embarrassed and disoriented. “I must have forgotten to eat today.” She felt violently nauseous, but fought back the urge to vomit, and rose unsteadily to her feet. The man looked doubtful. Others were staring. Commotions had no business in libraries.
Maggie gathered up the stack of books and tried to make a dignified exit, despite the stares. Screw the stares! She thought, suddenly angry, as well as sick. They hurt babies, and they’ve got Cody! I’ve got to get her out of that house.
Maggie cut across Bleecker, hurriedly; the library had yielded too much ghastly information, and her head was pounding. The cold wind was a welcome relief; there were several volumes left to read, but she intended to do so in the fresh air of Washington Square Park.
A book caught her eye in a shop window, as she hurried by: Psychic Self-Defense, God, do I need some of that, she thought with a weary sigh, and on impulse entered the shop. It was a warm, cozy place, full of glittering crystals, from charm size to huge decorator pieces. The late-afternoon sunlight glinted off an immense cluster of quartz at least four feet around, and refracted through the dozens of rainbow flashers in the window. They shivered in the breeze and produced a sort of stained-glass light dance, which brightened the interior of the shop considerably.
There were books, and wind chimes that tinkled musically as she shut the door behind her. Posters on esoteric subjects decorated the walls, and a couple of well-worn chintz armchairs filled a corner. On a table in between, a large crystal ball and a silver tea service gleamed.
A woman occupied one of the chairs. At first glance she seemed a young girl, in an updated flower-child ensemble; on second look, Maggie realized she must be close to forty. A spectacular body provided the deception.
The woman looked up from the book she was reading, and smiled, a lovely open smile, unexpected in New York. “I’m Ellie,” she said in a lilting voice that suggested contentment in her life. “If you’d like to put your books down here while you browse, I’d be happy to keep an eye on them for you.”
She had unusual eyes, violet-blue and incandescently sparkly. There was an otherworldly quality about her intelligent gaze, as if she weren’t quite human, but some sort of hybrid creature. Galadriel, Queen of the Fairies, straight out of Tolkien. Maggie tried to intuit what her ethnic background might be. Slavic, maybe. Or Russian. Masses of dark curly hair fell gypsy-like to her shoulders; beads of every conceivable variety jingle-jangled around her neck, along with gold sigils, zodiacal signs, and a silver cartouche. I’ve fallen into a time warp to Woodstock , Maggie thought, smiling back.
“Quite a collection you have here,” Ellie mused, checking out the titles of Maggie’s books. “Boning up for a doctoral dissertation on occultism?
“Something like that,” Maggie replied. “But I’m a bit out of my depth in all this, I’m afraid. It’s like trying to teach myself nuclear physics.”
Ellie laughed with genuine mirth. “Maybe I can help you,” she offered. “I’ve been into metaphysics since just before birth. I’d hate to say I’m an expert on anything, but I’ll probably do till you find one. What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’m trying to learn all I can about Black Magic; Satanism, I guess it’s called.”
Ellie’s eyes widened, then she frowned. “Surely you’re not thinking of dabbling in the Black Arts. I mean, I don’t even keep any books around on that stuff—only White Magic. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? That’s like playing around with nuclear fission for fun.” She looked genuinely concerned. “Tell you what . . . I was just about to close for a cup of tea. Why don’t you join me?”
Maggie smiled wistfully. “My mother always said if you’re Irish, a cup of tea can fix anything that ails
Maggie gathered up the stack of books and tried to make a dignified exit, despite the stares. Screw the stares! She thought, suddenly angry, as well as sick. They hurt babies, and they’ve got Cody! I’ve got to get her out of that house.
Maggie cut across Bleecker, hurriedly; the library had yielded too much ghastly information, and her head was pounding. The cold wind was a welcome relief; there were several volumes left to read, but she intended to do so in the fresh air of Washington Square Park.
A book caught her eye in a shop window, as she hurried by: Psychic Self-Defense, God, do I need some of that, she thought with a weary sigh, and on impulse entered the shop. It was a warm, cozy place, full of glittering crystals, from charm size to huge decorator pieces. The late-afternoon sunlight glinted off an immense cluster of quartz at least four feet around, and refracted through the dozens of rainbow flashers in the window. They shivered in the breeze and produced a sort of stained-glass light dance, which brightened the interior of the shop considerably.
There were books, and wind chimes that tinkled musically as she shut the door behind her. Posters on esoteric subjects decorated the walls, and a couple of well-worn chintz armchairs filled a corner. On a table in between, a large crystal ball and a silver tea service gleamed.
A woman occupied one of the chairs. At first glance she seemed a young girl, in an updated flower-child ensemble; on second look, Maggie realized she must be close to forty. A spectacular body provided the deception.
The woman looked up from the book she was reading, and smiled, a lovely open smile, unexpected in New York. “I’m Ellie,” she said in a lilting voice that suggested contentment in her life. “If you’d like to put your books down here while you browse, I’d be happy to keep an eye on them for you.”
She had unusual eyes, violet-blue and incandescently sparkly. There was an otherworldly quality about her intelligent gaze, as if she weren’t quite human, but some sort of hybrid creature. Galadriel, Queen of the Fairies, straight out of Tolkien. Maggie tried to intuit what her ethnic background might be. Slavic, maybe. Or Russian. Masses of dark curly hair fell gypsy-like to her shoulders; beads of every conceivable variety jingle-jangled around her neck, along with gold sigils, zodiacal signs, and a silver cartouche. I’ve fallen into a time warp to Woodstock , Maggie thought, smiling back.
“Quite a collection you have here,” Ellie mused, checking out the titles of Maggie’s books. “Boning up for a doctoral dissertation on occultism?
“Something like that,” Maggie replied. “But I’m a bit out of my depth in all this, I’m afraid. It’s like trying to teach myself nuclear physics.”
Ellie laughed with genuine mirth. “Maybe I can help you,” she offered. “I’ve been into metaphysics since just before birth. I’d hate to say I’m an expert on anything, but I’ll probably do till you find one. What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’m trying to learn all I can about Black Magic; Satanism, I guess it’s called.”
Ellie’s eyes widened, then she frowned. “Surely you’re not thinking of dabbling in the Black Arts. I mean, I don’t even keep any books around on that stuff—only White Magic. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? That’s like playing around with nuclear fission for fun.” She looked genuinely concerned. “Tell you what . . . I was just about to close for a cup of tea. Why don’t you join me?”
Maggie smiled wistfully. “My mother always said if you’re Irish, a cup of tea can fix anything that ails
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