A Practical Guide to Sorcery for Night-Shift Workers novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Cold Hands

Reya takes Anselm's pulse in the empty room, hears that he cannot cast, and promises not to report him.

"Sit down," I said.

He looked at the door.

Down the hall, the vending machine thumped and somebody laughed.

"They'll be back in about four minutes," I said. "Sit."

He sat on the edge of the front table.

I did not hand the bead back yet.

I held it up to the light.

It was only glass, plain and clear, with a thread of yellow glowing in the middle.

"That's not yours," I said. "That's a charge. Somebody put a charge in it."

"My aunt did," he said. "She taught this class for thirty years."

"And it lights the lamp."

"It gives one flash if I squeeze it. It lasts about a breath."

He said it flatly.

"So you can't cast," I said.

His jaw moved.

"I haven't cast since I was nineteen," he said.

I waited, because that is the first thing they teach you in the ER.

You say your piece and then you wait, and the other person fills the quiet.

"I can recite every theory in the book," he said. "I know how a cast should feel."

"I breathe out and I say the words, and my hands go cold. Every time. Nothing comes."

"For seventeen years."

"Seventeen years," he said. "And five of them in front of a class."

He pulled his left sleeve back himself.

Inside the cuff, hand-stitched with small neat stitches, was a tiny pocket of gray cloth.

The bead had lived in there against his wrist.

"Give me your hand," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not going to guess. Give me your hand."

He held out his left hand.

It was long and pale, with ink worn into the side of the index finger.

I turned it palm up and put two fingers on the inside of his wrist, below the thumb.

I take pulses for a living.

I take forty in a bad night.

His was slow and steady, sixty beats a minute, the heartbeat of a man sitting very still on purpose.

"Now do the cast," I said. "Quietly. Just for me."

"Reya."

"You can say my name. It's on the roll sheet."

He almost smiled.

Then he closed his eyes.

He breathed out slowly, and I felt it in my fingertips, the whole long length of the breath.

"Hold the light," he said.

His pulse did not move.

I had been ready for it to jump the way mine had, the one hard beat that comes when a spell lands.

It stayed exactly as it was.

His palm stayed cold, almost damp, and I had the feeling of pushing on a door that was locked from the other side.

He opened his eyes.

"You see," he said.

"I see something," I said.

I did not let go of his wrist.

He had not tried to take it back.

"Anselm."

It was the first time I had used his first name, and I felt it in my mouth.

"Your pulse isn't flat," I said. "It's not like someone who has nothing."

"It's tight. Right at the top of the breath, it grips. I can feel it clench."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know yet," I said. "It's not empty. I know that much. Empty feels different."

He stared at me.

Nobody had ever told him that, I realized.

Seventeen years, and he had assumed the worst and never had anyone check.

The students were coming back down the hall.

I could hear Winona's voice, saying something about a fig bar.

Anselm took the bead out of my other hand.

He pushed it back into the cuff pocket and rolled his sleeve down over it, and the little buttons clicked.

His fingers shook.

"I should tell you what happens now," he said. "You tell the county, and I lose the class."

"My aunt's name comes off the library wall, and I'll understand."

"That's what you think I'll do."

"It's what anyone would do."

"I'm not anyone," I said. "I'm tired."

That made him laugh, one short surprised breath.

The door opened, and the baker with the flour came in holding a bag of pretzels.

Anselm stood up and became the teacher again so fast it was a little frightening.

"We'll end early tonight," he said to the room. "Excellent work, everybody. Practice at home. One lamp, one breath."

Everyone gathered coats and cups.

Winona stopped at the table and looked at me, and then at him, and then at me, with her head tilted.

"Good night, teacher," she said, in a very odd voice.

Then she was gone, and the exit sign hummed, and the room was ours.

I took my jacket from the chair and pulled it on.

He stood by the lamp wall with his arms at his sides.

"Reya, I can pay you," he said. "Or I can, I don't know. I can do something."

"You can't pay me," I said. "I'm not for sale, and neither is this."

"Then what do you want?"

I thought about it.

I thought about four dollars an hour.

I thought about a man with cold hands who flinched when anyone looked at his cuff.

"I want the certificate," I said. "And I want to see if I'm right."

"About what?"

"About you."

I walked to the door.

I stopped with my hand on the frame.

"I'm off Saturday," I said. "Midnight. Bring the key to the rare-book room."

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