Spellcaster

“This is almost two hundred years old?” Nadia began turning the pages, but very gingerly.

“A reproduction. The really old issues are too fragile now; they made copies of a lot of it back in the nineteen-fifties. But it’s all verbatim.”

They all gathered together, shoulder to shoulder, as Nadia found the correct issue. It took awhile to locate the story they wanted—newspapers were different then, with tiny type and vague headlines and no sections dividing the news by topic. But within a couple of minutes they had it:

“‘The sailors met their mischance while diving off the lighthouse for so-called “buried treasure,” perhaps believing it brought by privateers returning from the Caribbean,’” Verlaine read aloud. “‘But such treasure is well known to be only the possessions of one Goodwife Hale, an early settler of Captive’s Sound. Rumormongers and gossips claimed she had fled the Salem witch trials, and to be sure, she was a peculiar character, known for home medicines and squirreling away odds and ends not valuable to any rational mind. Yet she was a poor woman who never owned the gold or jewels that the sailors boasted they might find. Compatriots in the tavern who overheard the doomed men’s braggadocio about treasure tried to tell them better, but they paid no heed—and have paid the price.’”

Nadia sighed. “Gold. Jewels. The stuff a witch would have possessed—it would have been worth way more than any of that junk, at least to me.”

“How do you know she was a witch?” Verlaine had studied the Salem hysteria in school; none of those people had really been witches.

“Well, I can’t be totally sure,” Nadia admitted, “but it sounds right. The bit about the home medicine—that’s a clue. And keeping odds and ends that nobody else thought were useful? They could have been for spells. Plus, the article talks about her hiding stuff here and there, so—who knows? The sailors who died probably heard something third- or fourth-hand that was based on the truth. If she really did hide something out in the sound, it could’ve been … I don’t know. Something amazing. But it has to have washed away years ago.”

Mateo straightened in his chair, an odd expression on his face. “Or maybe not.”

“What do you mean?” Verlaine said.

“After I became your Steadfast—when I could see—” He stumbled over the word before getting it out. “When I could see magic for the first time, I saw something shining up from beneath the water. Right around the lighthouse. Something brilliant green, and strong, like a spotlight.”

“Green,” Nadia murmured. “That sounds good.” Apparently she could sense Verlaine’s confusion, because she added, “Different kinds of magic often hold different colors. Black magic—misused magic, evil—that’s usually a shade of red. Something green is either harmless or very, very helpful.”

They all looked at one another. It was funny, Verlaine thought, how you could actually see an idea make its way around the room, illuminating each of their faces in turn.

“What’s down there?” Verlaine finally whispered.

“No idea.” Nadia started to grin. “But I intend to find out.”

10

THE MAGICAL POSSESSIONS OF A WITCH FROM MORE THAN three centuries in the past—what could they be? What had Mateo seen shimmering in the depths of the sound? There could be tinctures and potions in sealed jars or bottles. Her bracelet or rings, whatever materials she had used to help her cast spells, which over time would acquire certain glamours of their own. Or anything, really, once mundane but enchanted by the mysterious Goodwife Hale.

By far the most tantalizing possibility, though, was that it might be Goodwife Hale’s Book of Shadows.

The water burial would make sense. A Book of Shadows acquired too much power and individuality to simply be burned on a witch’s death, but was a dangerous thing to leave lying around. Most witches either willed theirs to a younger witch in her family or were buried with them. Goodwife Hale might have chosen another path.

What would a centuries-old spell book look like? Nadia knew that most spells evolved over time, from community to community, from generation to generation. What would spells that ancient call for? How powerful must the book have been for it to need burial at sea?

“You’ve got that look again,” Mateo said as he stood beside their table. They’d all decamped to La Catrina so he could be there for his evening shift, and she and Verlaine had made themselves comfortable in a far corner. But it was a quiet night at the restaurant, and instead of the bedlam she’d expected, they were surrounded by the murmurs of conversation at the few tables that were occupied, and delicious smells—black beans, roast chicken, fresh-cut tomatoes. Best of all was the way Mateo was smiling at her. “That gotta-have-it look,” he said.

“It’s important,” she insisted. “Something extremely strange is going on in this town—a magical artifact from way back in its history could tell us a lot.”

And if it is a Book of Shadows, it would teach me so much—maybe some of what my mother should’ve taught me and never will—

“No arguments here,” Mateo said. “You know this stuff; I don’t. It’s like … it makes you light up. It’s cute.”

He’d called her cute. Her cheeks felt warm. Nadia dropped her gaze from his face, bashful, but found herself staring at his hands instead. They were nice hands—square and solid, and she remembered how he had held them out to her on the terrifying night of the wreck—