November 19, Tuesday

RAIN DRUMMED against my umbrella as I hurried from Coleman's Grocery to the library, my egg money burning a hole in my pocket. The Victorian building loomed ahead, its red brick dark with moisture, windows glowing warmly against the gray morning.

I found Tilda in the reference section, reshelving books with military precision.

"We need to talk," I said quietly. "About Curtis."

Tilda's shoulders stiffened, but she didn't turn around. "I'm working."

"He's still destroying my life." I looked around, then lowered my voice. "Did you um, cast the more powerful spell with the crystal I gave you?"

"No." Tilda slid another book into place with unnecessary force.

"Why not?"

She whirled to face me, her eyes fierce. "I don't want to be involved anymore. Whatever happens now is between you and your ex-boyfriend."

"But—"

"Magic isn't a solution to real-world problems, Josephine." She grabbed another stack of books. "If you're being harassed, call a lawyer. File a restraining order. Handle it like an adult."

I followed her down the aisle, past rows of dusty encyclopedias. "What about my goat? Do you know anything about the mark on his side?"

"I heard about that." Her voice softened slightly. "It wasn't meant to frighten you."

"Then what was it meant to do?"

Tilda sighed, setting down her books. "Look, things are... stirring in Irving. Old things. The mark was for protection, nothing more."

"Protection from what?"

"From asking too many questions." She met my eyes steadily. "Maybe it's time for you to think about leaving Irving."

"I can't—"

"You came here running from one man, and now you're tangled up with another. Meanwhile, you just keep poking at things better left alone."

"If this is about Sawyer—"

"This is about you, Josephine." Tilda's voice was surprisingly gentle. "You're a good person. A talented writer. But Irving... Irving has teeth. And some of us would hate to see them sink into you."

Rain pattered against the library's high windows, casting shifting shadows across the floor. Somewhere in the stacks, an old clock ticked away seconds.

"I can handle myself," I said finally.

"Like you're handling Curtis?" She shook her head. "Go home, Josephine. Your real home. Write your books. Live your life. Leave Irving's mysteries to those of us who were born to them."

"And if I don't?"

Tilda's smile was sad. "Then don't say I didn't warn you."

She disappeared into the stacks, leaving me alone with the musty smell of old books and the whisper of rain. Through the window, I could just make out the spires of the Whisper House rising above the trees.

Home, I thought. But whose version of home? The glittering Manhattan life I'd fled, or this strange, haunted place that had somehow claimed my imagination?

Thunder rolled in the distance, and I shivered, remembering Tilda's words.

Irving has teeth.

I was beginning to think she meant that literally.