Page 10 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

“Joanna, you look at me like I’m asking to slit your throat instead of come to your house. Which used to bemyhouse, by the way. This is silly, can’t you see that?”

What Joanna saw was the note her father had scrawled in his last moments of life.Don’t let your mother in.It was the most difficult request he’d ever made of her and the one that had cost her the most to uphold, especially in the months following his death when she was alone in that big, echoing house, crying into her own arms instead of her mother’s.Her mother, who was mere miles away, who would’ve been there within minutes had Joanna invited her.

But Cecily had given up her right to an invitation ten years ago, a week after Esther had left, when Joanna had woken to the muffled sounds of screaming. It was her father, his normally rumbling baritone raised to a timbre she’d never heard from him before, rage mixed with real terror, and she had stumbled out of bed and down the stairs, following the sound until she stopped in the back hallway, her heart pounding. Her parents were in the basement with the books—and from the doorway she’d smelled the unmistakable acrid burn of smoke.

She’d raced down to find a tearstained and defiant Cecily standing over Abe, who had been on his knees in front of their wards, pouring water frantically over the fire that was still burning scorch marks onto the rug between the aisles. The fire had been carefully built, several logs and a triangle of kindling arced over the small codex and then doused in gasoline, but though the rug and floor beneath it were scorched, the wards themselves were untouched by fire or water. They’d been saved by their own in-progress, indestructible state, but some of the surrounding books were not so lucky—between smoke damage and burned paper, many were ruined beyond saving. It was obvious that while Cecily’s main aim had been the wards, she was glad for any destruction she’d managed to cause, and when she turned to see Joanna standing horrified in the doorway, there was no trace of regret on her face.

“Your father has made it clear that he cares more for these books than he does for his family,” Cecily had said. “I can’t go on like this. I’m leaving. Please come with me, Joanna, please. There’s a whole world out there for you.”

Abe had looked up from the fire he’d only just managed to put out, one of the ruined books cradled in his hands like a broken bird. With a sharp-edged clarity born of shock, Joanna zeroed in on the blackened edges of the book’s pages, the curled and blistered leather cover, the melting glue of the spine. It was a book she knew well, the book that had oncesent her soaring from a yellow swing into a perfect blue sky. Her eyes moved to her father’s face, bleak with a devastation she felt in her bones. When she looked back at her mother, Cecily had tears running down her cheeks. She had already known it wasn’t a question which parent Joanna would choose.

Now, in the store, Cecily’s eyes were dry though her face was defiant.

“I can’t let you in,” Joanna said. “You know I can’t. I won’t.”

Cecily pushed away from the counter, blinking rapidly. “You are a prisoner, Joanna. A prisoner of your own paranoia, just like your father. I can see it in your face, I can see the bars, and it is breaking my heart.”

Joanna looked away. She was too tired for this today.

“The books ruled Abe,” Cecily said, reaching for her, “but they don’t have to rule you. You can walk away, out into the world, you can have a real life—”

“Thisismy real life,” Joanna said. “And I’m not a prisoner, I’mchoosingthis—just like you choose to stay here in this town even though you could do anything, go anywhere, even though I’ve told you a million times I don’t mind if you leave. If I’m chained to the books, well, you’re chained to me. So we’re both making choices here. I respect yours, why can’t you respect mine?”

Cecily’s expression, which had been fierce and righteous, suddenly sagged, and she rubbed her hands up and down her face, smudging the red lipstick she never left the house without.

“You’re right, Joanna,” she said, sounding almost formal. “I’m sorry. It’s your life.”

“Yes,” Joanna said, unsure if she was being placated or not, but wanting the fight to be over either way. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” Cecily said, gripping her hand, and Joanna squeezed back.

“I love you, too.” For some reason, saying this made her tired and sad, because it was true.

Cecily fixed her lipstick with an unerring finger, wiping away the traces of red she’d smudged onto her chin. “Will you come over for lunchtomorrow, honey? I’ll bake a loaf of sourdough and we’ll have that carrot soup you like.”

A compromise. “All right,” she said.

“One? Two?”

The wards had to be set each night at seven, but that left plenty of time. “Two,” she said. “Maybe I’ll even let you cut my hair.”

She took her postcard from the counter and Cecily tracked it with her eyes as it disappeared into her pocket. One last hug, and Joanna was free.

Home, she went into the basement and filled a twist of aluminum foil with catnip, wolfsbane, and chickweed, then took a book down from the shelves. It was from the 1600s and written in French, and Joanna remembered when Abe had first brought it home—she was ten. She’d pored over it with a dictionary so they’d understand what the spell might do before they tested it aloud. The ink was fading but it still had a few uses left and Joanna brought it upstairs, snagging the silver knife from its ever-present place by the sink, then went back outside.

She walked from her porch, away from the long driveway and into the trees. There was a flat rock a few yards in and she sat down upon it, the cold stone biting through the legs of her black jeans. She opened the tinfoil, pricked her finger, and dipped the bloody tip into the herbs, then opened the book on her lap. She pressed her bloodied finger to its page, waited for the French to assemble itself into a language she understood, and began to read.

“Let my voice carry wherever the wind is blowing, and let them hear me and come calmly...”

This book was long and powerful—it took nearly half an hour to read it through. As she read, she could feel the energy around her begin to change, eerie and specific, the sensation of hair rising on a limb she hadn’t even known she had. The hum and swarm of the spell enveloped her and the sounds of the forest around her began to flicker and magnify inreaction to her voice; the crows were louder, the wind vocal in the trees, her own heartbeat like a rhythm.

For those thirty minutes she read with her eyes locked on the page, all her senses alert to the changing sounds around her, but her gaze focused entirely on the words. She heard the crunch of leaves and the break of twigs as feet moved through the forest toward her, heard branches snap, heard the slow, hot sound of breathing, but she didn’t look up. If she did, the spell would break and she would have to begin again. Her voice stayed strong and she didn’t rush when she reached the final page, just let the words fall from her tongue and ring out into the cold air like struck glass.

She closed the book. Only then did she look up.

Animals stood all around her. They were as still as pieces on a chessboard waiting for a hand to come down and move them. Several deer were posed like statues, long-legged and luxuriantly winter-furred, pulses beating in the velvet skin of their necks. A bear sat on her huge furry black haunches with her wet nostrils flaring in and out, head-sized paws docile on the leaves. A russet moose, so big he was frightening, and so close Joanna could see the fuzz coating his antlers, licked his lips with a delicate pink tongue. A ragged coyote scratched slowly and uncaringly behind a tufted ear. The trees were heavy with quiet birds sitting bauble-like on their branches. There was one fox and uncountable squirrels.

But no little striped cat.

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