Diary of the White Witch: A Witches of East End Prequel by Melissa de la Cruz Page A

diary. What a perfect and timely gift!
    It did cross my mind that some of these pages could have been doused with poison, and before setting pen to paper, I brought the book up to my nose for a sniff of possible malfeasance. Hmm. It appears my coworkers have forgiven me after all. There was no scent of bitter almonds, only leather with faint traces of lanolin and neat’s-foot oil, and aging paper. Perhaps now that I’m leaving and no longer pose a threat to my coworkers’ tenuous jobs, the vipers have withdrawn their fangs. Ever since rumors of massive layoffs began circulating last semester, there’s been quite a bit of backstabbing in the old library. But if anything, everyone grew quite fond of me since I announced my departure. Who can blame them? One more job has been secured.
    The farewell party was all smiles, ladyfingers, chocolate, champagne, a tiny jar of caviar nestled in a silver dish with ice, and some of my lab students dropping by, promising to keep in touch. I will miss them the most, as well as my daily bike rides to and fro the university past apple orchards.
    And so, on this first day of spring, when the air is laced with hyacinth and day and night momentarily match with equal length, I set off, much wind in my sails and many propitious portents for the journey ahead. I’m going home, finally, and maybe this time, to stay. Mother will be so pleased.
    I have wanted to leave the school for a long time now, as I have become weary of academia; it appears the smaller the piece of the pie, the more bitter the feuds for the crumbs. Last week, I received a letter from one Hudson Rafferty of the North Hampton Library. Months ago, enough to have forgotten, I sent an inquiry about a possible position as an archivist there, but never heard back. Apparently there is a sudden need, and Mr. Rafferty is requesting I come in for an interview as soon as time will permit, as the ranking archivist has up and left out of the blue. I sent him a formal reply, expressing great interest, along with my résumé, and notified Mr. Rafferty that I will be in North Hampton in a week’s time and am looking forward to scheduling an interview.
    The idea of being my own boss in a small-town library—with “a decent collection of local architectural blueprints and rare maps that will need maintenance,” as he put it, “and running things, since we are all junior librarians at the moment and in a tizzy”—is much more appealing to me than slipping back into the sludge of pernicious academic politics.
    North Hampton. I can feel it calling me. I need to be near Mother, near the seam, the epicenter. A few months ago I began having dreams—nightmares, really—from which I wouldawake gasping. In my mind’s eye I saw the seam fraying, loosening, harm seeping in like quicksilver, the sea bubbling and drowning the small, sleepy town of North Hampton. Mother will need my help, I can feel it.
    At the very least, I long to see my family back together. We have been apart too long. Salem 1692 were the last days we were together. Ugly, violent, confusing days. And now if something evil is upon us again as I fear, we Beauchamps need to stick together. Enough time has passed for old wounds to heal. Mother and Dad must get over themselves and stop being so pigheaded. On my way out to Long Island, I’ve planned a stopover in New York City, where I will attempt to persuade my sweet, wild sister to sell the bar, that albatross of hers, and come home, too. Perhaps between the three of us we can even work on getting our Fryr back from Limbo.
    Outside the opened window by my desk, the sun sinks beneath the horizon, leaving tinges of pink in its wake, signaling fair weather ahead. Though dusk sets in and fills the corners of the cottage with shadows after a long day, I no longer feel weary. Oscar has curled up at my feet. A warm fragrant breeze flows in, filling me with that light, heady feeling of spring. I am eager for the journey ahead.
    Thursday,