Chapter 1 – The Things We Do For Smut
Miriam Vance sprang from her bed at precisely six o’clock in the morning. Though her night had been mostly sleepless, the excitement she had to blame for that provided her with plenty of energy to compensate, and she bounded about her cramped bedroom to prepare for the day ahead. She stepped effortlessly over and around the stacks of books and leather-bound journals that blanketed her floor on feet light as air. Her blouse and skirt she’d laid out the night before, but as soon as she began to dress she remembered every debate she’d had with herself over the combination, and nearly ran to her wardrobe again. No—there wasn’t time! Even that slight hesitation threatened her mission, and she hurried through the rest of her routine.
With her brown hair combed into as much order as it would ever allow, new spectacles perched on her nose, Miriam snatched up her shoulder bag and vaulted over the last pile of clutter separating her from the door. The hem of her skirt caught on the edge of the stack, and just as she was about to leave, she heard the unmistakable thunk of a small wooden box hitting the floor, followed by scraping paper.
Miriam stopped. If it had been anything else, she would have continued without a second thought, but she knew at once what she’d knocked loose. She had to look back.
A small wooden box embellished with intricate, carved sigils had spilled its tarot cards across the carpet. Sitting face up on the top of the stack was The Chariot.
Miriam crouched down on the balls of her feet for a closer look. She knew very well every line that made up the princely figure and his sphynx-drawn chariot. “The Chariot,” she said under her breath, and she nodded to herself. With an even greater sense of conviction, she stood and marched from the room.
Her roommate, Odelia, seemed to have only just awoken herself. She stood at the stove, quieting a yawn against her hand as she placed the kettle. “Oh, Miriam,” she greeted. “I thought you weren’t working today.”
“I’m not.” Miriam plucked a sweet roll from the breadbox and held it in her mouth as she pulled on and then laced her boots. When she realized that Odelia was still watching her, expecting further explanation, she straightened up. “The release is today!” she declared, gesturing with her roll, but even that didn’t seem to clarify anything. At nearly ten years Miriam’s senior, maybe she simply wasn’t up to date on these things, however monumental. “The release of Darby Fairchild’s latest novel. He’s going to be at Quigley’s for a signing—there! In person!”
Saying it out loud only heightened her urgency, and she rushed to pull on her spring coat. “A whole new serial,” she carried on as she shoved her arms into the sleeves. “The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle. Doesn’t that sound exciting? He’s promised there’s even—”
Miriam stopped herself, heat in her cheeks. “Well,” she said, and she adjusted her glasses against her nose as she wrangled her childish rambling. “In any case, that is where I will be spending my morning.”
Odelia smiled at her fondly. “Have fun, Miriam.”
“Thank you.” Miriam started to button her coat, only to realize she had drawn it on over her purse. Not wanting to embarrass herself further in front of Odelia, she continued anyway. “I’ll bring groceries on my way back!”
“Don’t forget flour!” Odelia called after her as she swept out of the apartment.
Miriam skipped a few stairs on her way out of the building, all the while struggling with her coat and purse. A slower pace might have made re-layering them easier, but she’d wasted far too much time already. She all but tumbled out of her building onto the sidewalk, and with every effort to keep up her momentum, she marched out into the morning Boston foot traffic.
All of her forecasts and predictions had proved correct: the sky was a cloudless gradient of sunrise colors, yellow smearing into blue, a warm breeze rising out of the southeast that brought with it the smell of the bay. In the early hours pedestrians were sparse, giving Miriam plenty of space to step over sidewalk cracks whenever convenient. It was every bit the perfect day she’d expect from the constellation Perseus passing through the Galactic Plane, and she was a woman on a singular mission: to receive her reserved copy of The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle, the latest fiction novel by esteemed author Darby T. Fairchild, and the first that boasted his own hand drawn illustrations.
I hope it’s every bit as daring as the last one, Miriam thought as she gulped the bread down. He better not have toned it down just because it’ll have illustrations this time. If only he’d go back and do the same for The Waning Moon! That love potion scene at the winter ball was so—
“Oy, Miss Vance!” called the paperboy on the street corner ahead of her. “I know you’ve got a nickel for this one!”
Miriam startled, and she eyed the boy suspiciously as she continued toward him. Still not a mind reader, are you kid? No, that’s silly. But you never know… She cleared her throat. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry!”
“Special edition out’a New York,” the boy persisted, waving the newspaper at her, but she continued past him until he added, “It’s got magic in it!”
Miriam stopped in her tracks. “Real magic?”
“Photos,” the boy taunted, continuing to wave the paper at her.
Miriam dug through her pockets as she marched back to the boy. She shoved her only quarter into his hand and hastily accepted the paper. “Keep it!”
The boy tipped his cap. “Next one’s on the house!” he called, but Miriam already had her nose buried in the pages and was walking away.
May 22nd, 1933, the date in the corner read. A date Miriam had kept circled on her calendar for months waiting for her beloved novel release, usurped by shocking photographs of violent and fiery destruction in New York. Details in the article were scarce, the newspaper’s attempt to be the first to spread the story nationwide granting it only the barest facts: in the dead of night, one of the city’s public parks had been rocked by explosions that claimed at least three vehicles and two lives. Eyewitnesses at the scene claimed to have seen a vision of hell, magic pouring from the hands of a long-rumored witch.
A witch. Miriam chewed at her bottom lip as she read the article over again and locked eyes on the photographs. Her imagination painted vibrant yellow and orange over the black and white plumes of flame. She was convinced she could even feel their heat seeping out across the page. Magic—real magic, not the silly tricks and personality quirks that one might encounter on the streets of Boston. Miriam quaked with jealousy as she continued to march along, trusting her feet knew their way to the bookstore well enough.
Can witches this powerful really exist? Miriam thought, sparing only a glance at a crosswalk ahead of her before strolling across. Odelia said she knew a man who didn’t feel cold, ever—he could melt an ice cube on the back of his palm in the dead of winter—but an explosion! That just isn’t fair!
Miriam continued onward, entirely engrossed, until her newspaper crinkled against the back of a stationary person. “Sorry,” she said automatically, and as she lifted her head, the city around her came back into focus.
Quigley’s Books, a two story building of handsome red brick perched on the corner of a three way intersection, had drawn an immense crowd. Miriam dropped her newspaper, overcome with excitement at the sight of so many people gathered for what she assumed was their common mission. That euphoria soured almost immediately; the commotion drawing so many to her beloved bookstore were shouts of disgust, aimed not at the building but a figure on the sidewalk in front of it.
Irene Usher. Miriam would have recognized her enormous, ill-fitting beaver fur hat anywhere. The odious woman was planted on the sidewalk like a palace guard, her long face pinched tight beneath her dreadful hat, the curls of her age-white hair blending into the tall, wool collar of her coat. She shook her fist at the gathered Bostonians, which was clenched tight around the same special edition newspaper that Miriam had been reading.
“Is this the kind of wanton destruction you hope to see in our fair city?” Irene bleated to the skeptical crowd. “The gates of Hell have opened not two hundred miles from here, and you would invite devilry into your hearts?”
“Oh, of all the—” Miriam grumbled, and she began pushing her way to the front.
“That has nothing to do with books!” said one of the onlookers.
But the murmured agreements from the crowd did nothing to sway Irene’s fiery wrath. “It has everything to do with this book!” she declared, and she held up her other hand, her bony fingers warping the pristine cover of the latest Darby T. Fairchild fiction novel. “The pages of this book are ripe with Satan’s musings, and I’ll be struck down before I stand by and allow its perversity to infect—”
Miriam elbowed her way past the crowd to stand directly before Irene herself. “Now hold on a minute,” she said. With a deep breath she planted her hands on her hips and her heels on the concrete to face down her mortal adversary. “Ms. Usher.”
“Miss Vance,” Irene greeted her icily, her nose in the air. “I expected you of all people would be here.”
The crowd quieted to hear them, and Miriam’s courage nearly faltered beneath the weight of so many eyes. She reminded herself there was more than her self-consciousness at stake; even if this was more public than she was used to, she was very used to debating the deluded Ms. Usher. “Mr. Fairchild is a man of culture and talent. He’s not even from New York. You have no right to be making a scene like this on his special day!”
“I have every right,” Irene retorted, and she gestured with her newspaper to a trio of police officers standing off to the side. One of them was awkwardly trying to console Mrs. Quigley, the store owner’s wife. The poor thing was looking on in tears, which stoked Miriam’s righteous temper. “This book violates all five tenants of the Satanic Publications Act, making the sale of it a criminal offense!”
“There are only four tenants, and you made them up yourself!” Miriam retorted. The crowd murmured encouragingly behind her; she stuck her chin out. “It’s a romance serial, not some grimoire. You’re only making a fool of yourself.”
Irene gave a great huff that set her hat crooked; with both her hands devoted to brandishing evil publications, she didn’t have the means to tip it back into position, which didn’t help her efforts to intimidate. “I’ll have you know, I know the contents of his book,” she raved on. “Mr. Fairchild has been shameless his whole career, but he’s outdone himself this time! There’s more than salacious romance between these pages, but devilry! Magic and the occult! An unholy affair between woman and abomination, with pornographic images to boot!”
Miriam’s hands came off her hips, and she all but glowed with interest, their situation entirely forgotten. “Really?”
“Aha!” Irene waved the book at her, and Miriam’s face went hot with anger and embarrassment. “See how it tempts you! Even a woman as old as you isn’t safe from Fairchild’s grotesque solicitations!”
“I’m…I’m not even thirty yet!” Miriam protested, but then a new murmur arose behind them. Both women turned to see a handsome black and red Cord automobile pulling up to the shop, its roof laid back to reveal two passengers. Driving was a woman, pale blonde hair cut short and sharp, who Miriam didn’t recognize and quickly lost interest in compared to the man climbing out the passenger side: Mr. Darby T. Fairchild himself.
He looked much younger than his portraits that sometimes appeared in the bookplates and community periodicals—no more than his mid thirties, if even that—with a dark complexion and brown curls swept over one side of his face. His eyes were uncommonly pale but framed by heavy lashes, so much so that they might as well have cast a spell on the gathered audience, who could only stare back as he surveyed the unusual gathering.
“Whatever’s the matter?” he asked, his tone utterly unconcerned and touched by a southern accent. He buttoned the jacket of his tan suit coat as he approached. “Isn’t a signing usually done inside?”
“Oh Mr. Fairchild, I’m so sorry,” called Mrs. Quigley, but the closest officer prevented her from moving toward him with a hand on her shoulder.
“At last, he arrives,” said Irene ominously. “The biblio-blasphemist himself.”
Those gathered made way, eager for this new spectacle as Darby moved to stand alongside Miriam. He was just about her same height, and Miriam blushed furiously as the circumstances placed them side to side—nearly cheek to cheek—against their common enemy. In that moment she was almost grateful to shill Irene for instigating this opportunity in the first place, and she stood up taller, putting her hands again on her hips so that her elbow rested ever so gently against Darby’s arm.
Darby spared her little more than a glance before turning to Irene, but she was determined to savor it. “I was under the impression the event didn’t begin until seven sharp,” he drawled. “And yet, you appear to have one of my books there in your hand already.”
“These books, as you so over-generously label them, are now the property of the City of Boston,” Irene declared triumphantly. She gestured toward a large dark van parked further down the sidewalk. “Confiscated by order of the New England Society for Spiritual Immaculacy.”
Miriam whipped about, unintentionally elbowing Darby in her haste. Sure enough, another officer was just finishing loading a cardboard box into the back. “No!” she gasped out, and she turned again on Irene. “You have no right!”
“My right is bestowed upon me by heavenly God,” Irene rambled on, and Miriam would have had more choice words for her, if not for Darby gently taking her arm. “If I alone in this poor city have courage enough to stand up for innocent souls, so be it!”
“Ma’am, I am above all else a God-fearing and law-abiding man,” said Darby, with such a gentile inflection Miriam couldn’t be sure if it was sarcasm. “If the city wishes my books, they are welcome to them. Though as I said, I can’t help but notice there is a copy in your hand and not on that truck.” He put out his open hand expectantly. “I’m happy to sell it to you if you have an interest, but otherwise, I would like it back.”
Irene eyed him viciously. “As I said, the sale of this book is illegal.”
“Then that should make it an easy choice for you.”
After another moment of calculated silence, Irene thrust her newspaper into Miriam’s hands and tucked the book under her arm. She produced her pocketbook from her jacket and handed to Darby a crisp, one dollar bill.
“There,” she said. “Do you accept my purchase?”
“Happily,” replied Darby, and as soon as he tucked the bill into his suit coat, Irene pointed at him with one crooked finger.
“Officers!” she roared. “Arrest this man!”
“No!” shouted Miriam, and behind her the crowd booed and jostled. Despite Irene’s grandiosity, the officers she’d called upon didn’t immediately spring into action, instead exchanging shrugs and uncomfortable looks. Before the stalemate could escalate, Darby turned to the crowd and raised his hands for calm.
“Ladies and gentlemen, worry not,” he said. “It’s quite all right. I shall, on this occasion, surrender myself, for I trust that a judgement from the court will surely exonerate me.”
He stepped down from the curb, and the crowd shifted and murmured as he offered his wrists to the officers. The apparent leader pulled a face but nevertheless placed him in handcuffs.
“W-Wait!” Miriam insisted, crushing the newspaper in her hands though her feet remained rooted to the ground. “Mr. Fairchild, you can’t! You haven’t done anything wrong—what about the books?”
“Miss, I’m sure it will be quite all right,” Darby told her. “By tomorrow I shall return to place a copy in your hands myself.”
Irene gave another great huff. “We’ll see about that, you shameless provocateur.”
“Ma’am,” Darby acknowledged, tipping his head. Miriam could only watch, flabbergasted and heartbroken, as he was led to a nearby police car.
“You…!” She whirled back upon Irene. “You monster!”
“Believe it or not, I do this only for your benefit, Miss Vance,” said Irene. She gestured with the forbidden volume, drawing Miriam’s eyes to it like a hound to a foxtail. “This unseemly erotica does nothing but rot your poor, misled mind. If only you’d attend Sunday service more often, you would see that—”
“Give me that book!” Miriam shouted, and she latched onto The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle with both hands.
Irene fought back with the strength of a bear, one hand to Miriam’s two wrenching the paperback free. “Would see that God’s wisdom—” she continued to rant, drawing the book out of Miriam’s range, only to have another from the crowd make a grab for it. The terrible sound of ripping paper tore at Miriam’s heart, and though she tried to intervene on the novel’s behalf, there were suddenly too many grasping hands. In no time the cover was torn free.
Miriam struggled free of the crowd. By then two of the officers had stepped forward to try and contain the scramble while Irene swatted at her detractors with her hat. Ripped pages fluttered to the ground, some grabbed up by curious onlookers who cared more about bragging over their souvenir than the travesty itself. Miriam looked on, utterly crushed, until the turning over of a car engine drew her attention back to the street.
The police car was leaving, Darby within it. As Miriam watched it pull out into the morning traffic, a newfound strength poured into her chest like a lion’s bellow. “The Chariot,” she said under her breath, and she charged down the sidewalk after the retreating car.
What Miriam intended to do, she wasn’t entirely sure, but she was still a woman on a singular mission. The traffic was moving slowly enough that she could easily keep the police car in her sights, and she had known the directions to the police station since she was a little girl anyway. Even so, urgency pumped through her veins, so much so that it took several times before she realized that someone was calling out to her.
“Hey! Need a lift?”
Miriam turned and startled. The sleek, red Cord that Darby had driven up in was following her down the street, the blonde woman behind the wheel. Though Miriam had been too occupied to pay her much mind at first, there was no avoiding it now: the stranger was tall and thin, her pale face long and angular, her coat impeccably tailored. There was something dangerous in the twist of her made-up lips that made Miriam’s stomach knot.
“No thank you,” Miriam replied, resuming her march down the street.
“You’re chasing after the cops, aren’t you?” the blonde persisted, coasting alongside. “If you hop in we’ll make it in time to see him booked.”
“Aren’t you concerned?” Miriam shot her a glare but didn’t break stride. “Aren’t you offended? Your employer just got arrested and—”
The woman laughed; her voice was rich and pearly, and it set Miriam on edge. “Employer? I’m just a fan, like you.” She stopped the car. “You are a big fan, aren’t you?”
As wary as Miriam rightfully was of the strange woman, she wasn’t about to let anyone challenge her commitment. She strode to the car and let herself into the passenger side. “Miriam,” she introduced herself stiffly.
“Georgie,” the woman replied, resuming their chase of the police car. “Don’t worry too much about Fairchild. Even if a judge does rule against his books, there’s nothing to stop you from buying one the next town over.”
“That’s hardly the point,” Miriam retorted. “I shouldn’t have to. I took a day off work for this!” She flushed. “And! Of course! Poor Mr. Fairchild doesn’t deserve to spend the night in jail!”
Georgie chuckled, taking the turn at the intersection one-handed. “You think so? He won’t, but it might be better for business if he did.”
“What?” Miriam eyed Georgie, growing ever more suspicious of the woman calling herself a fan. “Mr. Fairchild doesn’t need to resort to staged dramatics to sell books.”
“No? Who do you think tipped off old Reenie Usher?”
Miriam recoiled. “That accusation is just as uncalled for as her behavior this morning,” she protested loudly while Georgie smirked. “And I don’t—”
She glared at Georgie and stopped, caught off guard by a glimpse of her eyes and a sudden realization. “You have violet eyes,” she blurted out, all her irritation draining in favor of fascination. “Are they natural?”
“Oh, shit.” Georgie’s shoulders drew in, but then she seemed to change course, and she relaxed into infuriating charm once more. “Why, yes.” She batted her eyelashes. “Do you like them?”
Miriam twisted in her seat toward her. “Is it magic? Were you born with it? Are you a witch?”
“Yes and no,” Georgie answered unhelpfully as she stopped the car. “Why?” She lowered her voice to a purr. “Are you a witch, Miriam?”
Miriam felt her cheeks go hot, and she squirmed beneath Georgie’s close attention. “No, of course not,” she admitted as she straightened her skirt over her knees. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Magic is harmless parlour tricks, after all. At least, here it is. Who wouldn’t have at least a casual interest?” She glanced back to Georgie’s face and gulped as she was taken all over again by their shining amethyst shade. “Were you born with it?” she couldn’t help but repeat. “Because if not, you must be a witch, but if you were, that means you’ve been Blessed by an angel.”
“Oh, is that how it works?” Georgie teased.
Miriam sighed as exasperation got the better of her. “Well I’m sorry if it’s rude to ask, but I don’t see why you can’t simply answer the question. I’m very knowledgeable about these things and it’s not as if I’m about to sell you to that madwoman Usher.”
“No, I believe it.” Georgie leaned back against her door as she continued to watch Miriam with great amusement. “It’s no wonder you’re such a fan of Darby’s books. Speaking of which…”
She nodded past Miriam; they’d arrived at the police station, where Darby was just being escorted through the front doors. Miriam glanced between him and the smiling Georgie, chewing her lip. “Chariot,” she muttered as she twisted the side door open and climbed out. “Don’t leave,” she told Georgie before bounding up the steps into the station.
The interior of the station was charged with curiosity; officers and clerks peered over and around their desks to watch the celebrity Darby T. Fairchild at the booking station. To Miriam’s relief he was already freed from the handcuffs, and he even appeared to be chatting rather amiably with the officers that had “apprehended” him. All the same Miriam hurried over to them, planted her heels, and declared, “I’d like to pay Mr. Fairchild’s bail.”
All three turned to stare. For a brief, mortifying instant, it seemed as if Darby didn’t even recognize her, but then he straightened up. “Oh, it’s you. You followed us here?”
“Miriam Vance,” she introduced herself, thrusting her hand forward. Darby shook it on reflex, and she was sure to give him a strong grip. “I’m sure you don’t need my help, but I feel terrible about what happened. I’d like to do something to make it up to you.”
The officers exchanged baffled looks as Darby withdrew his hand. “That’s mighty kind of you, Miss Vance, but hardly necessary.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re confessing to having instigated…?”
“Of course not! I wouldn’t have done anything to risk not getting my copy.” Realizing how that might have sounded, Miriam cleared her throat and tried again. “Won’t you please accept my help? I won’t feel right unless I can say I did something.”
Darby considered that for a moment and then said, “Well, bail’s been set at twenty dollars.”
Twenty dollars!? Miriam couldn’t keep from making a face, but she was determined, and she reached into her purse. As she counted out the bills she had with her, one of the officers cleared his throat and covered her hands with his.
“Ma’am, there’s no bail set,” he said, shooting Darby a disapproving look. “Once we have everything we need he’ll be released on his own recognisance.”
Miriam shot Darby her own, much more disapproving look; he shrugged, saying, “You said you wouldn’t feel right otherwise.”
Miriam shoved the bills back into her purse. Maybe Georgie was right about him. “I meant that,” she said, fidgeting with her purse strap as she continued to stare back at him. “I’m a great admirer of your work.”
She had hoped to maybe inspire some guilt, but Darby only smiled at her, his pale eyes seeming to shimmer, and she couldn’t bring herself to think too poorly of him after all. “I appreciate that,” he said. “If you don’t mind waiting a little longer, I’ll make that poorly delivered joke up to you.”
Miriam nodded, and she returned to the station lobby as the officers continued their work. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here, she thought at last as she watched Darby fill out sheets of paperwork. He probably thinks I’m just another silly girl. She shook her head. Though the author she had been following for years was younger and more handsome than she had expected from his portraits, and his manners were…basically amiable, she found his lack of passion disappointing.
Not that it would have done any good for him to let old woman Usher have it, she sure deserved it. Joyless old crone. Miriam rested her chin in her hands, scowling with the memory. It’s not anyone else’s fault she’s too prudish to get herself off. Maybe she’d stay home and leave everyone else alone if she just figured it out.
Miriam chewed her lip and adjusted her skirt. She wondered if Georgie was still outside waiting with the car.
As the officer had promised, Darby was released without much of a fuss, though he was set to appear before a judge the following day. Miriam joined him in leaving the station, already thinking through what possible excuses she could give her work supervisor to beg for another day off. Her musings were cut off by the realization that Georgie was waiting for them after all, leaning back against her car.
“Took you long enough,” she scolded Darby playfully. “A few reporters stopped by, but don’t worry, I chased them away.”
“Thank you, for that,” Darby replied dryly. “You know how much I hate free publicity.” He motioned to Miriam. “I take I have you to thank for giving Ms. Vance a ride, too?”
Georgie smirked with an unwarranted amount of triumph. “She’s such a big fan of yours, I felt obligated. She knows a thing or two about magic and witches, too.”
“Does she?” Darby looked her over; Miriam leaned back, her skin prickling beneath the close scrutiny of his cool eyes. “Haven’t I always said my readers have better taste than most?”
Georgie laughed, but Miriam feared her time was running out, and she could only spare a quick, affronted glare before turning her attention solely on Darby. “Mr. Fairchild, I really am sorry about this morning,” she said, twisting her fingers around her purse strap again. “I wish I could have gotten there sooner and maybe talked her down.”
“That’s really not your fault or responsibility,” Darby reassured her. “It was Georgie that tipped off Usher.” Georgie shrugging had Miriam puffing up all over again, but then Darby continued. “But I think I understand why you’re really here. You’re hoping I have a copy of the book to give you.”
“Well, I…” Miriam shifted back and forth, gulping. “I really did mean—”
“No, I believe you. I do appreciate it.” He motioned to Georgie. “Give her your copy.”
Georgie raised an eyebrow at him. “You signed that specifically for me,” she reminded him, though her tone was more of a playful warning than her being at all put out.
“That just increases the value, really.”
Georgie shrugged again, and she reached into the open side of the car to pull out a crisp, fresh copy of The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle. Miriam accepted it reverently with both hands, positively tingling with excitement and relief. Such a handsome, green spine to match the title, such elegant font, such a stunning blonde painted across the cover! Miriam locked eyes with the titular Emerald in her cascading chiffon and simmered enviously. Unable to restrain her curiosity, she paged immediately through the book until her eye caught one of the long-rumored illustrations, and her breath caught.
Unlike the array of vibrant colors of the cover, the novel’s illustrations were in simple black and white. Dark, scratchy lines carved their way across the page as if drawn in great haste, intimating the figures more so than depicting them. The ephemeral Lady L’Belle lay strewn across what might have been a chaise lounge, might have been a moss-covered rock, chiffon spilling down her exposed thigh. A creature loomed over her, leanly muscled, with a long, snaking tail and a crown of demonic horns circling its head. Did it have six limbs? More? The details were so rough and almost dreamlike, she imagined it as being drawn by some voyeur in the little time they had to partake of the scandalous, impossible scene of human and beast, twisting together in rapturous—
Miriam closed the book with a clap and straightened up. Darby was smirking at her as if he already knew just which page she’d turned to, and she did her best to rearrange her expression into calm gratitude. You’re not a mind-reader, are you Mr. Fairchild? Her gaze darted to Georgie. Or you? If you are, you had better say so, right…now!
“If you like it, I have another book I can recommend to you,” said Darby. “Next time you’re at Quigley’s, tell Wilma I said you can have that book that was put aside for the signing today.”
“Put aside?” Miriam squeezed her new book tightly as a new curiosity bubbled inside her. “A book of yours?”
“Not exactly.” Darby let himself into Georgie’s car and took the passenger seat, and though Georgie looked puzzled, she moved around to the driver’s side. “‘Mr. Fairchild said he chose me to get that book.’ Tell her that. All right?”
“All right. Why me, though?”
“Because you’re here.” Darby smiled at her, so charming and sincere that Miriam felt herself blush. “Thank you for standing up for me, Mary.”
“Miriam,” Georgie corrected him as she started the car. “What book are you talking about?”
“Miriam,” Darby repeated, his smile quickly disappearing. “Like I said, both books are yours.”
“Thank you.” Miriam frowned, uncertain what to think and already overburdened by imagination. She stepped back from the curb, her feet anxious to carry her back to the bookshop. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“The pleasure was mine,” replied Georgie.
She winked, and immediately Miriam’s frown became a scowl. “I was talking to Mr. Fairchild.”
“I still mean it,” Georgie teased, rousing another flush from Miriam as she pulled away from the curb. “Enjoy my book, Miriam!”
The pair sped off, leaving Miriam buzzing in their wake. She could have at least offered me a ride, she thought as she turned on her heel back toward the bookstore. Why would someone like Mr. Fairchild even associate with someone like that? She can’t be his lover. She scoffed aloud. But I guess I should be thankful. If she hadn’t given me a ride they might have both left before I even got here, and I wouldn’t have this…
Miriam looked down to the book in her hands: gorgeously printed and brimming with sinful indulgences. She couldn’t wait for the chance to curl up in the apartment and read it cover to cover while Odelia was away at work. I should have asked him to sign it, she thought, only to remember that Georgie had said it already was. Wrinkling her nose, she peeled back the cover to see how Darby had signed it for her.
Darby’s handwriting was looping and fanciful, and in red ink he had written, To my favorite abomination. Instead of a signature, he had scrawled a collection of lines and curves that stopped Miriam in her tracks: two curved posts that ended in branching spirals, four lines with serifs, one triangle inside of another. Though hastily drawn the elements were unmistakable: it was a demonic sigil, and one Miriam was convinced she had seen before.
“Cursed stag,” she murmured, running her thumb over the curling representation of antlers. She picked up her pace again, only putting the book down once she arrived at a crosswalk that required her attention. Has The Chariot ever been depicted pulled by deer? she wondered as she waited impatiently for traffic to clear. No, that’s silly. He’s referenced plenty of supernatural creatures in his books before, but not this one. Maybe it’ll make an appearance? She flipped back to the illustration she had studied before, but try as she might, she couldn’t imagine the creature’s ring of horns to be antlers. Her eyes traced every line that made up the beast, trying to draw greater meaning from its strong curves, it’s clawed, groping hands, the face of its lover conveying intimate bliss with so few strokes—
Miriam slapped the book closed again. You’ll know soon enough! As soon as the road was clear she darted across and hurried back the way she’d come. First, to see what it was that Mr. Fairchild left behind.
***
Naomi Yosef arrived at Quigley’s Books at precisely seven o’clock in the morning. It reminded her very much of a crime scene, and her heart sank.
She had expected to see a line of people waiting for the signing to begin, stretched outside the building. At the very least there ought to have been open doors and a billboard out front. Instead, only a handful of people were milling about on the sidewalk, conversing in hushed, incredulous tones. Though a few cast glances up at the shop, none were bold enough to enter.
“Did they cancel the event?” Naomi wondered aloud. She chewed on her thumbnail as she scanned the sparse gathering; there was no sign of Darby. “He’s not here.”
Sitting next to her in the driver’s seat, Elijah sighed impatiently and pushed his fingers through his hair. Naomi didn’t care for his new appearance. His hair was so impossibly black and shineless, so perfectly trimmed close to his square jaw, it looked like plastic even when tousled. “I warned you about involving Fairchild. He does not have your best interests in mind. Or anyone’s other than his own, for that matter.”
Naomi continued to chew her nail as she watched the bookstore, as if he might suddenly appear. “He said he would help me choose someone,” she murmured.
“You don’t need his help for that,” said Elijah. “Anyone here is sure to have an interest in that book of yours.” He reached over and tugged Naomi’s hand away from her mouth. “If it’s so important to you, you ought to pick for yourself.”
Naomi slipped her hand free to clasp the sunhat in her lap. I could just pick, she thought. Her stomach clenched tight, and she knew that if she stayed next to Elijah any longer she would admit the truth to him. He always saw straight through her. With a deep breath she twisted her door open.
“I’m going to look for Darby inside,” she said as she hopped out of the car, and she closed the door behind her before Elijah could protest. Even so, she felt his disapproving eye on her as she made her way up to the shop.
I can’t just pick, she thought, tugging her hat on. The short hem of her sundress swished as she climbed the steps. The people on the sidewalks watched her, too, as she reached the door and firmly grasped the handle. I don’t trust my own judgment anymore.
She twisted the handle, only to find it stuck in place. The doors were locked. Naomi tried it again out of sheer befuddlement, but sure enough, nothing budged.
“Darby?” Naomi tucked her wavy black hair behind her ears and leaned into the door’s small glass window. “Mrs. Quigley?”
“It’s been locked since Fairchild left,” volunteered one of the onlookers as Naomi straightened back up. “Cops arrested him for selling pornography.”
Naomi turned to stare, stunned quiet as the gossip carried on around her. “That old bat is always sticking her nose into things,” said a woman as her friends nodded. “I was in favor of the liquor ban, but even that is ending soon.”
“But she did have a point,” said another. “Didn’t you hear about what’s happening in New York?”
Naomi let their chatter fall away from her ears as she looked back to the car. Elijah was still inside, waiting for her. She couldn’t see him through the darkened windows, but his “I told you so” face was dishearteningly easy to imagine. As the conversation muddled on, she went back to chewing her nail. If Darby’s not here, then…should I leave it to fate? she wondered. Wait until someone finds it? But there’s no time for that! She turned back toward the door to peer inside, hoping she could catch Mrs. Quigley’s attention if she were visible.
Naomi’s attention was so focused that she didn’t notice when the crowd went quiet. It left her completely off guard when a woman marched up beside her and knocked forcefully on the closed door. She startled back, which in turn startled the newcomer as if she too had been equally tunnel-visioned. They blinked at each other.
“Oh, sorry,” said the woman, a brunette in a blouse and skirt, round glasses perched on her long nose. “I didn’t see you there.” Her attention to Naomi ceased exactly then, and she rapped again on the door. “Wilma! It’s Miriam!”
The women in the crowd began to whisper furiously. “Ask her what happened,” said one, but her friend replied, “No, you!” and they went on back and forth while the new center of attention ignored them. Naomi glanced back and forth, uncertain what to think. When the door unlocked with a soft click, however, she was reminded of her purpose and stepped close to Miriam.
The door opened a crack, revealing the weary, tear-red face of Mrs. Quigley. “Miss Vance,” she said, and she looked ready to begin crying again. Though Naomi was still helplessly confused about what had transpired, she ached sympathetically. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I know how you were looking forward to this.”
“It’s not your fault, Wilma,” Miriam reassured her, though her manners were not as warm as they could have been given the situation. “Don’t worry about that for now. Can I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Quigley, and she stepped back to open the door further.
Naomi’s heart skipped as she watched Miriam enter. The invitation didn’t seem to include her, but after a beat of hesitation she took advantage and hurried inside after her. Mrs. Quigley didn’t protest and Miriam didn’t seem to notice at all. Just as the rest of the remaining ladies crowded up the stairs, Mrs. Quigley locked the door behind them.
“I’m so sorry, ladies,” Mrs. Quigley said as she moved deeper into the shop. A path had been opened through the center aisle of books, leading to a table that had doubtlessly been left out for Darby and his wares. “They’ve taken all the books—”
“It’s all right,” said Miriam, staying close at her arm. “And don’t worry about Mr. Fairchild—they’ve already released him. He’ll stand before a judge tomorrow, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Oh, I hope so.” Mrs. Quigley sank into the chair meant for Darby with a long sigh. “The poor man.”
Naomi hung back from the pair, scanning the nearby shelves. She wasn’t able to find a familiar spine among them, nor near the display set up for the signing, nor by the cash register. She swallowed. Should I ask? I’m certain he wouldn’t have told her about me, but…
“There was another book he mentioned that was set aside,” said Miriam, and Naomi held her breath. “Mr. Fairchild said he chose me to get that book.”
Naomi stared openly. Her interest in Miriam, which had only moments before been almost non-existent, bubbled up into a torrent. There was such intensity in her eyes, such determined poise in her bearing. There was no reason to suppose she even knew what was in the book, and yet she radiated fascination and even hunger for the thing. It made Naomi’s heart pound.
She must be the one, Naomi thought, forgetting all at once just how many times she had thought that, and how many times she’d been wrong. Darby would have picked her for a good reason. If she’s one of his fans, she must have an interest in magic. Her cheeks burned as her imagination began to get carried away. And more than that. She may even—
“Oh, Miriam,” said Mrs. Quigley, and her wide brown eyes began to fill with fresh tears. “I’m so sorry, but it’s not here, either.”
“What?” Naomi and Miriam both said at once.
Miriam glanced to her, brow knit in confusion as if realizing for the first time that Naomi had followed her inside. Her concern for the book prevented her from dwelling on that intrusion for long; she turned back to Mrs. Quigley. “Why not? Mr. Fairchild said he had set it aside.”
Mrs. Quigly drew a handkerchief out of her pocket and pushed her glasses back so she could dab her eyes. “He did, he did. He told me it was a special gift he planned to give away as part of a lottery.”
Naomi frowned indignantly, her spirits deflating once more. A lottery? If he was going to leave it to chance, I could have done that myself! She glanced again to Miriam. But if he didn’t get the chance and chose this woman… “Mrs. Quigley, where is it now?”
“I gave it away, just after Ms. Usher left,” Mrs. Quigley admitted tearfully. “You heard how emphatic she was—selling an occult book at a time like this! What if the police came back? Why, if my husband found out I’d put the shop at risk for something like that…”
Just gave it away! Naomi covered her mouth with both hands, swaying on her feet, though she was surprised nearly out of her concern when Miriam put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. Total strangers, and yet this woman understood immediately what pain it caused her, to have something so precious carted off to unknown fate. It filled her with reassuring warmth.
“Then it is a book of magic?” Miriam pressed, the majority of her attention fixed on Mrs. Quigley. “If you’re that worried about Usher you must know what was in it.”
“It was a book of summoning, I think,” answered Mrs. Quigley, and Miriam’s hand clenched tightly against Naomi’s shoulder. It was such an encouraging reaction that Naomi didn’t register the pain. “Oh, I don’t know how he convinced me to allow it in the shop in the first place. Some magic is harmless, but not a book like that. I don’t quite remember the title, it was something like Safe? Sief…”
“Sefer Poyel,” Naomi corrected her without thinking.
“The Book of Poiel?” Miriam echoed. “A Hebrew text, then? But Poiel is such a low-ranking angel, why would…” In a flash she turned on Naomi, grabbing her other shoulder as well. Her face lit up with fiery interest. “You know the book she’s talking about?”
“Well, I…” Naomi stuttered helplessly, still so surprised by Miriam’s uncanny knowledge of theology that she couldn’t form an answer at first. She gulped and felt captured by the intensity of Miriam’s hard stare. “I’m a friend of Mr. Fairchild’s,” she said. “He told me about the book and I…I was just curious who he picked to end up with it.”
“He picked me,” Miriam said emphatically, and Naomi’s heart continued to thud even after Miriam let her go to face Mrs. Quigley. “Who did you give it to?” She scoffed. “Not one of the women out front.”
“Oh, no.” Mrs. Quigley looked ready to start crying all over again. “I’m sorry, but it was Mr. Tripepi,” she said, and Miriam’s shoulders drooped in disappointed recognition. “He’s almost as good of a customer as you are, and he arrived just after the scene ended…I couldn’t turn him away empty-handed.” Her lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Miriam.”
Miriam looked intensely thoughtful for a long, silent moment. When she adjusted her glasses, her eyes seemed to flare behind them, and she took a deep breath. “It’s all right, Wilma. Please don’t be upset. It’ll all work out.”
Mrs. Quigley nodded and wiped her eyes. Without anything further, Miriam spun and made her way back to the door. Naomi, bewildered, nodded a quick acknowledgement to Mrs. Quigley and then followed Miriam out.
“E-Excuse me!” She followed Miriam down the steps, past the handful of customers still perched on the steps, hoping for some crumb of news. “Excuse me, Miriam? Who is Mr. Tripepi?”
“What, you don’t know?” Miriam stopped so Naomi could catch up. “Joey Tripepi—he runs the Slate Street Gang now. Don’t you read the paper?”
“Not…really.” A criminal? No! No, that won’t do. I have to get it back. Naomi glanced back toward the car where Elijah was still waiting. No, he thinks this is all silly. He won’t help me. “What are you going to do?”
Miriam glared at the southern skyline with such determination that Naomi wouldn’t have been surprised if she launched herself into flight. “Serfer Poyel,” she murmured. “A book of summoning.” She squinted at Naomi. “Do you know what’s in it? Does Mr. Fairchild have another?”
“Oh, no—it’s one of a kind!” Naomi picked at her fingernails, remembering the weight of every page in her hands, the hours she had toiled to get every diagram and passage just right. “It’s a holy book that was, um…recently unearthed.” She was such a terrible liar she was convinced Miriam would laugh in her face, but her attention didn’t waver. “Supposedly written by an angel’s familiar. Mr. Fairchild said it has instructions in it for how to summon and gain magic from an angel.”
Miriam’s eyes grew so wide they very well could have rolled out of her head, and her lips twisted in a broad grin. “Chariot,” she said, so reverently that Naomi got goose bumps even though she had no idea what it meant. “What was your name again?”
“Naomi,” she introduced herself breathlessly. “Naomi Yosef.”
“Naomi,” said Miriam, once again gripping her shoulders. “I’m Miriam Vance.” Her smile grew sharper, almost wicked. “Meet me at Mr. Fairchild’s hearing tomorrow. We’re going to get that book.”
And without another word or even waiting for a reply, Miriam let her go and marched off again. Naomi had never seen someone walk with such light-hearted yet ferocious purpose, and it left her head spinning as she remained on the sidewalk, gawked at by Darby’s remaining, empty-handed admirers. It wasn’t until Elijah’s broad palm settled on her shoulder that she remembered him or their mission at all, and by then Miriam was disappearing into the distance.
“Well?” Elijah asked impatiently, towering over her. “Did you pick?”
“Yes,” said Naomi, clasping her hands together. She breathed in and out, relishing the thrill of excitement. “I’m giving my magic to Miriam Vance.”