A Practical Guide to Sorcery for Night-Shift Workers novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Stacks

In the closed rare-book room she teaches him to breathe on the beat, and they kiss.

The rare-book room was behind a keycard door at the back of the library, and it was the quietest place I had ever been.

There were glass cases along three walls.

There was a long oak table with a green-shaded lamp and a rolling ladder.

A small machine in the corner hummed to keep the air dry.

Anselm locked the door behind us at 12:03 on Saturday night.

"This is where my aunt kept the old spell books," he said. "Nobody comes in after ten."

"The guard checks the front desk and goes home."

"Good," I said. "I don't want an audience."

He stood in the middle of the floor with his hands in his vest pockets.

He had come in his teacher clothes, buttoned to the wrists.

"Take off your vest," I said.

He blinked.

"Not for that," I said. "You're too buttoned up. I want you loose. Sit."

I pulled out two chairs and turned them to face each other, close.

Then I sat in one with my knees nearly touching his.

"How do you do this with patients?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Make people do what you say."

"I say it like I'm sure," I said. "Hands out."

He gave me both hands, palms up.

I took his wrists in my fingers, my thumbs on the pulse points.

They were cold again.

Everything about him ran a little cold.

"Okay," I said. "Rule one. You don't cast. Tonight you just breathe with me."

"That's not a spell."

"It's the part you skipped. When someone is about to be stuck with a needle, they hold their breath at the top."

"Their whole arm goes tight. That's what you do right before the phrase."

He frowned.

"I don't hold my breath."

"You do. I felt it in the classroom. Close your eyes."

He closed them.

His eyelashes were longer than I would have guessed.

"Breathe in for four," I said. "Out for eight. Slow. I'll count."

We did it.

In, two, three, four.

Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

I watched his chest.

I felt his pulse under my thumbs, slow and a little stubborn.

On the fourth round I felt the grip.

It was right at the end of the breath, right where the phrase would go.

His pulse clenched.

"There," I said. "You just did it."

His eyes opened.

"Did what?"

"You tightened. You think you're getting ready. You're bracing."

"For what?"

"I don't know," I said. "You tell me."

He did not answer.

He looked at our hands.

"Again," I said, softer. "This time, I'll breathe with you. Match me, not the clock."

I leaned in until my forehead was almost touching his.

I do not know why I did that.

It was just that he seemed to need something close to hold on to.

Our breath started to line up.

I could feel the warmth of his mouth on the exhale.

I could smell paper and soap and, faintly, the tea he drank.

In, two, three, four.

Out.

His pulse under my thumbs slowed a little more.

It stopped fighting.

On the long out-breath, my own pulse sped up, because his face was an inch from mine.

I thought, Reya, you are a professional.

I thought, you are in a locked room with your teacher.

Then, under my right thumb, his skin changed.

It was a small thing.

It was like the first second after you press a cup of tea against your palm.

His hand was getting warm.

"Anselm," I whispered.

"I feel it," he said.

His voice cracked on it.

"Don't stop. Don't think. Keep breathing."

The warmth spread from his wrist into the heel of his palm.

It came up slowly.

For about two heartbeats, I felt the whole length of his hand glow.

Then he gasped, a small broken sound, and the warmth went out.

His hands went cold in mine.

He pulled in a big shaky breath and put his head down on my shoulder.

I held on.

I did not think about it.

I just put my arms around his back, and he leaned against me.

"It was warm," he said into my scrub top. "Did you feel it? It was warm."

"I felt it."

"Seventeen years."

"I know."

"You're sure it wasn't you?"

"I'm sure," I said. "I wasn't casting. I was holding your wrists."

He laughed, wet and unsteady, against my collarbone.

Then he lifted his head.

His face was very close.

His eyes were bright, and I realized he was close to crying and trying not to.

I looked at his mouth.

I thought about the fact that no one had held me for longer than a hello in over a year.

I thought, This is a terrible idea.

I kissed him.

It was a short kiss at first, almost a question.

His lips were soft and a little dry, and he went completely still.

Then he made a low sound in his throat, and his hand came up and slid into the back of my short hair.

He kissed me back.

His fingers were still cold.

I did not care.

When we broke apart, we were both breathing the way we had been taught.

In for four, out for eight, and not managing it.

"I'm your teacher," he said, hoarse.

I put my forehead against his again.

"Not after midnight," I said.

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