Girl's Guide to Witchcraft Read Online Free PDF Page B

over to the braided rug. Raising the flame in front of my face, I sheltered it from drafts with my 9-1-1-poised cell. I could hear the phone’s angry static, resonating down the basement stairs.
    In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought to myself. That, unfortunately, made me think of the Merchant of Venice ’s pound of flesh, which of course turned my mind to blood, to my own blood pouring down the stairs. Then, all I could imagine was the fairy tale Bluebeard: the domineering pirate who gives his ladylove free rein throughout his castle, but demands only that she avoid the tower room, the one filled with blood.
    I shook my head and raised the candle higher. Even though my voice quavered, I counted out loud as I moved down the steps. “One. Two. Three.”
    I wouldn’t have started counting, if I’d known there were thirteen steps. Like I needed any more harbingers of bad luck.
    The air in the basement was cold, and I thought about running back to my bedroom for a sweater. I was honest enough, though, to admit that I’d never make it back downstairs if I gave myself that chance to escape. Instead, I held the candle out toward the walls and looked around.
    And then I laughed aloud.
    I was staring at books. Rows and rows of books. They filled their mahogany shelves. They leaned against each other like plastic drink stirrers in a trendy martini bar. They were tossed onto the floor as if some temperamental undergrad had grown tired of studying for finals. I finally dared to take a deep breath, and I was comforted by the rich, familiar scent of leather.
    Pleased at the treasure trove despite my now-laughable fears, I took another step into the basement room. My slippered feet settled onto something soft and yielding, and I looked down at the most luxurious rug I’d ever seen in my life. I don’t know anything about carpets, but this one glinted in the candlelight with a soft sheen that whispered silk. The pattern was a riot of crimson and indigo; intricate twists and turns were woven into the design to tease my eyes into thinking that I could make out meaningful shapes.
    A wooden reading stand occupied the center of the room. It was made out of the same dark wood as the bookshelves, finished with the same soft gleam. The surface was slanted toward me, and I was reminded of those high-end architects’ desks that, although seeming to be the ultimate in elegance and sophistication, I’d always feared would lead to a strained neck, a backache and a checkbook full of buyer’s remorse.
    A single book rested on the stand. Its leather cover was stained and weathered; its pages rippled between the covers, sheets heavier than ordinary paper. Parchment, then. I looked for a title on the spine, but there was none.
    My search took me to the side of the stand, and I discovered a statue crouching beside the high table. It looked like one of those Egyptian cats with its tail curled around its front paws, a guardian from a mummy’s tomb, but it was huge. The thing came up to my waist, and as I took a step back, the cat’s eyes seemed to stare out at me, somber and unblinking. They were made of glass or plastic or something, and they glittered as they reflected my candle. I resisted the urge to put my hand on its head.
    I was afraid that it might be warm to the touch.
    Instead, I looked around the rest of the room. In addition to a couple thousand haphazardly strewn books, there was a large humpbacked chest in the far corner. It looked like a steamer trunk, with peeling leather and a broken padlock that made me think of the Titanic.
    And there, against the far wall, was an armoire. One door stood open, revealing a tangle of clothes—velvet and satin and a twisting length of feather boa. Both the trunk and the armoire were made of the same mahogany wood as the shelves and book stand. They were all bare of any decoration, any initials, any design that might hint at who had owned them or left them there.
    Next to the armoire was a huge