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add a crimson shell and a respectable jacket. To hell with heels, though. My ballet flats would have to do.
    By the time I’d towel-dried my hair, David wore a fresh shirt and the clean, dry slacks of another dark suit. I suspected he’d changed quickly so I couldn’t see the damage left by the satyr’s hooves. At my accusing look, he held out his hands, as if to prove his innocence. I chose to ignore the fact that he winced as he gestured.
    Back in the living room, battle lines had been drawn. My students, their familiars, and Clara all stood close to the fireplace, where some enterprising person—my money was on Caleb—had lit a cheerful fire. The warders were gathered on the far side of the coffee table, spread in a carefully casual line, feet planted with deceptive attention to angles, to lines of attack.
    Sporting a patronizing smile, Teresa stood near the foot of the stairs. Connie, her familiar, twitched as she looked at the far side of the room, at the plates and mugs, at the patent simulation of good cheer. Ethan didn’t bother with pretense. He was clearly on alert, his back to Teresa, his hands flexed by his sides as if he’d throw the first person who made a false step.
    “All right,” I said from the small landing, a few steps above the living room floor. I’d admit I took some pleasure in making Teresa and her entourage turn around, in forcing everyone to look up at me. “Let’s get this over with.”
    I looked across at my confused students. “Teresa Alison Sidney made a claim of benefaction after assisting us this evening. Of course, the Jane Madison Academy follows all the strictures of Hecate’s Court. Therefore, we yield to the claim, and offer up our dearest possessions in eternal gratitude for the risk our sister took on our behalf.”
    The words made perfect sense, following a long-time formula. But I made sure no one would hear a drop of gratitude—eternal or otherwise—in my tone. I pushed past the unflappable Teresa and led the way to the basement, palming on the overhead fluorescent lights as I stalked down the stairs.
    I could still remember the first time I’d seen the Osgood collection of magical goods. They’d also been housed in a basement then, in a groundskeeper’s cottage in the garden of the library where I’d worked. The vast array of books had made my librarian’s heart beat fast. I’d hardly noticed the other items—runes and crystals and wands, cauldrons and casks and a host of hand-held knives made sacred to Hecate. Neko had been there too, in the form of a giant statue of a cat.
    I hadn’t known it on that dark and stormy night, but I’d been looking at one of the greatest hordes of arcana ever assembled.
    Now, I swept my hand toward the shelves, inviting everyone to look around. I’d intended to wait a while before showing the collection to my new students. I wanted them to build confidence in their own magical abilities, to explore their unique relationships to the witchy world we shared. But Teresa had forced my hand, and now I had to make the best of things.
    The collection could have been used for a graduate seminar on the history of bookmaking. The oldest works were on scrolls, vellum or sheepskin wrapped onto rowan rollers, onto yew. Titles hung from tags on the ends of wooden bars, dangling testimony to ancient wisdom. There weren’t many scrolls in sight, though, none of the truly ancient texts, the obscure ephemera of the magical world.
    I’d arranged all the books by topic, then by author. There were hundreds of handwritten books, copied out long before the invention of the printing press. Many of the books were simply pages bound between heavy cardboard covers, with slips of paper pasted to the spine to identify the treasures within. Leather bindings were reserved for rare titles. Some sported gold leaf on the cover and on the spine. A handful had semi-precious stones bonded to the leather—turquoise and amber, even a garnet or two.
    Teresa