Witches of East End by Melissa de La Cruz

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    Yes, she got his letters. She was almost tired of reading them, really, although she wondered how she would feel if they stopped coming. If a week went by and no letter arrived, would she be happier or sadder? She massaged her temples. She shouldn’t have responded to him. Her mother and sister would never approve. But this wasn’t about her or them or even him. There was something in those ornately decorated design keys. Something important, she could feel it, something that she had forgotten, and he was the only one who knew how to decipher it. The only one who could help her unlock the mystery of the code. She wrote him back.
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    The reply was instantaneous.
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    She sighed and did not send a response. It was time for her “witching hour,” as Hudson called it. The line in front of the main desk was out the door. Some of the women had been there since before the library opened. They had been waiting patiently all morning, some perusing the shelves, some reading books, most content to merely stand and wait. The impressive results from Ingrid’s work kept pouring in: the nightmares that stopped, the strange aches and pains that were cured, the rash of positive pregnancy tests.
    Becky Bauman, who had recently reconciled with her husband, was one of her first clients. Becky took a seat across from Ingrid’s desk.
    “How can I help?” Ingrid asked.
    “I don’t know if this is the right place to ask or if you can help. I just . . . I feel like our place is haunted. I get the weirdest feeling at night, like there’s someone there. Ross said I should come here even though he’s never felt it. But I’m quite sure there’s another presence in the house. The lights go on and off. The television turns on at odd times. Do you believe in ghosts?”
    “No,” Ingrid replied slowly. Ghosts did not exist, but she also knew that what humans referred to as ghosts—phantom specters and wraiths seen in shadowy light as well as other supernatural phenomena—was usually due to proximity to the edge of a seam, where the physical world and the world of the glom came so very close that those on the other side would be able to sense the presence of another world just beyond their sight. The edges of the seam were supposed to be held by a powerful binding spell Joanna had set long ago when they moved to North Hampton. It seemed only natural, Ingrid supposed, that spells would lessen and weaken with age, although it had never happened before. She fashioned Becky a talisman that would help keep the boundaries tight and get rid of the pesky paranormal inconvenience—no more blaring televisions at three in the morning, in any case.
    Ingrid attended to the usual mix of unexplainable grievances until an unexpected visitor arrived in her office.
    “Hey, there.” Matt Noble entered the office. He was so tall he looked funny sitting on the little stool across from her desk. “So I hear that you can help people.”
    “I do. What brings you here, Matt?” Ingrid asked, smoothing her skirt and not quite able to look him in the eye. She was irritated with herself for acting like a flustered old maid around him.
    Matt leaned forward on the desk and she forced herself to look into those clear blue eyes of his. “I have a problem . . .” he said huskily.
    “Which is?”
    “I like this girl, see. I really like her. She’s smart and pretty and sweet and she really seems to care about people. But she doesn’t seem to like me in return.”
    Ingrid tensed. “I see.”
    “So I guess. . . . How do I get her to say yes when I ask her out?” His eyes sparkled and there was a hint of a smile forming on his face.
    She frowned. Ingrid did not like when people made fun of her; she had a sense of humor but she didn’t like a joke when she was the punch line. It was so obvious he