Witches 101 Read Online Free

more harm was done. The fire was Freya’s doing of course, her nerves causing havoc with her untamed magic. Understandable that Freya would be skittish about making a commitment of this magnitude, but she usually displayed better control, especially after centuries of living under the restriction. For now, Ingrid was just glad to be back at work and the routine of her daily life, finding comfort in the familiar. It had not been so long ago when her life had been quite different, when her work had been exciting and unusual. But that was the past, and it was best not to dwell on it too much.
    The library was not merely the usual suburban outpost, at least. Upon its establishment, thanks to a generous bequest from a grande dame of the neighborhood, it also housed one of the foremost collections of architectural drawings in the country, as many famous designers had built homes in the area. As an archivist, Ingrid was responsible for preserving the work for posterity, which meant setting up a steam tent where the drawings were unrolled; and once they were moisturized, flattened, and dried, she tucked them away in drawers under linen. She had one under the plastic tent now, the paper soaking up all that moisture. Archiving was tedious and repetitive-injury making, so Ingrid liked to take a break by walking around, shelving books.
    Tabitha Robinson, the middle-aged librarian for young adult books, a bright, cheerful woman with a passion for children’s literature, stopped for a friendly chat when they chanced upon each other in the aisles. Ingrid was very fond of Tabitha, who was efficient and professional and took her job seriously. When Tabitha wasn’t reading the latest coming-of-age novel, she had a weakness for what Ingrid dubbed “man-chesters,” romance novels featuring shirtless hunks on the cover. Bodice rippers (heaving cleavage bursting out of corsets) were passé. These days it was all about the beefcake. To each her own, Ingrid thought. Her guilty pleasures involved historical sagas: anything concerning those quarreling Tudors got her vote. They exchanged the usual cozy pleasantries and town gossip shared by old friends and colleagues when Tabitha’s cell phone vibrated. “Oh! It’s the doctor’s office,” she beamed. “Sorry, I have to take this,” she said as she walked away hurriedly, her long braid swinging down her back.
    Ingrid picked up the next book to put away— tsk tsk , another doorstop-heavy tome from that local author who was something of a pest. He had thrown a hissy fit to find his books heaped in the cardboard boxes left in front of the library for patrons to take for free. But what could she do? They only kept books that were in regular circulation on the shelves. No one had read his last one, and it was clear this one would soon be consigned to the remainder bin as well.
    Ingrid tried to give each author a fair shake by placing less-popular books by the front desk, suggesting little-known titles to those who asked, and borrowing each book at least once. But one could only do so much. The author, one J. J. Ramsey Baker (good lord, what was that, four names?—certainly two initials too much), author of Moribund Symphony , The Darkness at the Center of the Essence, and his latest, an obvious desperate grab for a book club pick, The Cobbler’s Daughter’s Elephants, would have just another month to tell his story of a blind cobbler in Lebanon in the nineteenth century and his daughter’s pet elephants until out it went. Ingrid thought that not even a little magic could help move that product.
    It was really too bad none of them were allowed to practice magic anymore. That was the deal they had made after the judgment had been handed down. No more flying. No more spells. No more charms and powders, potions or jinxes. They were to live like ordinary people without the use of their ferocious powers, their magnificent, otherworldly abilities.