Lenora's Grimoire

Chapter Three

Cherish could remember the last time she'd held a grimoire in her hands with the intent of using it. She'd been seven, wide eyed and excited as her two older brothers and her mother had located the family grimoire and handed it to her. It was the third day of her informal training to become a witch—the third day since she'd gotten into the cookie jar on the top of the fridge by moving the cookie jar into her hands instead of grabbing a chair from the dining room and crawling up onto it. Of course, she'd been caught in the middle of the cookie jar floating down to her—and her mother had insisted that she needed some informal training so she didn't hurt herself or others.

Floating cookie jars were one thing. Cherish's mother, of course, was much more concerned with darker, more serious things, such as the possibility of Cherish hexing other girls on the playground because they refused to play with her. It was definitely something Cherish's mother had wanted to avoid.

So Cherish had sat between her mother and her two brothers on the couch in the living room, flipping through the large, dusty tome that held generations of spells and recipes. While it looked old, like it hadn't been getting the same upkeep as some of her mother's older books had, with replaced bindings and consistent spine dusting while they sat on the shelf—it didn't feel old. The book had almost vibrated in Cherish's fingers, and opening it, she swore she could almost smell fresh baked cookies.

She'd held that same grimoire a few weeks later, when her mother had ushered her into the attic. A sense of dread and terror was rising in Cherish even now at the memory of the candles flickering odd shapes into the shadows, and the sight of the chalk circle drawn onto the wood floor with painstakingly close detail.

"Ma'am?"

The voice felt far away for a second, and Cherish blinked back the memory, relieved as she found herself returning to the safety and comfort of the library. The grimoire in her hands now didn't feel the same way her family grimoire had felt. The one in her hands almost felt grouchy, like an old woman who hadn't had coffee in weeks who was staring out her front window at all the children playing on her lawn. Cherish was sure if the book could, it would have bitten her. At the very least, the book had made it clear that it did not like her.

"Coming," she called, heading through one of the back aisles to meet the young man at the desk he had seated himself at. There was a small plant on the table with him Cherish was sure hadn't been there before.

She stopped short, questions forming—but the man stopped her.

"I hoped maybe this would stop you from thinking I'm trying to raise a dead relative," he said, gesturing to the plant. "It's my girlfriend's plant—she wanted me to take care of it while she was spending the summer with her grandparents up north."

Cherish blinked. "I most definitely was not expecting a plant," she said after a moment. It was definitely a relief considering she'd been worrying about the man trying to raise armies of the undead.

She looked at the plant. It was small, not much larger than a succulent, but with much larger, flatter leaves. Cherish was sure normally they would have been a deep green, but they were drooped and had a sickly brown color to them.

The man's glanced at the plant, turning the pot around gently with his fingers. "It's a miniature rose—or at least, that's what she said. I've tried to bring it back hasn't worked. It was a graduation present from her dad—but he died a few years ago and I don't think she'll ever forgive me if—"

He trailed off, swallowing nervously. His eyes slid to the grimoire in Cherish's arms, tucked tightly against her chest. "Did . . . did you find something that could help?"

Cherish hesitated. "Possibly," she replied. The feeling she was getting from the book was making her uncomfortable, and she wanted to set it down and run as far away as possible—but she knew it was only because the book had the grouchy vibe to it.

"Can . . . can I see it?"

Cherish took a step back as the man darted his hand out, expecting her to give him the grimoire. "No," she said, almost reflexively.

He stared at her. "Sorry?"

"I, uh," Cherish glanced around the library. It still seemed empty, which was normal for a Monday morning, but she wasn't one to take chances. She let out a huff of air and turned back to the man. "I'd feel safer if we didn't have this book out in the front," she said. "This is a small town, and people will talk if they see a book like this—"

"In the library?" The tone of the man's words made Cherish wince. It did sound ridiculous, the more she thought about it—but she knew better than to let anything actually magical, like the grimoire in her arms, be available to the public. She hadn't known how to control the magic. Neither would they.

"I suppose a small peek wouldn't hurt," she said. She didn't like the idea of sharing the grimoire with the man, but having the book out of her arms would at least allow her to think a little clearer—without the grouchiness emanating from the book overpowering her personal energy.

She set the grimoire on the table and took a seat next to the man.

"Lenora's Grimoire for the vengeful witch?" The man read out loud. "I was hoping for a book about necromancy, not witchcraft."

Cherish frowned. "Don't be too quick to judge," she murmured, opening the book. She could almost hear the book hissing at her as her fingers drifted over the page.

The handwritten script was faded—likely written decades before—but Cherish was able to make out the words vivifica mortuis, and she stopped. "I think this is the one you're looking for," she said.

"Vivi—something about life, right?" the man asked.

"Latin, but yes," Cherish said, flipping to the appropriate page. She frowned as she set it open for the man to see as well.

"Okay, I don't know about you, but I can't read that," the man said.

"I didn't expect you to," Cherish muttered.

The page wasn't written in English—actually, Cherish was starting to believe that none of the book had been written in English, aside from the title. Any semblance of words on the page were written in a script that was vaguely familiar to Cherish.

"Can you read it?" the man asked.

"No," Cherish sighed. She was starting to get very irritated with how the day was turning out. She'd pulled the death card for her daily read that morning, but giving it more thought, she really should have pulled the fool.

Her grandma had been right. There was nothing she would be able to do to outrun her past.

Cherish shut the book slowly and stood. "I know some people, out of town, who might."

(A/N) Final Chapter Word Count: 1201