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Shirt sleeves in wescott waiting at the front counter just having a browse she said and moved past without inviting further conversation, beatrice followed her prickling thumbs between stacks of books and laden shelves, she breathed in old paper and a thin rain on green stone scent of magic. Looking not for respectable, novels or seemly poetry, but for the authors, certain young women never even dared whisper to each other in the powder rooms and partners of society, the writers of the secret grimoires. It was here, but it wouldn’t do to be too hasty to follow. The pull of her senses toward the stack where the volume rested its spine, bearing an author name like john esplan, churchman or jc everworth, or perhaps e james curtfield. The authors always bore those initials on all of the books in her modest collection, stored away from curious eyes, the clerk might wonder at how she knew exactly where to find the book she wanted in all this jumble.

She browsed through literature in history and even in the occult sections, where other patrons would eye her with disapproval, because the realm of magic was not suitable territory for a woman of a certain youth. Just thinking of her exclusion made beatrice’s scalp heat for women magic was the solitary pursuit of widows and crohn’s not for the woman, whose most noble usefulness was still intact. The inner doors of the chapter house were barred to her, while a man with the right connections could elevate himself through admittance and education among his fellow magicians. Anyone with the talent could see the aura of sorcery shining from beatrice’s head all the better to produce more magicians for the next generation. Oh, how she hated it to be reduced to such a common capability.

Her magic untrained until some year in her twilight finally allowed to pursue the only path she cared for. She would not, and so she sought out the works of jec, who was not a man at all, but a sorceress just like her who had published a multitude of volumes, critics dismissed as incomprehensible and they were to anyone who didn’t know the key but beatrice had It by heart, when she lifted a dusty addition of remembrance of the jewish coast of london address from the shelf. She opened the cover and whispered the spell that filtered away. Anything that wasn’t the truth hidden amid the type setting and read to summon a greater spirit and propose the pact of the great bargain she snapped the book shut and fought the joyful squeak that threatened to escape her. She stood very still and let her heart soar in silence.

With the book pressed to her chest, breathing in its ink and magic. This was the grimoire she had needed after years of searching and secret study. If she summoned the spirit and made an alliance, she would have done what every male initiate from the chapter houses of sorcery aspired to do. She would be a fully initiated magician. This was everything she needed.

No man would have a woman with such an alliance. Her father would see the benefit of keeping her secret to use her greater spirit to aid him in his business speculations. She would be free a mage. This was her miracle she’d, never leave her family home, but that didn’t matter she could be. The son.

Father never had while her younger sister harriet could have the bargaining season beatrice didn’t want. Harriet would have the husband she daydreamed about, while beatrice would continue her studies uninterrupted by marriage. She stepped back and pivoted away from the shelf and nearly collided with another customer of harrimans. They jumped back from each other exclaiming in surprise, then stared at each other in consternation, beatrice beheld, a lanandari woman who stood tall and slim in a saffron satin woven cotton. Mantua, the undergown scattered all over with vibrant tropical flowers, the elbow-length sleeves erupting in delicate hand-hooked, lace, hooked lace on a day gown.

She was beautiful, surpassing even the famous reputation of the woman of lana nadras. She was blessed with wide brown eyes and deep brown skin. A cloud of tight black curls studded with golden beads matching a fortune in gold shirt sleeves in wesket, waiting at the front counter just having a browse she said and moved past without inviting further conversation, beatrice followed her prickling thumbs between stacks of books and laid

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