Witches of East End Read Free Page B

expenses; Ingrid did not need the patrons doing unnecessary damage to the books in her care.
    Of course Hudson was supposed to do the grunt work, but even if Ingrid was the ranking archivist she enjoyed the physical aspects of the job and didn’t like to sit behind a desk all day, steaming blueprints. She liked the feel and weight of the books—to stroke the pages softened with wear, or put a mismatched jacket to rights. Also, it gave her an opportunity to police the library, wake up any of the bums sneaking a nap in the carrels, and make sure there weren’t any teenagers necking in the stacks.
    Necking was such an odd word. Not that anyone “necked” anymore. Most of the teens had moved far beyond and below the neck. Ingrid liked the kids—the teenagers who visited the library and clamored for the latest dystopian post-apocalyptic releases made her smile. She did not care what they did in the comfort or discomfort of their own homes or untidy cars. Against popular belief, she knew what it was like to be young and in love and unafraid—she lived with Freya, after all. But a library was not a bedroom, or a motel room; it was a place to read, to study, to be quiet. While the kids did try to comply with the last rule, heavy breathing was sometimes the loudest noise of all.
    In any event, necking wasn’t limited to the kids alone. The other day Ingrid had had to cough quite a few times to make sure a middle-aged couple was successfully untangled by the time she walked through the aisles with her cart.
    Located in a grassy quadrangle across from city hall and next to a community park and playground, the North Hampton Public Library was neat, organized, and as well-kept as its meager funding would allow. The city budget had shrunk along with the rest of the economy, but Ingrid did her best to keep it stocked with new books. She loved everything about the library, and if sometimes she wished she could wave her wand (not that she had one anymore, but if she did ) and set everything to rights—spruce up those shabby couches in the reading corners, replace the antiquated computers that still flashed with black and green monitors, create a proper storytelling stage with a puppet theater for the little kids—she could still console herself with the inky smell of new books, the dusty musk of old ones, and the way the late-afternoon sunlight flowed through the glass windows. The library was on prime beachfront property; the reference room had a spectacular view of the ocean, and once in a while Ingrid would make a point of stopping by the small, cozy nook just to look at the waves crashing on the beachhead.
    Unfortunately it was this same breathtaking view that threatened the library’s very existence. Recently North Hampton’s mayor had made not-so-unsubtle noises that selling off the prime beachfront property would be the easiest way to pay off the city’s mounting debts. Ingrid was not opposed to the project per se, but she had heard that the mayor thought it might be a fine idea to do away with the library altogether, now that so much information was available online. The bureaucratic destruction of her precious library was too distressing to think about, and Ingrid tried not to feel too helpless that morning.
    Thank goodness nothing terrible had happened at Freya’s engagement party last Sunday. For a moment there Ingrid had been worried when one of the floral arrangements inexplicably caught on fire, but a quick-thinking waiter doused the flames with a pitcher of iced tea and no 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