutralities and their custodians? Like, if you get sick, does the Neutrality suffer? Call me.” Then I kicked back in the office chair and stretched, getting the kinks out of my neck. I needed a back massage, not that I knew anyone who would give me one.

  Distantly, someone called my name. “Coming,” I shouted, and trotted out to the front counter. The customer was Malcolm, dressed down for once in khakis and a long-sleeved black T-shirt as a nod to the still crisp spring weather. “No suit?”

  “I’m taking the day off to visit my grand-mère. She lives in Vancouver and hasn’t been doing well recently.”

  “I didn’t know you had family in Canada. You do mean Vancouver, BC and not Washington?”

  “Yes. My mother’s family is from Quebec originally. Grandmère moved to Vancouver to be closer to the Campbells. We suggested she come to live with us, but she’s got an aversion to the United States. She thinks it’s full of gangsters and Republicans.”

  I laughed. “I guess it depends on where you go. Did you want to use your safe deposit box again?”

  “Please.”

  We trooped down into the basement, and I took the key off the wall. “You sound a little down, if you don’t mind my saying,” Malcolm said. “Bad Monday?”

  I shrugged. “‘Compared to the life I lead, the last man in a chain gang thoroughly enjoys himself.’”

  “That’s Holiday, and I hope things aren’t as dire as it sounds.”

  “Not really.” I found I didn’t want to share my troubles with him. It felt intimate, and if Judy was right (and why wouldn’t she be?) Malcolm didn’t think of me as anything but a friend. Was my crush as painfully apparent to him as it was to the rest of the world? “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “All right.” He sounded suddenly remote, and I replayed what I’d said in memory and wished I could take it all back. But he’d already accepted the box from my hand and turned away, dismissing me without a word.

  I took a few steps up the stairway, then stopped with my back to him. “Malcolm?”

  “Yes?”

  He still sounded remote, as if the two of us were in different rooms, different towns maybe. “Thank you for standing up for me.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No. It meant something to me that you even noticed what Chet was doing. Thanks.”

  “I despise men like him. Thinking his needs and desires are so important you should change to meet them. Helena, you’re a kind and considerate person, but don’t let that make you believe you should do anything you don’t want to, to keep from hurting his feelings. He doesn’t deserve that.”

  “I won’t. I doubt I’ll see him again. You’re not going to be in trouble over hitting him, are you?”

  He chuckled, and I heard him set the box down on the table in the center of the room. “Men like him are quick to scream ‘assault’ but very slow to act on such accusations. If he did, Tinsley left him with no physical evidence of being struck, and he’d get no sympathy from the police.”

  “Even so, I’d hate for you to go to jail for something like that.”

  “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  His words echoed mine. Embarrassed, I sa
id, “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  “I’d like to think, as your friend, I can share your troubles.”

  He sounded so sincere it made my heart ache. Why couldn’t it be that simple? “I meant it’s Abernathy’s business, and I don’t know if I should discuss it with you. That’s all.”

  “I see. Well, if you need to talk, I’m willing to listen.”

  That made me flush hotter. “Thanks. I’ll… let you have some privacy now.”

  Upstairs, I hid in the office until my face was its normal color. I heard the bells over the front door ring and hurried to greet the customer, but it was only Judy, returning with a sack full of sandwiches and potato chips and a couple of cans of Diet Dr. Pepper. “I got you roast beef. I hope you like that.”

  “I like everything except Reubens. Thanks.”

  We sat in the break room, eating in silence. The hum of the small refrigerator filled the room with its mechanical whirr. I wasn’t sure how much to tell Judy about the problems either Abernathy’s or I had. She was a great assistant, and she knew more than I did about a lot of things, but it wasn’t her responsibility. Or was I thinking like a coward? There was still a part of me that was reluctant to reveal my weaknesses to Judy, fearing her scorn—but she hadn’t been scornful at all since the day she’d returned the instruction manual to me and offered to help, just critical. “Judy,” I said.

  Malcolm stuck his head in the doorway. “I’m finished,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Have a nice trip,” I said.

  Judy eyed me when he was gone. “You were saying?”

  I’d expected her to make further comments on my nonexistent relationship with Malcolm, so it took me a moment to gather my thoughts. “Have you ever heard of the oracle selecting more than one book for a single augury?”

  “You mean other than the one you did for the Ambrosites? No.” She grimaced. “Don’t tell me Abernathy’s has come up with a new way to make mistakes.”