It was to Miriam like stepping straight into her own imagination. At the first crack of the door she was met with a haze of cigarette smoke and eager chatter, candlelight and sleazy jazz. The chamber spread out ahead of her into a lounge, with low tables surrounded by curved sofas instead of chairs, thick curtains draping every wall and a bar bustling to one side. The very center of the room was conspicuously empty, save for a round dance floor slick with polish. At the edge of this space, a bass player and saxophonist plucked and hummed a formless, sensual melody. Those patrons seated closest kept time by idly rapping on their tables. 

Miriam gulped. As wide as her eyes were in taking in the sights, she was suddenly, acutely aware of how much she stood out in the parlor. Not everyone was obviously high class, but her long skirt and blouse buttoned to the neck were a stark contrast to the men—and women—in three piece suits, silk dresses barely clinging to skin, and sweaty work clothes half buttoned. The patrons lounged and drank and smoked, every one of them posed as a perfect fit to their surroundings pretty as a painting. 

“Did you reserve a table, darling?” someone asked close to Miriam’s ear, and she jumped. A waitress carrying a platter full of bourbon glasses watched her expectantly. Her hair was shaved down to stubble and she was dressed entirely in sheer lace that left Miriam’s cheeks feeling hot.

“I’m looking for Mr. Tripepi,” Miriam said loudly, hoping to cover her sudden nerves with artificial courage. The waitress looked surprised, then impressed, and she pointed toward a table near the center. 

Maybe Naomi was right, Miriam thought, swallowing hard as she weaved through the tables. She passed two men in ballgowns who looked her up and down as she passed, and a table of older, sneering drunks who were passing a small, unmarked medicine bottle between them. This sure isn’t the place for someone blessed by an angel. She found herself searching the eyes of the patrons whenever they turned on her, as if they might gleam with an unnatural shade. Could any of them be...demonic? Real witches? Or did the symbol on the door not mean anything, and they're just trying to keep old fashioned policers like Irene out?

The table the waitress had pointed toward was inhabited by possibly the broadest man Miriam had ever seen. His shoulders jutted out like the roof of a barn bound in a tweed suit, and she could have sworn his neck was thicker around than her waist. As she drew closer, she could see wisps of gray in his dark brown hair. Despite the happy commotion of the room, and several companions seated at his table engaging in conversation, his head was bowed and quiet. Cautiously she rounded the table to make out his face: powerful, square jaw, ruddy square cheeks, and a pair of reading glasses perched on his pronounced, square nose. He was reading from a book in his lap.

Miriam’s heart skipped and then began to pound. Even in the dull lighting there was no mistaking that the pages were yellowed with age, the cover bound in leather. The man’s huge, boxy hands cradled the tome with remarkable delicacy that proved its value. When he turned the page, it revealed a complex drawing of a five-pointed star surrounded in other twisting, overlapping stars, with Hebrew text in the margins. Though Miriam had never doubted that the spell had served her true, to see the object of hers and Naomi’s scrying laid out so easily before her made her fingertips tingle with shock and excitement.

She couldn’t help herself. “That’s my book.”

He lifted his head, as did the four others around the table. Joey Tripepi—The Brick, the papers called him, and rightfully so—the new leader of Boston’s unrivaled Slate Street Gang. Despite his monstrous frame he regarded Miriam with calm curiosity. His companions—two older women and a young man who would have been considered impressive in stature, were he by himself—eyed Miriam as they whispered to each other.  One of the women burst out cackling.

“I beg your pardon?” said Joey.

Naomi was right—this was a bad idea, Miriam thought, but another glance at the book in Joey’s hands, its diagrams taunting her from the weathered page, brought her courage roaring to the forefront again. She planted her feet in the carpet, planted her hands on her hips, and she faced the city’s most famous bootlegger straight on. “Please excuse the interruption, Mr. Tripepi,” she said with authority, “but I’m afraid that book you’re reading belongs to me.”

“I don’t see your name on it, sweetheart,” sneered the cackling woman.

“This is a private table,” the woman next to her agreed in kind. “Go away.”

Joey, meanwhile, quite calmly paged to the inside cover of the book as if to check for a signature of some kind. Finding none, he closed it, and in doing so revealed the sigil of Poiel engraved on its cover. “Did you write it?” he asked, eyeing her over the top of his spectacles.

“Of course not. Look at it—it’s a historic Hebrew text.” Miriam gestured at the book impatiently, which Joey did pause to take another look at. “The Book of Poiel. It was intended for me and I would like to have it back, please.”

“Fuck off,” the woman snarled. “The show is going to start soon!”

Joey held up a hand to quiet her, as well as the young man who was also glaring at Miriam with distrust. “Mrs. Quigley herself gave me this book yesterday,” he said. 

Miriam took a step closer. Though the women were scantily dressed, faces made up and clearly here for vice, she didn’t have much difficulty imagining them as a pair of Irene Ushers, and she wasn’t afraid of them. She put all her focus on Joey. “It wasn’t hers to give away,” she insisted. “It belonged to Mr. Fairchild, who had her put it aside for the signing. After he was arrested she gave it to you just to get rid of it, but Mr. Fairchild said it was supposed to go to me. And I’d like very much to have it.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Miriam hesitated. Because it might have what I’ve been looking for my whole life, she thought, hoping the four pairs of eyes fixed on her weren’t clever enough to suss it out—or worse yet, mind-readers. “Because Mr. Fairchild said so. You can call him and ask him yourself if you want.”

True to his namesake, The Brick remained unmoved. “Who are you, that you matter that much to him?”

“Miriam Vance,” she blurted out before her common sense could warn her otherwise. The slight widening of Joey’s eyes in recognition was like a wall being thrown up in front of her, and all the bold momentum she’d built up in hopes of barreling through this negotiation carried her straight into it. The impact made her skin prickle with cold. She rambled on in the hopes of distracting him. “I was with him when he was arrested, and at his hearing this morning.”

“Vance,” Joe repeated thoughtfully. “You’re pretty bold, aren’t you?”

“I’ve...been told that before, yes.” Miriam clenched her hands against the waist of her skirt to keep from fidgeting. “Well?”

He gestured for her to step forward. “Come sit with me.”

“No thank you.” Miriam took a step back. “I’d like to take my book and leave, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said Joey, and even if he made an attempt to soften his expression to match the words, the fact that he’d offered them unprompted canceled out that effort. “Sit down so we can talk.”

Miriam tried to take another step back, but suddenly Joey’s brawny companion was next to her, and his hand on her elbow prevented her. The surrounding lounge began to muddle around her, the cheery cacophony crumbling against Miriam’s ears until it all sounded like the cackling, middle-aged women in front of her. An instinct she’d never quite felt before churned sickly in her stomach, and for a moment she thought her body would act without her and break out running. Instead she went stiff, and she allowed the bodyguard to usher her onto the curved sofa at Joey’s side.

He was even larger close up; she felt like a rabbit next to a bear. He hushed the two women and turned toward Miriam so he could lower his voice and still be heard. “If you were at the signing yesterday, did you get a copy of the book?” he asked.

Miriam blinked at him, caught off guard. “You mean, Emerald L’Belle?” She vaguely remembered Mrs. Quigley saying something about Mr. Tripepi being a valued customer and couldn’t help but stare. “Are you a fan of Mr. Faichild’s?”

Joey’s cheeks were already ruddy by nature, but they seemed to grow redder, to Miriam’s amazement. He tapped the book in his lap. “I brought this here tonight to get advice from a friend,” he said. “When I’ve gotten its full use from it, I’ll trade you.”

Trade? Miriam thought, her mind and emotions caught up in a new whirlwind. Give it up? But it’s the only copy in Boston! She pursed her lips tightly as her eyes darted between Joey’s serious face and the book he held. There was no question of the value she would be exchanging: The Affairs of Emerald L’Belle would soon be purchasable from any shop outside the state, and she’d already read it enough to tide her over until she could arrange a day trip to New York if necessary; meanwhile, the sigil of a holy angel stared up at her from the old leather of a forgotten testament. There was no telling what secrets lay within its aged pages, nor what power she might draw from them. It should have been an easy choice.

Then she remembered the sigil Darby had scrawled into that particular copy’s inside page—different, and yet reminiscent of the brass doorknob that led into the very club they occupied. My favorite abomination he’d written. The mystery gnawed at the back of her mind, and as far short of his charming reputation Darby had fallen, it was still the signature of her favorite modern author.

“Thank you for the offer, but I shouldn’t have to trade anything,” Miriam told Joey at long last. “Both books were a gift to me from Mr. Fairchild, and I’d rather not give either of them up.”

Joey scoffed quietly as he regarded her with amused incredulity; his companions gaped. “If I were you, I wouldn’t, either,” he admitted. “And I won’t.” He removed his spectacles and tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “If you’re not willing to trade, this book stays with me.”

“But it’s mine,” Miriam protested, the confidence she had clung to dragged out from under her fingers; she had always been scaling an insurmountable wall after all. “Mr. Tripepi, I’ll buy it from you if you want—I need that book.”

“You already refused my price.” Joey motioned for her to leave the table. “Good night, Miss Vance. This is no place for you.”

Miriam vibrated, clawing for some other argument or excuse, even as Joey’s bodyguard tried to urge her to her feet. The book was right there in front of her. She hadn’t actually felt anything during the scrying, but faced with the prize from that spell, it was very easy to tell herself that she had, and that she felt the powerful tug of magic between them. She especially didn’t want to return to Naomi empty-handed after all her grand talk. 

Just take it, a mad portion of her brain suggested. Grab the book and run. It’s not far and they’re too big to be fast—you can make it. Though her hands shook at the thought, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from that book. I can make it if I—

Her body started to move without her, but before she could get anywhere near touching the book, someone leaning over the back of the sofa clasped her shoulder. “Miriam!” sang a familiar voice that gave Miriam a very different kind of chill. “I just knew I’d see you here eventually, you sly little thing.”

Miriam shook as if waking from a trance and lifted her head, meeting a pair of flashing, lavender eyes. “Georgie?”

“It sure is.” George smirked, and Joey and his entourage were shocked all over again to see her treat Miriam with such familiarity. She hopped to sit on the back of the sofa, one hand braced to Joey’s shoulder. Compared to the other guests she wasn’t dressed in any particularly noteworthy fashion; a simple, white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, maroon slacks and matching men’s necktie. Even so, there was something so effortless in the casual elegance of her posture that Miriam found her annoyingly captivating. “What’s with all the commotion? You’re not teasing this poor lost lamb, are you, Joe?”

“I’m not lost,” Miriam retorted, though she suddenly wasn’t sure if she was irritated or relieved by Georgie’s interruption. The thought of what she’d almost done moments ago left a reverberation in her hands, and even if Georgie wasn’t an ally let alone a friend, at least she had a familiar face. “And I’m not a poor lamb, either. I’m here for my property.”

“Oh?” Georgie looked to Joey for an explanation, and he leaned to the side so that she would be able to see the book.

“I wanted to ask you about this book,” he said. “Miss Vance here claims Darby Fairchild gifted it to her.”

“He did!” Miriam insisted. “She was there for it!” She twisted in her seat so she could better face the both of them. “Tell him, Georgie. Didn’t Mr. Fairchild say I should have it?”

Georgie hummed noncommittally as she looked over the book’s engraved cover. “Hold onto it,” she told Joey. “We’ll talk after the show. In the meantime…” She slipped off the edge of the sofa and motioned for Miriam to stand. “Why don’t you come with me, Miri? We need to catch up.”

Miriam hesitated, but when Georgie rounded the table and offered her hand, there didn’t seem to be any refusing. She accepted the hand, even clung to it for a moment despite herself as she let Georgie tug her to her feet.

The two women continued to gape. “You know Darby Fairchild and Georgie Royale?” one demanded.

“She better not tell me you were a bitch to her,” Georgie warned the woman playfully, “or I’ll ban you for life.” She laughed, leaving the woman to grow pale as she led Miriam across the room to the bar.