Miriam Vance sprang from her bed at precisely six o’clock in the morning. Though her night had been mostly sleepless, the excitement she had to blame for that provided her with plenty of energy to compensate, and she bounded about her cramped bedroom to prepare for the day ahead. She stepped effortlessly over and around the stacks of books and leather-bound journals that blanketed her floor on feet light as air. Her blouse and skirt she’d laid out the night before, but as soon as she began to dress she remembered every debate she’d had with herself over the combination, and nearly ran to her wardrobe again. No—there wasn’t time! Even that slight hesitation threatened her mission, and she hurried through the rest of her routine.

With her brown hair combed into as much order as it would ever allow, new spectacles perched on her nose, Miriam snatched up her shoulder bag and vaulted over the last pile of clutter separating her from the door. The hem of her skirt caught on the edge of the stack, and just as she was about to leave, she heard the unmistakable thunk of a small wooden box hitting the floor, followed by scraping paper.

Miriam stopped. If it had been anything else, she would have continued without a second thought, but she knew at once what she’d knocked loose. She had to look back.

A small wooden box embellished with intricate, carved sigils had spilled its tarot cards across the carpet. Sitting face up on the top of the stack was The Chariot.

Miriam crouched down on the balls of her feet for a closer look. She knew very well every line that made up the princely figure and his sphynx-drawn chariot. “The Chariot,” she said under her breath, and she nodded to herself. With an even greater sense of conviction, she stood and marched from the room.

Her roommate, Odelia, seemed to have only just awoken herself. She stood at the stove, quieting a yawn against her hand as she placed the kettle. “Oh, Miriam,” she greeted. “I thought you weren’t working today.”

“I’m not.” Miriam plucked a sweet roll from the breadbox and held it in her mouth as she pulled on and then laced her boots. When she realized that Odelia was still watching her, expecting further explanation, she straightened up. “The release is today!” she declared, gesturing with her roll, but even that didn’t seem to clarify anything. At nearly ten years Miriam’s senior, maybe she simply wasn’t up to date on these things, however monumental. “The release of Darby Fairchild’s latest novel. He’s going to be at Quigley’s for a signing—there! In person!”

Saying it out loud only heightened her urgency, and she rushed to pull on her spring coat. “A whole new serial,” she carried on as she shoved her arms into the sleeves. “The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle. Doesn’t that sound exciting? He’s promised there’s even—”

Miriam stopped herself, heat in her cheeks. “Well,” she said, and she adjusted her glasses against her nose as she wrangled her childish rambling. “In any case, that is where I will be spending my morning.”

Odelia smiled at her fondly. “Have fun, Miriam.”

“Thank you.” Miriam started to button her coat, only to realize she had drawn it on over her purse. Not wanting to embarrass herself further in front of Odelia, she continued anyway. “I’ll bring groceries on my way back!”

“Don’t forget flour!” Odelia called after her as she swept out of the apartment.

Miriam skipped a few stairs on her way out of the building, all the while struggling with her coat and purse. A slower pace might have made re-layering them easier, but she’d wasted far too much time already. She all but tumbled out of her building onto the sidewalk, and with every effort to keep up her momentum, she marched out into the morning Boston foot traffic.

All of her forecasts and predictions had proved correct: the sky was a cloudless gradient of sunrise colors, yellow smearing into blue, a warm breeze rising out of the southeast that brought with it the smell of the bay. In the early hours pedestrians were sparse, giving Miriam plenty of space to step over sidewalk cracks whenever convenient. It was every bit the perfect day she’d expect from the constellation Perseus passing through the Galactic Plane, and she was a woman on a singular mission: to receive her reserved copy of The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle, the latest fiction novel by esteemed author Darby T. Fairchild, and the first that boasted his own hand drawn illustrations.

I hope it’s every bit as daring as the last one, Miriam thought as she gulped the bread down. He better not have toned it down just because it’ll have illustrations this time. If only he’d go back and do the same for The Waning Moon! That love potion scene at the winter ball was so—

“Oy, Miss Vance!” called the paperboy on the street corner ahead of her. “I know you’ve got a nickel for this one!”

Miriam startled, and she eyed the boy suspiciously as she continued toward him. Still not a mind reader, are you kid? No, that’s silly. But you never know... She cleared her throat. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry!”

“Special edition out’a New York,” the boy persisted, waving the newspaper at her, but she continued past him until he added, “It’s got magic in it!”

Miriam stopped in her tracks. “Real magic?”

“Photos,” the boy taunted, continuing to wave the paper at her.

Miriam dug through her pockets as she marched back to the boy. She shoved her only quarter into his hand and hastily accepted the paper. “Keep it!”

The boy tipped his cap. “Next one’s on the house!” he called, but Miriam already had her nose buried in the pages and was walking away.

May 22nd, 1933, the date in the corner read. A date Miriam had kept circled on her calendar for months waiting for her beloved novel release, usurped by shocking photographs of violent and fiery destruction in New York. Details in the article were scarce, the newspaper’s attempt to be the first to spread the story nationwide granting it only the barest facts: in the dead of night, one of the city’s public parks had been rocked by explosions that claimed at least three vehicles and two lives. Eyewitnesses at the scene claimed to have seen a vision of hell, magic pouring from the hands of a long-rumored witch.

A witch. Miriam chewed at her bottom lip as she read the article over again and locked eyes on the photographs. Her imagination painted vibrant yellow and orange over the black and white plumes of flame. She was convinced she could even feel their heat seeping out across the page. Magic—real magic, not the silly tricks and personality quirks that one might encounter on the streets of Boston. Miriam quaked with jealousy as she continued to march along, trusting her feet knew their way to the bookstore well enough.

Can witches this powerful really exist? Miriam thought, sparing only a glance at a crosswalk ahead of her before strolling across. Odelia said she knew a man who didn’t feel cold, ever—he could melt an ice cube on the back of his palm in the dead of winter—but an explosion! That just isn’t fair!

Miriam continued onward, entirely engrossed, until her newspaper crinkled against the back of a stationary person. “Sorry,” she said automatically, and as she lifted her head, the city around her came back into focus.

Quigley’s Books, a two story building of handsome red brick perched on the corner of a three way intersection, had drawn an immense crowd. Miriam dropped her newspaper, overcome with excitement at the sight of so many people gathered for what she assumed was their common mission. That euphoria soured almost immediately; the commotion drawing so many to her beloved bookstore were shouts of disgust, aimed not at the building but a figure on the sidewalk in front of it.

Irene Usher. Miriam would have recognized her enormous, ill-fitting beaver fur hat anywhere. The odious woman was planted on the sidewalk like a palace guard, her long face pinched tight beneath her dreadful hat, the curls of her age-white hair blending into the tall, wool collar of her coat. She shook her fist at the gathered Bostonians, which was clenched tight around the same special edition newspaper that Miriam had been reading.

“Is this the kind of wanton destruction you hope to see in our fair city?” Irene bleated to the skeptical crowd. “The gates of Hell have opened not two hundred miles from here, and you would invite devilry into your hearts?”

“Oh, of all the—” Miriam grumbled, and she began pushing her way to the front.

“That has nothing to do with books!” said one of the onlookers.

But the murmured agreements from the crowd did nothing to sway Irene’s fiery wrath. “It has everything to do with this book!” she declared, and she held up her other hand, her bony fingers warping the pristine cover of the latest Darby T. Fairchild fiction novel. “The pages of this book are ripe with Satan’s musings, and I’ll be struck down before I stand by and allow its perversity to infect—”

Miriam elbowed her way past the crowd to stand directly before Irene herself. “Now hold on a minute,” she said. With a deep breath she planted her hands on her hips and her heels on the concrete to face down her mortal adversary. “Ms. Usher.”

“Miss Vance,” Irene greeted her icily, her nose in the air. “I expected you of all people would be here.”

The crowd quieted to hear them, and Miriam’s courage nearly faltered beneath the weight of so many eyes. She reminded herself there was more than her self-consciousness at stake; even if this was more public than she was used to, she was very used to debating the deluded Ms. Usher. “Mr. Fairchild is a man of culture and talent. He’s not even from New York. You have no right to be making a scene like this on his special day!”

“I have every right,” Irene retorted, and she gestured with her newspaper to a trio of police officers standing off to the side. One of them was awkwardly trying to console Mrs. Quigley, the store owner’s wife. The poor thing was looking on in tears, which stoked Miriam’s righteous temper. “This book violates all five tenants of the Satanic Publications Act, making the sale of it a criminal offense!”

“There are only four tenants, and you made them up yourself!” Miriam retorted. The crowd murmured encouragingly behind her; she stuck her chin out. “It’s a romance serial, not some grimoire. You’re only making a fool of yourself.”

Irene gave a great huff that set her hat crooked; with both her hands devoted to brandishing evil publications, she didn’t have the means to tip it back into position, which didn’t help her efforts to intimidate. “I’ll have you know, I know the contents of his book,” she raved on. “Mr. Fairchild has been shameless his whole career, but he’s outdone himself this time! There’s more than salacious romance between these pages, but devilry! Magic and the occult! An unholy affair between woman and abomination, with pornographic images to boot!”

Miriam’s hands came off her hips, and she all but glowed with interest, their situation entirely forgotten. “Really?”

“Aha!” Irene waved the book at her, and Miriam’s face went hot with anger and embarrassment. “See how it tempts you! Even a woman as old as you isn’t safe from Fairchild’s grotesque solicitations!”

“I’m...I’m not even thirty yet!” Miriam protested, but then a new murmur arose behind them. Both women turned to see a handsome black and red Cord automobile pulling up to the shop, its roof laid back to reveal two passengers. Driving was a woman, pale blonde hair cut short and sharp, who Miriam didn’t recognize and quickly lost interest in compared to the man climbing out the passenger side: Mr. Darby T. Fairchild himself.