“But is that all they do?” asked Justine, and we were off again. For the next hour we went back and forth, discussing the various merits of laws versus no laws, outer-determined behavior versus inner-determined behavior. It was really fun, though at times I was uncomfortably reminded of the scientists who had figured out how to make an atom bomb. They had seemed to divorce the idea of how to create it from the idea of what its natural consequences would be. They hadn’t wanted to see it. In a way, I felt that Justine was doing the same thing: closing her eyes to the potentially destructive effects of her actions.
But we talked on. Justine was sure of herself, sure of her own intelligence and attractiveness, and didn’t let insecurity get in the way of her speaking her mind. For a moment I wondered if I should be concerned that I was enjoying her company so much, but then thought, Nah. I knew I loved Morgan more than anything. I was doing my job, being a Seeker, finding out what made Justine tick. It was all for the report.
I had talked to Morgan the night before, but it had been kind of stilted. Hearing her voice had brought back my unhappiness about my parents, about how much I missed Morgan herself, about how much I didn’t want to be here. Widow’s Vale seemed so far away from here, both physically and emotionally.
“I was wondering—are you interested in seeing my library?” Justine asked.
“Yes,” I said immediately, aware that this was a show of trust on her part. For my part, a Seeker never turns down an invitation into someone’s private world. It’s often where I find the answers to my questions.
She led me through a tidy, well-stocked kitchen to a small door in a hallway. She passed her hands over the door frame: dispelling protection spells. Once opened, the door led to steps going downward. I immediately became alert and quickly cast my senses to see if anything unpleasant was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
“It’s underground,” Justine explained, turning on the electric lights. She didn’t seem to pick up on my momentary suspicion, or maybe she was just being polite. “That helps keep it safe from fire. I think the people who owned this house before me used the cellar as storage, as a wine cellar. I enlarged it and waterproofed it.”
At the bottom of the stairs she flicked another light switch, and I blinked, looking around. Justine’s library was enormous. We were in one good-sized room, but doorways led to at least two other rooms I could see. The floor was made of rough wooden planks, and the walls were a crude stucco. But most bare surfaces had been painted with stylized designs of runes, hexes, words, and even some sigils I didn’t know the names of. I picked up on a general air of light, of comfort and pleasure and curiosity. If dark magick had been worked here, I couldn’t feel it.
“This is incredible,” I said, walking slowly into the room. Despite the lack of windows, the room looked open and inviting. A fireplace took up one wall, and by gauging the rooms above, I figured its chimney must run through the kitchen fireplace’s. Big, cozy armchairs were strewn here and there. There were closed glass cases, regular bookshelves, wooden tables piled with stacked books. Unlike Selene’s personal library, this one wasn’t cold or intimidating. It was all laid out neatly and beautifully organized.
“This is quite an accomplishment for someone so young,” I said, wandering into the next room. I saw that it led to another room, and that there was a lavatory off to one side.
“I’m twenty-four,” Justine said without artifice. “I inherited a lot of this from my mother when she moved into a smaller house. Most of what I’ve contributed myself are the books on the use of the stars’ positions to aid or hinder magick. It’s another interest of mine.”
I ran my fingers lightly over books’ spines, skimming titles. There were one or two books on the dark uses of magick, but that was to be expected of almost any witch’s library. The vast majority of the books were legitimate and nonthreatening. Or as nonthreatening as a manual of how to make magick can be. Just about anything can be misused.
“My father would have loved seeing this,” I murmured, remembering the Da of my childhood, surrounded by books in his library at home. Candles burned down around him and still he read, late into the night. He’d often impressed on us kids how precious books were, learning was.
“Is he no longer living?” Justine asked sympathetically.
I bit back a snide retort about the definition of living and answered instead, “No, he’s alive. He’s at the B and B in Foxton.”
“Why don’t you bring him next time, then?” Justine said. “I’d be happy for him to see my library. Is he a Seeker, too?”
“No,” I said, unable to suppress a quick dry laugh. “No, but he’s in bad shape. My mum died at Yule, and he’s taken it hard.” I was surprised to hear myself confiding in her. I tend to be very closemouthed and don’t often share my personal life with anyone, besides Sky and Morgan.
“Oh, how awful,” Justine said. “Maybe the library will be a good distraction for him.”
“Yes, maybe you’re right,” I said, meeting her brown eyes.
“This place is nice,” I said, looking around the small restaurant. It was Monday night, and Justine had recommended the Turtledove as a likely place for Da and me to have a decent meal. Across from me, the etched lines of his face thrown into relief by the flickering firelight, Da nodded without enthusiasm. Since I had gotten back to the B and B this afternoon, he had been alternately withdrawn, confrontational, and wheedling. I figured a nice meal out would help stave off my overwhelming desire to shake him.
Not that I felt that way every second. Every once in a while, I would get a glimpse of the old da, the one I knew and recognized. It was there when he almost smiled at a joke I made, when his eyes lit with momentary interest or intelligence. It was those moments, few and far between, that had kept me going, kept me reaching out to him. Somewhere inside this bitter husk was a man I’d known as my father. I needed to reach him somehow.
“More bread?” I asked, holding out the basket. Da shook his head. He’d barely picked at his beef stew. I was going to give him another five minutes and then finish it off for him.
“Son,” he said, startling me, “I appreciate what you’re doing. I do. I even think you’re right, most of the time. But you just can’t understand what I’m going through. I’ve been trying and trying, but I need to talk to Fiona. I need to see her. Even if the bith dearc saps my strength or my life force. I just can’t see any kind of existence where I wouldn’t need your mother.”
His hand shook as he reached for his wineglass, and he downed the rest of his drink. This was the most direct he’d been with me since we’d left the cabin, and it took me a moment to find my footing.
“You’re right—I don’t understand what it’s like to lose your mùirn beatha dàn, not after you’ve been married and had children, made a life together,” I said. “But I know that even with that tragedy, it doesn’t make sense for you to kill yourself by continuing to contact the shadow world. Mum wouldn’t have wanted it that way.”
Da was silent, his clothes hanging on his thin frame.
“Da, do you believe that Mum loved you?”
His head jerked up, and he met my eyes.
“Of course. I know she did.”
“I know she did, too,” I agreed. “She loved you more than anything on this earth. But do you think that she would be doing this if you had died? Or would she be doing something different?”