Page 2 of Spelling Disaster

My mom expects me down in the main library chamber on time. Even though it’s totally my birthday.

Twenty-one. The big two-one where I’ve heard those normal kids go out and drink themselves stupid.

It’s supposed to be an occasion marking the passage into adulthood. Or so I’ve read about mortal parties and coming-of-age stories.

Instead, I’ll be working.

My footsteps are heavy as I make my way from our apartment in the rear of the library to the main chamber. Usually it’s not so bad to work in the library with Mom. Today?

The tightness in my chest grows with each step and I shove the feelings of apprehension down deep. It’s not bad on any other day but when it’s my twenty-first birthday, with all the attached strings?

The book had been a gift to myself and a way to distract my mind from what I knew would come this afternoon.

Now that I’m back in reality, there are no more distractions.

Mom has been acting strangely for the past few weeks leading up to today. Well, stranger than normal. Which means thereare multiplestrings attached because I’m the one she won’t quite look in the eye. I’m the one whose questions always remain half answered or ignored entirely depending on the subject.

What can I expect? What’s going to happen when I ascend?

Crickets.

My entire world is books and the characters brought to life on those pages. Mom made sure I’m well read, proficient in magic, and in complete control over my powers. None of those things help me figure out what happens to me today.

“Yasmine!” My name echoes through the hall and shoots straight to my rapidly beating heart. “You’re late.”

Mom calls out the last bit without having seen me yet and I hustle through the door with only a semi slump to my shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” I begin. “I got caught up. I’m here now.”

She’s standing behind the giant oak main desk of the library with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on the edge of her nose. It gives her the look of a studious model because her Middle Eastern heritage has helped her age more gracefully than any other coven member her age.

She doesn’t need the glasses, either, and only uses them because she says it pays to look the part. It puts the others at ease. Who ever heard of a librarian who doesn’t wear glasses or put their hair up in a bun?

“Youalwaysget caught up.” Mom sweeps an arm out at the looming stacks of books. “Stop messing around when there’s work to be done. We only have another hour before it’s time.”

I want to ask: time for what?

What sort of celebration waits for me in an hour? The only thing I know is that I’m about to lose everything.

This is my real reality. I have to remind myself even when I’m struggling to find a common connection between me and the woman who birthed me.

Mom is…strict.

Overly strict.

She keeps us, me and my sister, completely isolated from the mortal world so that the only way we can get information is gossip or books. We’re homeschooled and the only time we get out to socialize is when the coven meets.

Mom thinks her tales of horror regarding the human world will show us the dangers and help keep us safe.The human world is full of things ready to cut you down and eat you alive. So she says.

All I know comes from the romances and fiction Remi slips to me from her source. The romances and fiction I’m not supposed to read.

I hunch away from Mom and slink off to wash my hands before touching the books to restock. When I come out, Mom is helping a few coven patrons with their selections. She shoots me a look over the first woman’s head and I automatically make my way over to her.

She’s wearing a completely different expression by the time I get there. Like someone slipping off one mask and donning another, except the scowl she’d first greeted me with is the truth.

“I might be busy but never busy enough to wish this one a happy birthday,” Mom tells the two ladies. “Can you believe it?” She beckons me over with a crook of her finger, kisses me on the cheek. Ruffles my hair in a way that makes me itch. “In one short hour you’ll be twenty-one,” she says.

My stomach sinks a little bit further. Turning that age at 2:45 p.m. on the dot today marks the end of everything I love, all the things I’ve enjoyed. It’s the end of youthful magic and the ability that allows me to tap into said magic whenever I need to escape.

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