Chapter 3 - (Luckily), Papa Lost the Family Spellbook

Papa turned, looking sheepish. “The truth might be fortunate, depending on how you look at it,” he said, “but of all the books in my collection, that precise one has disappeared. It’s lost.”

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When Marjorie reached her brother’s attic bedroom, he was sulking at the edge of his bed, as she’d expected. She did not wait to be invited in, but shut the door and sat beside him, clasping her hands—and realizing that her body shook violently.

Though he tried his hardest to remain angry, Adam noticed her trembling hands. “Well?” he asked. “Are you going to tell me why you look as if you’ve been chased by a monster?”

Not chased, she thought. Not yet. 

“The raccoon wasn’t a little boy,” she answered, deciding he deserved the truth. “He is a youth of perhaps fourteen and claims not to remember a thing. Not even his name. His face…” She stopped herself, chilled by the memory of the lad’s black eyes. “Well, he’s so pale. As if he’s never known sunlight in his life. Mama and Papa are talking to him, but I’m not convinced they’ll get much out of him.”

Adam narrowed his eyes, as if sensing that she was omitting details. Like Mama, he could detect a lie, no matter how cleverly worded. Marjorie waited, dreading that he might ask more questions than she knew how to answer.

In the end, he said simply, “I was listening at the chimney, but when I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, I wondered if Papa had actually done any magic.”

“Magic is quiet,” Marjorie replied, “at least, the part of it that I observed. Papa held his hands over the raccoon while speaking the language-with-no-name, and it began to…transform.” She shivered. “I know I’d been expecting it, and I did insist on seeing it, but one never truly expects such a thing. When you witness magic for the first time, you’ll be shaken, as well.”

Adam crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sure I could have seen it and gotten away just fine. Mama only wants to keep on treating me like a babe. I’d have seen it without being afraid.”

Marjorie smiled at her brother’s bravado. Let him hold on to his dream, she thought, propping herself against the wall, cushioning her head with one of his pillows. “We’re to stay up here,” she said, “until Mama and Papa finish interviewing him.”

“If the lad can’t remember a thing, why go to the effort of asking questions? We’ve already changed him back. Do we need to do anything else for him?”

“What would you do?” Marjorie asked.

“Give him food in a sack and escort him to the door,” said Adam resolutely. “Unless he wants to stay and do my chores in the stable. I’d like his presence just fine, in that situation.”

Marjorie looked up at the walls, which were papered with sketches made by Adam’s strikingly accurate hand. He was fond of venturing into the woods and finding interesting plants and fungi, which he sketched with obsessive detail.

“Have you ever thought of drawing flowers?” Marjorie asked him. “They’re a good deal more romantic than fungi.”

Adam wrinkled his nose at the word romantic, and did not trouble himself to acknowledge her question. 

“I hope they don’t give him my room to stay in while he’s here,” said the boy instead, “or, worse yet, make me share it with him. There’s a fine loft out in the stable. If he’s given a blanket, he’ll be comfortable enough sleeping on a bale of hay, keeping Starla company. He’s already been a raccoon; perhaps he won’t have trouble conversing with a horse.”

In spite of her trepidation, Marjorie felt herself giggle. “You are most unkind, Adam Gilbert,” she said. “You know, besides, that Mama would never let a guest of ours stay in the stable. Do not waste your breath arguing with them again, whatever they decide.” With haste, she added, “And be careful not to use German curse words again, even if you think that Papa is distracted. I heard it, you know, and you might get a severe talking-to later—”

A clash from downstairs startled Marjorie before she could finish her sisterly speech. She sat up, tossing the pillow onto the wooden floor, and pressed a hand to her heart. 

“Relax,” she heard Adam say, somewhere to her right. “Someone probably dropped a pan. I know the sound; it happens all the time, especially when Papa is making breakfast.”

Marjorie nodded but was not convinced. She hugged her knees to her chest, holding her breath to listen through the fireplace, but no echo of the interview downstairs reached her ears. 

Closing her eyes, she attempted to push from her mind the way that the nameless lad stared at her. Something was not right. She hoped that, by the end of the questioning, Papa would realize it as well.

He was Bamoy; of course he would notice.

*

A silent hour passed during which Marjorie made an effort to keep herself in place. Mama had told her to stay upstairs, and she could not bring herself to disobey Mama’s orders—not even if she was now fifteen. 

Not even if she feared that there was trouble going on, and her parents might need help.

Even if that was the case, what could she do? She had gone to her father’s library and peeked into his books on occasion, always in secret when he was in the greenhouse. She had opened cryptic and ancient books that she assumed contained spells, but understood very little of what she read in them. She even had one hidden under her bed, beneath a loose floorboard—for it had called to her on the night that she discovered it, and she found herself unable to leave it behind, even if she could not read it. She’d spent long hours staring at the pages and trying to make sense of them, but it was for naught.

Her act of theft from Papa’s library was beyond the point. The fact was that Marjorie knew nothing about magic. If there was trouble going on downstairs, her presence might only worsen the matter. The most helpful thing she could do was stay upstairs and out of the way.

*

When at last there came a knock at the door, it stirred her from an uneasy slumber. She scrambled into a sitting position and called out, “Who is it?” 

There was a quiver of fear in her voice that she did not like for Adam to hear, but she could do nothing about it; the wait had been far too long, and that noise had been loud enough to spook her.

“‘Tis me, little rose,” said her father wearily. “Can you unlock the door?”

Adam scrambled to his feet, abandoning the new species of fungi that he had been sketching. He fumbled with the lock on the door and wrenched it open. Their father stood in the corridor, his appearance haggard and—and haunted. 

“The creature is gone,” Papa announced, stepping inside to join his children.

“The creature?” Marjorie repeated, hugging herself against a cool breeze that slipped through the ajar window. “What do you mean? I thought that you changed him from a raccoon back into a boy…” 

She could hear the untruth in her voice as she said this; she could not erase from her memory the unease that the nameless lad instilled in her when he stared at her, unblinking, from his seat at the kitchen table.

Papa did not at once reply, allowing himself a moment to admire his son’s work. “Adam, you never show me your drawings anymore.” Though the concern did not leave his blue eyes, he was clearly flailing for a way to lighten the atmosphere.

“You never ask,” said Adam crossly, though the corners of his lips twitched with pleasure at his father’s approval. The boy then added in a vulnerable tone, “There are a few mushrooms that I haven’t been able to identify.” He did not say the words will you help me? but the sentiment was clear as day. 

“I would be honored to offer my limited wisdom,” said Papa. His face fell again. “Limited, because I made a mistake tonight, due to the scant information at my disposal when we began searching for the raccoon.

“Margo, Adam, the townsfolk told us that a boy had been turned into a raccoon by a passing witch. Your mother and I made it a priority to find the poor creature and restore him to his natural appearance. But you must learn one important lesson in life: townsfolk seldom tell the story with accuracy. 

“They might, indeed, have seen a witch turning what looked to be a boy into a raccoon. There exist creatures in this part of the wood that might wear the appearance of a human while not being anything like one.”

Marjorie and Adam exchanged a puzzled glance. Papa made a mistake? was the unspoken question that passed between them, but they turned away before he could notice their puzzlement. Shame already caused his shoulders to slump, making him appear shorter than normal. 

A wizard by profession, Bamoy never allowed himself the luxury of a mistake. On the few occasions when they happened, he was his own harshest critic. Even the forgiving words of his family did not lift the burden from his conscience.

“Come downstairs,” said Papa. “Your mama is preparing tea. It looks a disaster in the kitchen, but be sure not to comment on it. She will take it as a personal failure, though the house was spotless before a damned Elf got into it.”

“Elf?” Marjorie repeated, but he did not reply, having hurried back into the corridor.

She followed her father, mind reeling. Could it be that the creature she carried to her home in that basket had not been a boy, or even a lad, but an Elf? If so, then a good deal of the outcome was her own fault. Oh, certainly it had not been her intention to feed berries and candy to a malevolent creature, but there had been consequences all the same. 

She would listen to her mother next time and keep far away from Papa and all of his projects. She would not sneak glances into his spell-books, leaving the obscure arts well enough alone, for she was in no way qualified to wield incantations or brew the potions that made Bamoy famous among the villagers…

Mama was working frantically in the dining room with a broom and dustpan. It appeared that a plate had been flung from the table, presumably by the nameless Elf that Marjorie had brought in. A look at Mama’s face served to intensify her guilt; Nina Brahms’s cheeks were pale with the remnants of some great fear she’d experienced while her children were safe in the attic.

“Nina,” said Papa gently, “take a seat. I will finish tea. You have done more than enough, and I’m sorry.”

Mama stood, turning to her husband with a look of exhaustion and something else that Marjorie couldn’t name. Whatever it was, it did not reflect a positive emotion. When her husband did not relent, the woman lowered herself onto the chair nearest to her. Only then did she turn to look at her children, features softening with relief.

“I’m ever so glad that you went upstairs,” she said, voice little more than a whisper. “Never did I think that I would have to drive an Elf out of my house. What with all of the protective spells…they are meant to keep dark creatures outside…”

“It was me, though,” said Marjorie slowly. “I brought the Elf inside, in a basket.” She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress as she continued her lamentation. “He was in the form of a raccoon at the time, so it is possible that the spells did not recognize him as an Elf when I stepped through the door.”

Papa looked at her with surprise when she spoke these words. “You’re quite right, my dear,” he said, going to the fireplace to check on the tea-kettle. “It might have thought there was something different about the raccoon, but since I have yet to renew the protective spells this year, they were not strong enough to identify it as an Elf. Do not blame yourself for it, Margo. All of us played a part in this; the blame is shared.”

“Not me,” mumbled Adam, somewhere behind her, “even though I wanted to play a part in it…” 

Papa ignored him, having long ceased to trouble himself with his son’s moping.

“But I released him from the trap,” Marjorie argued. “I prepared a basket with enticing treats to lure him inside…I stole Mama’s sugar cubes! I…”

“I set the trap,” he reminded her. “And I was going to check on it. Had I left earlier, I would have been the one to bring him in. Your mama, bless her, thought only of the supposed boy who had been cursed by a passing crone; she would not have suspected it was anything other than that. She served him food, offering him hospitality, and he flung the plate at her.” Papa’s voice hardened as he finished speaking, becoming stony with anger.

Mama said nothing, but a tear slid down her fair face, and that was enough for Marjorie to share in her father’s rage. Adam went to his mother and wrapped both arms around her neck, while Marjorie went to the cupboard in search of a handkerchief, not wishing to see her mother cry. Her mother was a sensitive soul, in spite of the perilous life she had lived.

“The Elf is gone now, though,” Marjorie said, allowing a light of hope to creep into her voice. “You managed to drive him out. You can reinforce the protective spells, now that he is gone.”

Papa raked his fingers through his unkempt hair, exhaustion causing shadows to form under his eyes like crescent moons. 

“He might no longer be in the house,” was Papa’s grudging reply, “but our home is in the middle of a graveyard, which gives him plenty of places to hide. He could be hiding behind a gravestone or in a mausoleum. He was angry when he left, and swore to make our lives a nightmare for not giving him what he wanted. He…”

“For not giving him what he wanted? What does that mean?” Adam asked, releasing his mother at last. His embrace had worked; there was more color in her complexion. “What could have made him so angry?”

Papa took the tin of chamomile out of the cupboard. “When he realized that I am a wizard, he demanded to see a…a book that happens to be in my possession. A book he believed would contain a spell that could return him to the Elf-land from which he had been evicted. A—”

“Grimoire,” Mama said softly. “He wanted your family grimoire, where powerful spells are written for posterity. Apparently, the book in question is not in the bookcase visible to guests.”

Papa turned at this, looking sheepish. “Er, yes. About that. The truth might be fortunate, depending on how you look at it, my Nina.” He hesitated. “Of all the books in my collection, that precise one disappeared. It’s lost. I’ve looked several times and cannot find it.” 

Marjorie tensed, thinking about the book that she’d hidden underneath the floorboard in her room. She turned away before her father could see in her eyes this brand new form of culpability.

Mama had sat up at the word lost, eyes flashing with indignation. Before she could begin to scold, her husband turned with haste and continued the story.

“While still pretending to be a lad, he went to my study and read the spines of all of the tomes on my shelf,” he told his children. “When he realized that none of them possessed the energy of a grimoire, he flew into a rage.”

Marjorie sat at the table, her hands no longer trembling but dreadfully cold. “The grimoire is a red book, isn’t it?” she asked her father tentatively. “Fat and heavy, with a leather belt that keeps it bound together?”

She could feel Papa’s keen gaze on her for several heartbeats before he replied: “…Yes. How do you know that, Margo?”

“Because,” she said, a knot forming in her throat as she made her confession, “I took it. I don’t know why, but when I found it a few months ago, I could not resist. I’ve made a habit of reading it sometimes, though I do not understand it. The book is underneath my bed.” Voice hastening, she added, “I was intending to return it, as I always do, to the place where you keep it. I know I shouldn’t have touched it without asking…” Trailing off, she could think of no explanation to make her confession lighter, and finished with a frail, “I’m sorry, Papa.”

“No, my heart,” he whispered, “do not be sorry for wanting to learn. And, irony of ironies, the fact that you took the book might be the very reason why the Elf was unable to find it. You must return it, though, Margo. I need to read it tonight, in order to reinforce the protective spells. Return it to me, and we’ll say there’s no harm done.”

Tears stinging at her eyes, Marjorie nodded. She looked at her father’s face in search of anger, but saw only kindness, and resisted the urge to rush into his arms the way she had done when she was a child. 

Papa took her hand, and the two of them ascended the stairs to the first floor. She knew that one thing dominated their thoughts as they took each creaky step: the protective spells must be reinforced.

If there was an angry Elf prowling about the graveyard which served as their backyard, they could waste no time. He could return at any moment, and she knew that he would have a plan.

He would return, intending to win.