Beautiful Creatures

10.13 

Marian the Librarian

It had been three days, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about it. Ethan Carter Wate had been shot, and he was probably dead. I had seen it with my own eyes. Well, technically, everyone from back then was dead by now. But, from one Ethan Wate to another, I was having trouble getting over the death of this particular Confederate soldier. More like, Confederate deserter. My great-great-great-great-uncle.
I thought about it during Algebra II, while Savannah choked on her equation in front of the class, but Mr. Bates was too busy reading the latest issue of Guns and Ammo to notice. I thought about it during the Future Farmers of America assembly, when I couldn’t find Lena and ended up sitting with the band. Link was sitting with the guys a few rows behind me, but I didn’t notice until Shawn and Emory started making animal noises. After a while, I couldn’t hear them anymore. My mind kept going back to Ethan Carter Wate.
It wasn’t that he was a Confederate. Everyone in Gatlin County was related to the wrong side in the War Between the States. We were used to that by now. It was like being born in Germany after World War II, being from Japan after Pearl Harbor, or America after Hiroshima. History was a bitch sometimes. You couldn’t change where you were from. But still, you didn’t have to stay there. You didn’t have to stay stuck in the past, like the ladies in the DAR, or the Gatlin Historical Society, or the Sisters. And you didn’t have to accept that things had to be the way they were, like Lena. Ethan Carter Wate hadn’t, and I couldn’t, either.
All I knew was, now that we knew about the other Ethan Wate, we had to find out more about Genevieve. Maybe there was a reason we had stumbled across that locket in the first place. Maybe there was a reason we had stumbled across each other in a dream, even if it was more of a nightmare.
Normally, I would’ve asked my mom what to do, back when things were normal and she was still alive. But she was gone, my dad was too out of it to be any help, and Amma wasn’t about to help us with anything that had to do with the locket. Lena was still being moody about Macon; the rain outside was a dead giveaway. I was supposed to be doing my homework, which meant I needed about a half gallon of chocolate milk and as many cookies as I could carry in my other hand.
I walked down the hallway from the kitchen and paused in front of the study. My dad was upstairs taking a shower, which was about the only time he left the study anymore, so the door was probably locked. It always was, ever since the manuscript incident.
I stared at the door handle, looking down the hall in either direction. Balancing my cookies precariously on top of my milk carton, I reached toward it. Before I could so much as touch the handle, I heard the click of the lock moving. The door unlocked, all by itself, as if someone inside was opening the door for me. The cookies hit the floor.
A month ago, I wouldn’t have believed it, but now I knew better. This was Gatlin. Not the Gatlin I thought I knew, but some other Gatlin that had apparently been hiding in plain sight all along. A town where the girl I liked was from a long line of Casters, my housekeeper was a Seer who read chicken bones in the swamp and summoned the spirits of her dead ancestors, and even my dad acted like a vampire.
There seemed to be nothing too unbelievable for this Gatlin. It’s funny how you can live somewhere your whole life, but not really see it.
I pushed on the door, slowly, tentatively. I could see just a glimpse of the study, a corner of the built-in shelves, stuffed with my mom’s books, and the Civil War debris she seemed to collect wherever she went. I took a deep breath and inhaled the air from the study. No wonder my dad never left the room.
I could almost see her, curled up in her old reading chair by the window. She would’ve been typing, just on the other side of the door. If I opened the door a little more, for all I knew, she might be there now. Only I couldn’t hear any typing, and I knew she wasn’t there, and she never would be again.
The books I needed were on those shelves. If anyone knew more about the history of Gatlin County than the Sisters, it was my mom. I took a step forward, pushing the door open just a few inches farther.
“Sweet Host a Heaven and Earth, Ethan Wate, if you’re fixin’ to set one foot in that room, your daddy will knock you clean into next week.”
I nearly dropped the milk. Amma. “I’m not doing anything. The door just opened.”
“Shame on you. No ghost in Gatlin would dare set foot in your mamma and daddy’s study, except your mamma herself.” She looked up at me defiantly. There was something in her eyes that made me wonder if she was trying to tell me something, maybe even the truth. Maybe it was my mom, opening the door.
Because one thing was clear. Someone, something, wanted me to get into that study, as much as somebody else wanted to keep me out.
Amma slammed the door and drew a key out of her pocket, locking it. I heard the click and knew my window of opportunity had slammed shut, as quickly as it had opened. She crossed her arms. “It’s a school night. Don’t you have some studyin’ to do?”
I looked at her, annoyed.
“Goin’ back to the library? You and Link finished with that report?”
And then it came to me. “Yeah, the library. As a matter a fact, that’s where I’m headed right now.” I kissed her cheek and ran past her.
“Say hi to Marian for me, and don’t you be late for dinner.”
Good old Amma. She always had all the answers, whether she knew it or not, and whether or not she would willingly give them up.


Lena was waiting for me at the parking lot of the Gatlin County Library. The cracked concrete was still wet and shiny from the rain. Even though the library was still open for two more hours, the hearse was the only car in the lot, except for a familiar old turquoise truck. Let’s just say this wasn’t a big library town. There wasn’t much we wanted to know about any town but our own, and if your granddaddy or your great-granddaddy couldn’t tell you, chances were you didn’t need to know.
Lena was huddled against the side of the building, writing in her notebook. She was wearing tattered jeans, enormous rain boots, and a soft black T-shirt. Tiny braids hung down around her face, lost in all the curls. She looked almost like a regular girl. I wasn’t sure I wanted her to be a regular girl. I was sure I wanted to kiss her again, but it would have to wait. If Marian had the answers we needed, I’d have a lot more chances to kiss her.
I ran through my playbook again. Pick ’n’ Roll.
“You really think there’s something here that can help us?” Lena looked over her notebook at me.
I pulled her up with my hand. “Not something. Someone.”
The library itself was beautiful. I had spent so many hours in it as a kid, I’d inherited my mother’s belief that a library was sort of a temple. This particular library was one of the few buildings that had survived Sherman’s March and the Great Burning. The library and the Historical Society were the two oldest buildings in town, aside from Ravenwood. It was a two-story venerable Victorian, old and weathered with peeling white paint and decades worth of vines sleeping along the doors and windows. It smelled like aging wood and creosote, plastic book covers, and old paper. Old paper, which my mom used to say was the smell of time itself.
“I don’t get it. Why the library?”
“It’s not just the library. It’s Marian Ashcroft.”
“The librarian? Uncle Macon’s friend?”
“Marian was my mom’s best friend, and her research partner. She’s the only other person who knows as much about Gatlin County as my mom, and she’s the smartest person in Gatlin now.”
Lena looked at me, skeptically. “Smarter than Uncle Macon?”
“Okay. She’s the smartest Mortal in Gatlin.”
I could never quite figure out what someone like Marian was doing in a town like Gatlin. “Just because you live in the middle of nowhere,” Marian would tell me, over a tuna sandwich with my mom, “doesn’t mean you can’t know where you live.” I had no idea what she meant. I had no idea what she was talking about, half the time. That’s probably why Marian had gotten along so well with my mom; I didn’t know what my mom was talking about, either, the other half the time. Like I said, the biggest brain in town, or maybe just the biggest character.
When we walked into the empty library, Marian was wandering around the stacks in her stockings, wailing to herself like a crazy person from a Greek tragedy, which she was prone to reciting. Since the library was pretty much a ghost town, except for the occasional visit from one of the ladies from the DAR checking on questionable genealogy, Marian had free run of the place.
“‘Knowest thou aught?’”
I followed her voice deep into the stacks.
“‘Hast thou heard?’”
I rounded the corner into Fiction. There she was, swaying, holding a pile of books in her arms, looking right through me.
“‘Or is it hidden from thee…’”
Lena stepped up behind me.
“‘… that our friends are threatened…’”
Marian looked from me to Lena, over her square, red reading glasses.
“‘… with the doom of our foes?’”
Marian was there, but not there. I knew that look well and I knew, though she had a quote for everything, she didn’t choose them lightly. What doom of my foes threatened me, or my friends? If that friend was Lena, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
I read a lot, but not Greek tragedy. “Oedipus?”
I hugged Marian, over her pile of books. She hugged me so tightly I couldn’t breathe, an unwieldy biography of General Sherman cutting into my ribs.
“Antigone.” Lena spoke up from behind me.
Show-off.
“Very good.” Marian smiled over my shoulder.
I made a face at Lena, who shrugged. “Home school.”
“It’s always impressive to meet a young person who knows Antigone.”
“All I remember is, she just wanted to bury the dead.”
Marian smiled at both of us. She shoved half her pile of books into my arms, and half into Lena’s. When she smiled, she looked like she could have been on the cover of a magazine. She had white teeth and beautiful brown skin, and she looked more like a model than a librarian. She was that pretty and exotic-looking, a mix of so many bloodlines it was like looking at the history of the South itself, people from the West Indies, the Sugar Islands, England, Scotland, even America, all intermingling until it would take a whole forest of family trees to chart the course.
Even though we were south of Somewhere and north of Nowhere, as Amma would say, Marian Ashcroft was dressed like she could have been teaching one of her classes at Duke. All of her clothes, all of her jewelry, all of her signature, brightly patterned scarves seemed to come from somewhere else and complement her unintentionally cool cropped haircut.
Marian was no more Gatlin County than Lena, and yet she’d been here as long as my mom had. Now longer. “I’ve missed you so much, Ethan. And you—you must be Macon’s niece, Lena. The infamous new girl in town. The girl with the window. Oh yes, I’ve heard about you. The ladies, they are talking.”
We followed Marian back to the front counter and dumped the books on the re-stacking cart.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Dr. Ashcroft.”
“Please. Marian.” I nearly dropped a book. Aside from my family, Marian was Dr. Ashcroft to nearly everyone around here. Lena was being offered instant access to the inner circle, and I had no idea why.
“Marian.” Lena grinned. Aside from Link and me, this was Lena’s first taste of our famed Southern hospitality, and from another outsider.
“The only thing I want to know is, when you broke that window with your broomstick, did you take out the future generation of the DAR?” Marian began to lower the blinds, motioning for us to help.
“Of course not. If I did that, where would I get all this free publicity?”
Marian threw back her head and laughed, putting her arm around Lena. “A good sense of humor, Lena. That’s what you need to get around in this town.”
Lena sighed. “I’ve heard a lot of jokes. Mostly about me.”
“Ah, but—‘The monuments of wit survive the monuments of power.’”
“Is that Shakespeare?” I was feeling a little left behind.
“Close, Sir Francis Bacon. Though, if you’re one of the people who think he wrote Shakespeare’s plays, I suppose you were right the first time.”
“I give up.”
Marian ruffled my hair. “You’ve grown about a foot and a half since I’ve last seen you, EW. What is Amma feeding you these days? Pie for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? I feel like I haven’t seen you in a hundred years.”
I looked at her. “I know, I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel much like… reading.”
She knew I was lying, but she knew what I meant. Marian went to the door, and flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed.” She turned the bolt with a sharp click. It reminded me of the study.
“I thought the library was open till nine?” If it wasn’t I would lose a valuable excuse for sneaking out to Lena’s.
“Not today. The head librarian has just declared today a Gatlin County Library Holiday. She’s rather spontaneous that way.” She winked. “For a librarian.”
“Thanks, Aunt Marian.”
“I know you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have a reason, and I suspect Macon Ravenwood’s niece is, if nothing else, a reason. So why don’t we all go into the back room, make a pot of tea, and try to be reasonable?” Marian loved a good pun.
“It’s more like a question, really.” I felt in my pocket, where the locket was still wrapped in Sulla the Prophet’s handkerchief.
“Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing.”
“Homer?”
“Euripides. You better start coming up with a few of these answers, EW, or I’m going to actually have to go to one of those school board meetings.”
“But you just said to answer nothing.”
She unlocked a door marked private archive. “Did I say that?”
Like Amma, Marian always seemed to have the answer. Like any good librarian.
Like my mom.


I’d never been in Marian’s private archive, the back room. Come to think of it, I didn’t know anyone who had ever been back there, except for my mom. It was the space they shared, the place they wrote and researched and who knows what else. Not even my dad was allowed in. I can remember Marian stopping him in the doorway, when my mother was examining a historical document inside. “Private means private.”
“It’s a library, Marian. Libraries were created to democratize knowledge and make it public.”
“Around here, libraries were created so that Alcoholics Anonymous would have somewhere to meet when the Baptists kicked them out.”
“Marian, don’t be ridiculous. It’s just an archive.”
“Don’t think of me as a librarian. Think of me as a mad scientist; this is my secret laboratory.”
“You’re crazy. You two are just looking at some crumbling old papers.”
“‘If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.’”
“Khalil Gibran.” He fired back.
“‘Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.’”
“Benjamin Franklin.”
Eventually even my father had given up trying to get into their archive. We’d gone home and eaten rocky road ice cream, and after that, I had always thought of my mother and Marian as an unstoppable force of nature. Two mad scientists, as Marian had said, chained to each other in the lab. They had churned out book after book, even once making the short-list for the Voice of the South Award, the Southern equivalent of a Pulitzer Prize. My dad was fiercely proud of my mom, of both of them, even if we were just along for the ride. “Lively of the mind.” That’s how he used to describe my mom, especially when she was in the middle of a project. That was when she was the most absent, and yet somehow, when he seemed to love her best.
And now here I was, in the private archive, without my dad or my mom, or even a bowl of rocky road ice cream, in sight. Things were changing pretty quickly around here, for a town that never changed at all.
The room was paneled and dark, the most secluded, airless, windowless room of the third-oldest building in Gatlin. Four long oak tables stood in parallel lines down the center of the room. Every inch of every wall was crammed with books. Civil War Artillery and Munitions. King Cotton: White Gold of the South. Flat metal shelving drawers held manuscripts, and overflowing file cabinets lined a smaller room attached to the back of the archive.
Marian busied herself with her teapot and hotplate. Lena walked up to a wall of framed maps of Gatlin County, crumbling behind glass, old as the Sisters themselves.
“Look—Ravenwood.” Lena moved her finger across the glass. “And there’s Greenbrier. You can see the property line a lot better on this map.”
I walked to the far corner of the room, where a lone table stood, covered with a fine layer of dust and the occasional cobweb. An old Historical Society charter lay open, with circled names, a pencil still stuck in the spine. A map made out of tracing paper, tacked to a map of modern-day Gatlin, seemed like someone was trying to mentally excavate the old town from beneath the new. And lying on top of all of it was a photo of the painting in Macon Ravenwood’s entry.
The woman with the locket.
Genevieve. It has to be Genevieve. We have to tell her, L. We have to ask.
We can’t. We can’t trust anyone. We don’t even know why we’re seeing the visions.
Lena. Trust me.
“What’s all this stuff over here, Aunt Marian?”
She looked at me, her face briefly clouding over. “That’s our last project. Your mom’s and mine.”
Why did my mom have a picture of the painting at Ravenwood?
I don’t know.
Lena walked over to the table, and picked up the photo of the painting. “Marian, what were you guys doing with this painting?”
Marian handed each of us a proper cup of tea, with a saucer. That was another thing about Gatlin. You used a saucer, at all times, no matter what.
“You should recognize that painting, Lena. It belongs to your Uncle Macon. In fact, he sent me that photo himself.”
“But who’s the woman?”
“Genevieve Duchannes, but I expect you know that.”
“I didn’t, actually.”
“Hasn’t your uncle taught you anything about your genealogy?”
“We don’t talk much about my dead relatives. No one wants to bring up my parents.”
Marian walked over to one of the flat archival drawers, searching for something. “Genevieve Duchannes was your great-great-great-great-grandmother. She was an interesting character, really. Lila and I were tracing the entire Duchannes family tree, for a project your Uncle Macon had been helping us with, right up until—” she looked down. “Last year.”
My mom had known Macon Ravenwood? I thought he had said he only knew her through her work.
“You really should know your genealogy.” Marian turned a few yellowed pages of parchment. Lena’s family tree stared back at us, right next to Macon’s.
I pointed to Lena’s family tree. “That’s weird. All the girls in your family have the last name Duchannes, even the ones who were married.”


“It’s just a thing in my family. The women keep the family name even after they’re married. It’s always been that way.”
Marian turned the page, and looked at Lena. “It’s often the case in bloodlines where the women are considered particularly powerful.”
I wanted to change the subject. I didn’t want to dig too deep into the powerful women in Lena’s family with Marian, especially considering Lena was definitely one of them. “Why were you and Mom tracing the Duchannes tree? What was the project?”
Marian stirred her tea. “Sugar?”
She looked away as I spooned it into my cup. “We were actually mostly interested in this locket.” She pointed to another photograph of Genevieve. In this one, she was wearing the locket.
“One story in particular. It was a simple story, really, a love story.” She smiled sadly. “Your mother was a great romantic, Ethan.”
I locked eyes with Lena. We both knew what Marian was about to say.
“Interestingly enough for you two, this love story involves both a Wate and a Duchannes. A Confederate soldier, and a beautiful mistress of Greenbrier.”
The locket visions. The burning of Greenbrier. My mom’s last book was about everything we had seen happen between Genevieve and Ethan, Lena’s great-great-great-great-grandmother and my great-great-great-great-uncle.
My mom was working on that book when she died. My head was reeling. Gatlin was like that. Nothing here ever happened only once.
Lena looked pale. She leaned over and touched my hand, where it rested on the dusty table. Instantly, I felt the familiar prick of electricity.
“Here. This is the letter that got us started on the whole project.” Marian lay out two parchment sheets on the next oak table. Secretly, I was glad she didn’t disturb my mom’s worktable. I thought of it as a fitting memorial, more like her than the carnations everyone had laid on her casket. Even the DAR, they were there for the funeral, laying those carnations down like crazy, though my mom would have hated it. The whole town, the Baptists, the Methodists, even the Pentecostals, turned out for a death, a birth, or a wedding.
“You can read it, just don’t touch it. It’s one of the oldest things in Gatlin.”
Lena bent over the letter, holding her hair back to keep it from brushing the old parchment. “They’re desperately in love, but they’re too different.” She scanned the letter. “‘A Species Apart,’ he calls them. Her family is trying to keep them apart, and he’s gone to enlist, even though he doesn’t believe in the war, in the hope that fighting for the South will win him the approval of her family.”
Marian closed her eyes, reciting:
“I might as well be a monkey as a man, for all the good it does me at Greenbrier. Though merely Mortal, my heart breaks with such pain at the thought of spending the rest of my life without you, Genevieve.”
It was like poetry, like something I imagined Lena would write.
Marian opened her eyes again. “As if he were Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.”
“It’s all so sad,” said Lena, looking at me.
“They were in love. There was a war. I hate to tell you, but it ends badly, or so it seems.” Marian finished her tea.
“What about this locket?” I pointed at the photo, almost afraid to ask.
“Supposedly, Ethan gave it to Genevieve, as a troth of secret engagement. We’ll never know what happened to it. Nobody ever saw it again, after the night Ethan died. Genevieve’s father forced her to marry someone else, but legend has it, she kept the locket and it was buried with her. It was said to be a powerful talisman, the broken bond of a broken heart.”
I shivered. The powerful talisman wasn’t buried with Genevieve; it was in my pocket, and a Dark talisman according to Macon and Amma. I could feel it throbbing, as if it had been baking in hot coals.
Ethan, don’t.
We have to. She can help us. My mom would have helped us.
I shoved one hand in my pocket, pushing past the handkerchief to touch the battered cameo, and took Marian’s hand, hoping this was one of those times the locket would work. Her cup of tea crashed to the floor. The room started to swirl.
“Ethan!” Marian shouted.
Lena took Marian’s hand. The light in the room was dissolving into night. “Don’t worry. We’ll be with you the whole time.” Lena’s voice sounded far away, and I heard the sound of distant gunfire.
In moments, the library filled with rain—
The rain battered down upon them. The winds kicked up, beginning to quell the flames, even though it was too late.
Genevieve stared at what was left of the great house. She had lost everything today. Mamma. Evangeline. She couldn’t lose Ethan, too.
Ivy ran through the mud toward her, using her skirt to carry the things Genevieve had asked for.
“I’m too late, Lord in Heaven, I’m too late,” Ivy cried. She looked around nervously. “Come, Miss Genevieve, there’s nothin’ more we can do here.”
But Ivy was wrong. There was one thing.
“It’s not too late. It’s not too late.” Genevieve kept repeating the words.
“You’re talkin’ crazy, child.”
She looked at Ivy, desperate. “I need the book.”
Ivy backed away, shaking her head. “No. You can’t mess with that book. You don’t know what you doin’.”
Genevieve grabbed the old woman by the shoulders. “Ivy, it’s the only way. You have to give it to me.”
“You don’t know what you askin’. You don’t know nothin’ about that book—”
“Give it to me or I’ll find it myself.”
Black smoke was billowing up behind them, the fire still spitting as it swallowed up what was left of the house.
Ivy relented, picking up her tattered skirts and leading Genevieve out past what used to be her mother’s lemon grove. Genevieve had never been past that point. There was nothing out there but cotton fields, or at least that’s what she had always been told. And she had never had a reason to be in those fields, except on the rare occasions when she and Evangeline played a game of hide-and-seek.
But Ivy’s path was purposeful. She knew exactly where she was going. In the distance, Genevieve could still hear the sound of gunshots and the piercing cries of her neighbors, as they watched their own homes burn.
Ivy stopped near a bramble of wild vines, rose-mary, and jasmine, snaking their way up the side of an old stone wall. There was a small archway, hidden beneath the overgrowth. Ivy ducked down and walked under the arch. Genevieve followed. The arch must have been attached to a wall because the area was enclosed. A perfect circle—its walls obscured by years of wild vines.
“What is this place?”
“A place your mamma didn’t want you to know nothin’ about, or you’d know what it was.”
In the distance, Genevieve could see tiny stones jutting from the tall grass. Of course. The family cemetery. Genevieve remembered being out there, once, when she was very young, when her great-grandmother had died. She remembered the funeral was at night, and her mother had stood in the tall grass, in the moonlight, whispering words in a language Genevieve and her sister hadn’t recognized. “What are we doin’ out here?”
“You said you wanted that book. Didn’t ya?”
“It’s out here?”
Ivy stopped and looked at Genevieve, confused. “Where else would it be?”
Farther back, there was another structure being strangled by wild vines. A crypt. Ivy stopped at the door. “You sure ya want to—”
“We don’t have time for this!” Genevieve reached for the handle, but there wasn’t one. “How does it open?”
The old woman stood on her toes, reaching high above the door. There, illuminated by the distant light of the fires, Genevieve could see a small piece of smooth stone above the door, with a crescent moon carved into it. Ivy put her hand over the small moon and pushed. The stone door began to move, opening with the sound of stone scraping stone. Ivy reached for something on the other side of the doorway. A candle.
The candlelight illuminated the small room. It couldn’t have been bigger than a few feet wide all around. But there were old wooden shelves on every side, piled high with tiny vials and bottles, filled with plant blossoms, powders, and murky liquids. In the center of the room, there was a weathered stone table, with an old wooden box lying on it. The box was modest by any standard, the only adornment a tiny crescent moon carved on its lid. The same carving from the stone above the door.
“I’m not touchin’ it,” Ivy said quietly, as if she thought the box itself could hear her.
“Ivy, it’s just a book.”
“No such thing as just a book, ’specially in your family.”
Genevieve lifted the lid gently. The book’s jacket was cracked black leather, now more gray than black. There was no title, just the same crescent moon embossed on the front. Genevieve lifted the book tentatively from the box. She knew Ivy was superstitious. Although she had mocked the old woman, she also knew that Ivy was wise. She read cards and tea leaves, and Genevieve’s mother consulted Ivy and her tea leaves for almost everything, the best day to plant her vegetables to avoid a freeze, the right herbs to cure a cold.
The book was warm. As if it were alive, breathing.
“Why doesn’t it have a name?” Genevieve asked.
“Just ’cause a book don’t have a title, don’t mean it don’t have a name. That right there is The Book a Moons.”
There was no more time to lose. She followed the flames through the darkness. Back to what was left of Greenbrier, and Ethan.
She flipped through the pages. There were hundreds of Casts. How would she find the right one? Then she saw it. It was in Latin, a language she knew well; her mother had brought a special tutor in from up North to make sure she and Evangeline learned it. The most important language as far as her family was concerned.
The Binding Spell. To Bind Death To Life.
Genevieve rested the Book on the ground next to Ethan, her finger under the first verse of the incantation.
Ivy grabbed her wrist and held it tight. “This isn’t any night for this. Half moon’s for workin’ White magic, full moon’s for workin’ Black. No moon is somethin’ else altogether.”
Genevieve jerked her arm from the old woman’s grip. “I don’t have a choice. This is the only night we have.”
“Miss Genevieve, you need to understand. Those words are more than a Cast. They’re a bargain. You can’t use The Book a Moons, without givin’ somethin’ in return.”
“I don’t care about the price. We’re talkin’ about Ethan’s life. I’ve lost everyone else.”
“That boy don’t have no more life. It’s been shot right out of ’im. What you tryin’ to do is unnatural. And there can’t be no right in that.”
Genevieve knew Ivy was right. Her mother had warned her and Evangeline often enough about respecting the Natural Laws. She was crossing a line none of the Casters in her family would ever have dared.
But they were all gone now. She was the only one left.
And she had to try.



“No!” Lena let go of our hands, breaking the circle. “She went Dark, don’t you get it? Genevieve, she was using Dark magic.”
I grabbed her hands. She tried to pull away from me. Usually all I could feel from Lena was a sunny sort of warmth, but this time she felt more like a tornado. “Lena, she’s not you. He’s not me. This all happened more than a hundred years ago.”
She was hysterical. “She is me, that’s why the locket wants me to see this. It’s warning me to stay away from you. So I don’t hurt you after I go Dark.”
Marian opened her eyes, which were bigger than I’d ever seen them. Her short hair, normally neat and perfectly in place, was wild and windblown. She looked exhausted, but exhilarated. I knew that look. It was like my mom was haunting her, especially around the eyes. “You are not Claimed, Lena. You’re neither good nor bad. This is just what it feels like to be fifteen and a half, in the Duchannes family. I’ve known a lot of Casters in my day and a whole lot of Duchannes, both Dark and Light.”
Lena looked at Marian, stunned.
Marian tried to catch her breath. “You are not going Dark. You’re as melodramatic as Macon. Now calm down.”
How did she know about Lena’s birthday? How did she know about Casters?
“You two have Genevieve’s locket. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We don’t know what to do. Everyone tells us something different.”
“Let me see it.”
I reached into my pocket. Lena put her hand on my arm, and I hesitated. Marian was my mom’s closest friend, and she was like family. I knew I shouldn’t question her motives, but then I had just followed Amma into the swamp to meet Macon Ravenwood, and I would never have seen that coming. “How do we know we can trust you?” I asked, feeling sick even asking the question.
“‘The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.’”
“Elton John?”
“Close. Ernest Hemingway. In his own way, sort of the rock star of his time.”
I smiled, but Lena was not so willing to have her doubts charmed away. “Why should we trust you when everyone else has been hiding things from us?”
Marian grew serious. “Precisely because I’m not Amma, and I’m not Uncle Macon. I’m not your Gramma or your Aunt Delphine. I’m Mortal. I’m neutral. Between Black magic and White magic, Light and Dark, there has to be something in between—something to resist the pull—and that something is me.”
Lena backed away from her. It was inconceivable, to both of us. How did Marian know so much about Lena’s family?
“What are you?” In Lena’s family, that was a loaded question.
“I’m the Gatlin County Head Librarian, same as I’ve been since I moved here, same as I always will be. I’m not a Caster. I just keep the records. I just keep the books.” Marian smoothed her hair. “I’m the Keeper, just one in a long line of Mortals entrusted with the history and the secrets of a world we can never entirely be a part of. There must always be one, and now that one is me.”
“Aunt Marian? What are you talking about?” I was lost.
“Let’s just say, there are libraries, and then there are libraries. I serve all the good citizens of Gatlin, whether they are Casters or Mortals. Which works out just fine since the other branch is more of a night job, really.”
“You mean—?”
“The Gatlin County Caster Library. I am, of course, the Caster Librarian. The Head Caster Librarian.”
I stared at Marian as if I was seeing her for the first time. She looked back at me with the same brown eyes, the same knowing smile. She looked the same, but somehow she was completely different. I had always wondered why Marian stayed in Gatlin all these years. I thought it was because of my mom. Now I realized there was another reason.
I didn’t know what I was feeling, but whatever it was, Lena was feeling the opposite. “Then you can help us. We have to find out what happened to Ethan and Genevieve, and what it has to do with Ethan and me, and we have to find out before my birthday.” Lena looked at her expectantly. “The Caster Library must have records. Maybe The Book of Moons is there. Do you think it could have the answers?”
Marian looked away. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m so sorry.”
“What are you talking about?” She wasn’t making sense. I’d never seen Marian refuse help to anyone, especially me.
“I can’t get involved, even if I want to. It’s part of the job description. I don’t write the books, or the rules, I just keep them. I can’t interfere.”
“Is this job more important than helping us?” I stepped in front of her, so she had to look me in the eye when she answered. “More important than me?”
“It’s not that simple, Ethan. There’s a balance between the Mortal world and the Caster world, between Light and Dark. The Keeper is part of that balance, part of the Order of Things. If I defy the laws by which I’m Bound, that balance is jeopardized.” She looked back at me, her voice shaky. “I can’t interfere, even if it kills me. Even if it hurts the people I love.”
I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but I knew Marian loved me, like she had loved my mom. If she couldn’t help us, there had to be a reason. “Fine. You can’t help us. Just take me to this Caster Library, and I’ll figure it out myself.”
“You’re not a Caster, Ethan. This isn’t your decision to make.”
Lena stepped next to me, and took my hand. “It’s mine. And I want to go.”
Marian nodded. “All right, I’ll take you, the next time it’s open. The Caster Library doesn’t operate on the same schedule as the Gatlin County Library. It’s a bit more irregular.”
Of course it was.