The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

vertical handwriting she was looking at. ‘Rosalie Goddard’s diaries,’ she gasped. The pages were yellowed and cracked, and looked exactly as she’d always imagined valuable, old, magic-related documents should look. Rosalie Goddard had literally written the book on real witchcraft before being institutionalized by her horrified family. She had lived and died in the 1600s, but as far as Jane knew, her book still contained the highest fact-to-myth ratio of any that were available to the general public. Some of it was nonsensical and plenty had to be just plain wrong, but enough of Goddard’s claims checked out to make Jane trust the long-lost author instinctively.
    ‘We’d been using it to find some of her source material,’ Misty reminded Jane, ‘but there are all sorts of interesting things in there that didn’t make it to the published book. It’s not organized at all, but you might find something that helps you. And looking for those bits and pieces will help you to get centred again, which, truthfully, it sounds like you need.’
    Can’t really argue with that,
Jane agreed silently, pulling the closest manuscript to her and turning it right-side up. ‘Thanks,’ she remembered to say as the other woman swirled back through the curtain to watch over the main part of the store, leaving Jane alone with the diaries.
    ‘And if magick is not a tool of the devil or a trick of charlatans, but rather a simple talent of some who walk among us like singing or drawing or shooting?’
she read, her mind already settling into the familiar stillness that usually came when Dee talked her into meditating.
    We all know that there’s meant to be marks on witches, to show their evil to the world, but evil is, I believe, usually better hidden than all of that. They say that a witch will show its power rather than die, yet while I know of enough executions, I know of no one who has survived by means of visible magic. I can only conclude, therefore, that we huddle like children in the dark, convincing each other that we will know the strange when we see it. There is undoubtedly magic in the world, but why should those who cannot wield it have the power to detect those who can? Should they not more reasonably be a higher order among us, in plain sight and yet all unseen?
    Mother dislikes this new project of mine, but I think Father secretly enjoys my scholarly efforts. He would never say, much less since it would mean to contradict her, but tonight I found a new sheaf of paper in my writing desk that I know was not there in the morning. Either he wishes to help me a little, or perhaps some witch has already learned of my studies and is guiding me in secret. I hope I have been too discreet in my inquiries thus far for the latter, but time will tell.
    ‘ “Time” indeed,’ Jane huffed under her breath, sliding the manuscripts out in a fan. The dates on them spanned six years, and Goddard was already showing signs of being long-winded. But Jane’s huffing wasn’t entirely sincere: the subject of discovering magic was certainly important to her, and there was something about Goddard’s voice that she liked. The second part turned out to be especially useful when it came to maintaining her new calm, because for most of the first volume of diaries, magic barely came up again at all.
    Rosalie Goddard was still interested in magic, of course, but she was also a young woman with a lot on her mind.
    The preparations are under way for my wedding feast. I know I am of age, and I know John Goddard is a good man and pleasant enough, but even with Mother fretting about the dowry every day I cannot quite believe it is real. My sisters are jealous: Lizzie in particular dreams of being a wife every night, and often during the day while she wakes as well. But this is the only life I have known, in which I am a studious child and John Goddard is the sweet boy down the road who can never quite keep up with us when we run about and play at adventures. He is not even of a height with me yet, although Lizzie feels sure he will grow as tall as his own father. Of course, she also thinks she is a misplaced princess of some faraway kingdom, so—
    Jane flipped a few pages, then moved on to the next book. Rosalie was still talking about her life, but now her life was getting more interesting, and Jane read avidly.
    ‘Petru’ is not a Nordic name, of course: he says his real father isn’t Mr Thorssen at all, but rather someone from his