Chapter Text
We dressed nicely. Even Lucian managed to keep his evening suit sharp for the (very short) stroll from out front steps to the 135th Street Branch. Tickets had been a bit of a thing but as a newspaperman Lucian was welcome everywhere. He’d just called over to the Evening Star and they’d sent a runner over within the hour.
The library event that evening was billed as a lecture on Harlem’s literary heritage, but the moment I passed the outer door the vestigia screamed ritual.
The reading room was a sea of Harlem’s elite, well starched (if occasionally a bit mended) finery a testament to pride in hard times. I spotted Langston Hughes leaning against a shelf, his easy smile lighting up the room, and Zora Neale Hurston holding court near the circulation desk, her laughter sharp and infectious. Alain Locke, the philosopher, stood nearby, adjusting his glasses as he debated with our poet friend Tommy. The air buzzed with conversation, but to mean undercurrent of unease rippled through, like a a sailor sensing a storm.
Lucien was in his element, shaking hands and trading quips. Hughes clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Lucien Gibbs, you old scribbler! Still making jazz sing on the page?”
“Trying, Langston,” Lucien said. “Your new poems got me beat, though.”
Hurston sauntered over, her eyes sparkling. “Lucien, you tell those News folks to give you more space. Your reviews are the only thing worth reading in that rag.”
Lucien laughed, bowing slightly. “High praise, Zora. I’ll pass it on.”
Their warmth faded when they turned to me. Hughes raised an eyebrow, his smile cooling. “And you’re the friend, huh? Lucien’s English shadow.”
“Augustus Berrycloth-Young,” I said, holding out my hand. “Gussie to anyone Lucian likes. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hughes.”
I got the impression that pleased was not what he was. “Heard about you. Bit… eccentric, ain’t you?”
“Comes with the territory,” I said, trying for charm and probably failing. Hurston snorted, her gaze sharp.
“You don’t drag Lucian into trouble,” she said. “He’s too good for your kind.”
I would rather have agreed that Lucy was too good for just about anybody, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hear as much from random bystanders.
Locke chimed in. “Hope you’re here to help, not stir up more mess.”
“I’m trying,” I said, feeling the weight of their mixed reception. Lucien was one of them, a voice of Harlem’s soul. I was the odd Englishman trailing risk and suspicion.
Ernestine Rose took the podium, her steel-gray hair gleaming, her presence commanding. She was a white woman in her fifties, a long-time figure in Harlem and in the library system. She’d started here back in the neighborhood’s Jewish days, but unlike many she had proved welcoming when the area changed.
If life was a photo she would have looked like, yes, a sweet elderly librarian. In person her sharp eyes and sharper smile hinted at secrets.
Catherine Allen Latimer stood at her side, her dark skin glowing under the lights. Her eyes were on the room, counting heads or perhaps taking names. Her expression was tense, far too tense for what should be a pleasant history lesson.
The vestigia was a roar now.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ernestine began.
The books quivered.
Her voice slicing through the room, “tonight we celebrate the power of words. In this library live the stories that shape our lives, our city, our future. Harlem is more than a place. Harlem is a story, and we are its authors. With the right knowledge, we can rewrite its ending.”
I leaned toward Lucien, whispering, “She’s laying it on thick, don’t you think?”
He nodded, his eyes on the shelves. “The books are moving, Gussie. Look.”
I looked. The shelves were alive, pages fluttering like wings.
“Harlem is not a mere collection of short stories; it is a volume with a theme. That theme is strength. That theme is resilience.”
A copy of The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. Du Bois glowed with a fierce, defiant light, its pages snapping as if rallying the crowd. Nearby, a first-edition Cane by Jean Toomer pulsed with a restless energy, its words whispering rebellion. They were allied with Ernestine, their power feeding her spell.
I felt the pulse serge and retreat. Other books resisted her demand. A worn The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes shimmered with a soft, protective glow, and a dog-eared Of Mules and Men by Zora Neale Hurston hummed with defiance, their pages fluttering protectively before us.
Lucien clutched my arm. “It’s in my head again. The book.”
Readers copies of the the New Amsterdam and the Daily Citizen rose up from their rods, newsprint flapping like the wings of great condors. They hovered protectively over Lucian’s head.
I threw up a scutum shield, but it was like holding back a flood. Ernestine was summoning, waking the library’s genius loci. A sentient force pulsed through the walls, the shelves, the very air. The room shook, the chandeliers swaying, as the loci’s power gripped the crowd. Vestiga came in a tidal wave of ink and memory that threatened to drown us all.
“Catherine!” I shouted, spotting her near the back. “What’s she doing?”
“She’s waking the library,” Catherine said, stepping closer, her voice low. “She thinks it can save Harlem, can bring back the Renaissance. The books hold power, and she’s channeling it.”
“By enslaving everyone?” Lucien snapped, shaking off the book’s pull.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Catherine said, her hands clenching. “She said it would inspire, not control. But the books… they’re too strong.”
Shielding Lucius and the lady, I pulled them both behind a stack. “We need to stop her,” I said. “She may think she is casting this spell, but the spirit she raised is ruling her.“
“Any ideas?” Lucian asked.
Catherine hesitated. “The book you took, Mr. Gibbs. It likes you. It’s the library’s heart. Break its hold, and the rest will stop.”
“Great,” Lucien said. “How?”
I grinned, despite the chaos. “Magic. And a bit of improvisation.”
XOXOXO
The room was a maelstrom of magic and mayhem. Ernestine stood at the podium, her hands raised, her magic a torrent of floral-scented power—roses, thorns, and all. The books allied with her attacked: The Souls of Black Folk hurled pages like daggers, each word slicing the air, while Passing whipped up a wind of jagged prose that cut at my wards. The library’s genius loci roared. The floor trembled, shelves groaning as if the building itself was choosing sides. Chandeliers crashed to the ground. The air crackled with the loci’s fury, a voice of ink and dust screaming for control.
I flung a lux maxima spell, a blinding burst of light.
Ernestine countered with a praecepta legunt, her wards shimmering.
The New Negro by Alain Locke joined the fray, its pages glowing with a cold, intellectual fire, binding my spells like chains.
“Gussie, she’s too strong!” Lucien shouted, dodging a copy of Home to Harlem that flew at him like a brick.
“I noticed!” I yelled, throwing up another scutum.
Ernestine’s magic was leagues beyond mine. She was a Master practitioner on her own domain. Her power was echoed and amplified by the library’s loci and her allied books.
I was a too-casual wizard, and my spells were crumbling.
But other books fought for us. The Weary Blues sang a protective hymn, its pages weaving a shield of jazz-infused magic, while Quicksand hurled defiant verses, battering Ernestine’s wards. Not Without Laughter rallied the newpapers to circle around Lucian, shielding him from the storm. The loci wavered, its voice splitting—part supporting Ernestine, part resisting her control.
Lucian batted them back, snapping ‘beat up’ and ‘igg’ at the unruly volumes.
“Catherine!” I called, ducking a flying Color by Countee Cullen. “You know this is wrong! Power corrupts, and this is corruption!”
A paperback of Plum Bun spun back, skidding to a stop against the shelves.
Catherine stood frozen, her eyes darting to Ernestine, then to the entranced crowd—Hughes, Hurston, Locke - all frozen in a dreamlike haze. “It’s for Harlem,” she said, her voice wavering.
“Is it?” I pressed. “Or is it for her?”
The Blacker the Berry rose up, slashing against its shelfmates.
Catherine’s face hardened. “You’re right,” she whispered. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”
She turned her magic on Ernestine, her icy threads unraveling the older woman’s wards. “I’m sorry, Miss Rose.”
Ernestine’s eyes widened. “Traitor!” she hissed, flinging a spell that sent Banjo spiraling toward us, its pages cutting like knives. Even with Catherine’s help, I was outmatched, the loci’s power tilting toward Ernestine. The room shook. The walls groaned as the loci roared, its voice a cacophony of every book ever shelved here.
I fell back. Then? Then I felt something. I remembered my New York Public Library card, a battered piece of paper in my wallet. It was more than a card. It was a contract. It was a bond between a reader and the library, an obligation forged when I’d signed up in ’29. Libraries, like rivers, like magic, all live by agreement and rule. This one I knew and I knew it knew me.
I pulled the card out, holding it aloft. “By the authority as a reader and subscriber of the New York Public Library System, I command you to cease all noise and disruptive behavior injurious to the quiet enjoyment of the reading public!” I shouted, pouring every ounce of my magic into the words. “Avoid creating a disturbance! Maintain quiet at all times! Be respectful of other patrons!”
The card glowed with a warm, golden radiance, like sunlight on paper.
The loci responded, its roar shifting to a song, the shelves trembling as the books fell silent. The Weary Blues and Of Mules and Men surged forward, their magic bolstering mine, while Banana Bottom and If We Must Die e faltered, their pages stilling.
The loci’s power turned against Ernestine, her wards collapsing as the library chose me.
She staggered, her face pale.
“No…” she whispered, her eyes clearing.
I lowered the card.
“What happened, Ernestine?” Lucius asked.
She sank to her knees, the books settling around her. “The grimoire,” she said, her voice trembling. “It twisted my will. I thought I was in control, using it to awaken the library. But it used me.”
Lucien stepped forward, holding the glowing book. “This thing?”
She nodded, her eyes haunted. “Yes. I’m sorry, Mr. Gibbs. I never meant for it to harm you.”
“Then explain,” I said, my voice firm. “What were you trying to do?”
“The Board of Trustees,” she faltered, almost choaking “they wanted to close this library. Money is short, short everywhere, and they said that… these weren’t people who needed, who wanted, the books.”
Lucian’s hands clenched on the cover. “So you…”
Ernestine wept, her composure gone. “I was part of the Society of the Rose, an old order of women practitioners.”
“You broke the compact.”
“That doesn’t stand in America. They may think it does, but this is another country with powers and spirits and a nature of its own.”
“You broke the compact and made a pact with the books.”
“Knowledge is power, and I thought we could use it to save Harlem, to bring back the Renaissance. But the grimoire… it warped my vision, turned inspiration into control.”
Catherine stepped forward, her expression torn. “I believed in your dream, Miss Rose. America does need its own magic, free from British arrogance. But this?” She gestured to the dazed crowd, the silent books. “This is wrong. You went too far.”
Ernestine nodded, her eyes downcast. “I see that now. The grimoire preyed on my ambition.”
“Then help us fix it,” I said. “Bind it, lock it away.”
She met my gaze, a spark of her old fire returning. “Every good book needs a new binding now and then. Magic ones especially.”
Lucien cleared his throat. “And maybe we can talk this out properly? Over tea, say, Tuesday afternoon?”
“All of us?” Catherine raised an eyebrow. “Tea? With you two?”
“Why not?” I said, grinning. “We’ve got a library to save, and Harlem to keep alive. Takes all of us.”
Ernestine hesitated, then nodded. “Tuessday, then. We’ll make this library work for everyone.”
“Deal,” Lucien said, his grin returning. “I’m bringing the bourbon.”
The aftermath was a blur. Ernestine, Catherine, and I wove spells to bind the grimoire, sealing its power. The library’s loci hummed softly. Its anger spent. The books were quiet on their shelves. The audience blinked awake, their memories fuzzy.
Ernestine Rose finished her speech. It was rousing, but not in the way that roused unquiet spirits.
Catherine took charge of the book, promising to guard it inside the Special Collection. The grimoire was locked away on the restricted shelves, where it couldn’t cause more trouble.
XOXOXO
Back home, Lucien and I watched the sunrise painting Harlem gold.
“I think I’ll stick to the music scene. Modern literature goes for too much of the rough stuff,” he said, leaning against me.
“I agree.” I kissed his temple. “Stick to jazz, darling. Much cooler vibe.”
“For now,” he said, his smile bright. “But that library spirit? I’ve got the feeling that I got a feeling it wasn’t only the books getting rebellious. Next thing you know strings and chords are gonna be running wild.”
I couldn’t argue with that.