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Your life, until now, was ok.
Being a history scholar in Thatcher's Britain is challenging, and being Welsh, Black, and queer really doesn't help. But you have a job that actually uses your expertise, which is more than most people with a Phd in Early Modern Studies can say, and while the uni you work at is small it has a surprisingly good collection relating to your specialisation. The parts of your job where you actually get to work with those texts and not just do paperwork or marking are pretty great.
You're pretty happy with things.
Until Howell fucking Jenkins shows up.
I need a certain book, he says. Knew you had the best collection in Europe, he says, with a flirty little wink. All the while he's standing next to his WIFE. Who of COURSE is a young, tiny, pretty, pale little thing, dressed like a 19th century housewife. She covertly stares at everything in your bland little office like it's a magical kingdom full of wonders. Where did he find her, a cult compound? And there's something almost aggressively nondescript about her, when you try to figure out if she's better looking than you your eyes end up slipping away from her face and instead are drawn to the details on the embroidered hat she's holding tightly in her hands.
Meanwhile Howell rambles on with the kind of melodramatic self-aggrandising you used to for some reason find charming, and she presumably still does. Though she has these little frowns of annoyance whenever he says anything especially stupid that give you the impression the shine is already wearing off, like it always does. You give them six months, tops.
When you introduce the happy couple to the librarian as "Dr Jenkins and Mrs Jenkins" his wife blinks at you for a moment, like she had to stop and figure out who you were talking about.
"Say hello, Mrs Jenkins," laughs Howell, like it's the greatest joke he's ever heard, and she sticks her tongue out at him.
"Sorry," you say, "that's, uh, Ms...?"
"Just Sophie will do." She has a funny way of speaking, like she's foreign. Maybe that's why she's being so quiet. But again you find your attention being drawn elsewhere, and you don't stop to try and think when you might have heard an accent like that before, if ever.
The librarian stares at Howell dubiously. "And you will vouch for this fellow? I don't usually like to let anyone see our special collection." The librarian is a wizened old man who has been here as long as anyone can remember. He knows his stuff, but can get a little weird about the more obscure parts of the collection. "He's a nice normal researcher, not some... visitor from a foreign land, with dubious intentions?"
Ugh. Being old doesn't make it ok to be xenophobic. And he's usually the one old white guy in this department you can rely on not to be racist! Still, it is kind of funny for the librarian to accept you over two of the whitest people you've ever seen. You're not sure where he's from himself, while he looks averagely English and speaks in a plummy register you associate with old BBC broadcasts, there's sometimes an unusual lilt to his voice. The thought that it reminds you a little of Sophie's voice drops out of your head a moment after you have it. The same thing tends to happen whenever you try to remember the librarian's name.
"Welsh born and bred!" says Howell, with a little more force than seems necessary. "We went to university together, isn't that right? You even met some of my family!"
"Yes," you say, with a sigh. "I did."
Sophie's eyes widen and you look away, feeling embarrassed. Because, yep, you met the Jenkins family when you and Howell were involved, bizarre as it is to look back on that time now. His family had seemed nice, if a little distant. You wonder how many other earlier castoffs of his they met once and then never saw again.
"And what about her?" The librarian peers at Sophie.
"I vouch for her!" says Howell. "We met at a little hat shop in Surrey, isn't that right darling? She's part of a whole hat making family, you see. The 'Hatter' family in fact, believe it or not. Lived there for generations, making hats. Ms Sophie Hatter, that's my wife." He stares at her soppily. You're not sure he ever quite looked that way at you. But you are reminded, regardless, of why you fell for him yourself. What it felt like to be the focus of his brief moments of intense charm, and his more subtle but heartfelt acts of kindness. If he's actually found lasting happiness at last, well... good for him. You suppose.
"That is who I am," says Sophie, seemingly unaffected by the affection he's beaming towards her. "But we met when I started working for you as a cleaning lady. I suppose you must have forgotten that part."
You snort. That sounds like Howell. Sophie gives you a small, hidden smile, like the two of you are sharing a private joke. You're glad she isn't jealous to have met an old flame of his, especially one who is very much not a pretty little white girl. Then again, if she was working for him for a while before they got together, she probably met a wide range of his exes. If she decided to be with him anyway... at least she knew what she was getting into, God help her.
"Sophie's only just gotten into studying... early modern history, but she's a quick study and eager to learn more," continues Howell, as always bringing everyone attention back onto himself, even when he's theoretically talking about someone else. "But wouldn't you know, just as the two of us are working on a survey of the works of this pesky Italian alchemist, there's a book of his we can't find! And I knew your collection must have it, it's so well maintained and thorough." He beams the full force of his charm at the librarian, and it apparently works, because soon the three of you are allowed into the special collection.
"Don't stay down there too long," says the librarian. "Those old books can affect you..." He coughs. "...mould and so forth, you know. I'd come with you myself, but I have reached my limit for the day. You keep an eye on these two, hmm?"
You nod. Though for all his other flaws, Howell has always been trustworthy with the well-being of books.
You take the two of them down to the lower stacks, deep in the bowels of the library.
"What was that about mould?" asks Howell, looking around with narrowed eyes.
"I've never seen any, but the air does have a weird smell to it. I don't like to stay down here too long, just in case." It's not the musty mildewy smell you'd expect from mould though. More like... rotten eggs and ozone.
"Hmm," says Sophie. She seems pensive, but her eyes light up more and more the deeper you get.
"Oh," she says. "These books, they're actually m- they're all about magic?" She sounds surprised and excited.
"You could say that," you reply, indulgently. Apparently Howell has picked himself up a New Ager. He probably wooed her with the stock Latin phrases they had to memorise for exams. "Though the authors often referred to it as alchemy or natural philosophy."
"Has anyone in this w- has anyone actually tried to perform them, these spells? Recently, that is, not back when they were written. I know people here... people believed in magic back then." Her eyes flick to Howell as if to make sure what she said was inoffensive. Have some self respect, girl! You don't need this idiot's approval!
"I don't know about these ones," you say. "The librarian is very strict about keeping out anyone who isn't a serious researcher from this part of the library. But of course there's always New Age types following rituals by Crowley or Dee and claiming they've done real magic."
It occurs to you belatedly that she might take this as an insult, but she just looks up at Howell with an expression of curiosity.
"Creative charlatans," he says, and she nods.
You're inclined to agree, but what kind of New Ager hasn't heard of Aleister Crowley? The thought drops out of your brain and you continue.
"And here we are," you say, stopping in front of an especially old and dusty shelf. Though oddly enough, while the shelves themselves are dusty, the books are all uniformly clean, with leather you would never believe was hundreds of years old if you didn't know it for a fact. Sometimes you suspect the library of having been taken in by modern forgeries, but when you suggested this to the librarian he got angrier than you've ever seen him before, so you let the subject drop.
"So..." says Howell, with a tone that makes your hackles rise with an instinctive sense of dread. "Could we have a little privacy with the book? It's always distracting having someone around when you're reading, you know?"
"No," you say, with all the weight of years spent dealing with students demanding an extension on an overdue paper.
"Then, uh... can I trust to your discretion?" He smiles at you hopefully and you want to deck him in his stupid not-even-that-handsome face. You should have known he was up to something.
"I'm not going to let you steal it," you say, exasperated. "Or... do anything else inappropriate to a library." You have an uncomfortable flashback to that time you and Howell had it off in the stacks at your alma mater. It had felt daring and romantic at the time. But now the memory just makes you feel old, and you are not here to help your ex spice up his marriage with some hot new undergrad.
"No damage to any university property," says Howell. "Or to you, of course. Not even any breaking of university by-laws! I swear on my heart."
"Are you sure you have one?" you mutter.
"That's a very reasonable question," says Sophie. "But for what it's worth, I can promise you that he does."
Yes, yes, very romantic. "Then what do you need me to be discreet about?"
"I, uh... may have lied about Sophie being from Surrey. And I don't want to get into trouble with the librarian." He smiles very wide, and you feel quite certain that's not all there is to it.
"Oh." You look at Sophie, who looks away with an expression that could either mean "I am ashamed that my terrible husband is lying" or "I am afraid of my dark secret being found out". Is he lying, or did Howell seduce a girl into defecting from the USSR or something? He always was capable of implausible heights of ridiculous melodrama.
You rub your temples. "Fine. As long as I don't lose my job."
Sophie gives Howell a worried look which doesn't do much for your confidence, but he just smiles at you sunnily, the callous bastard. "Of course, of course!"
Since she seems the most likely to actually be honest with you, you turn to Sophie. "So where are you from, Sophie? What's this about? Or am I better off not knowing?"
"As I understand it," said Sophie, "It's less a risk of being better off, and more of you simply finding it unbelievable."
"Try me."
"Ah well..." interrupts Howell, because god forbid he not be a part of every conversation, "I remember you always used to make fun of me, when I got too... 'irrational', you used to say, about the subjects we were studying. No sense of whimsy, you know? No space in your heart for, uh..."
"A cold unfeeling block of ice, I think was what you called me." Even though it was him who'd dumped you, and moved on insultingly quickly to some more pliable naif.
"Ahaha, yes, I did get a little... well. Sorry about all that. It's all in the past, no need to dwell! And you clearly do love this stuff in your way, or you wouldn't be doing this job, eh?"
You laugh drily. "It's certainly not for the pay." You gesture towards Howell's outfit, which is as eye-searingly garish as ever, but in an unusual cut that must have been hand-tailored to fit. His hair is the same old mud-brown, but looks freshly cut and styled in a fashionable do. "You never said what you're doing these days, but I shall assume it pays better than academia."
"A little." He grins, teeth bared. "Let me show you." He reaches for the book, and starts flipping through the pages. And then he stops and starts muttering something under his breath. He looks to Sophie and she puts her hand on his and mutters something too. It would make for a cute couple moment if it wasn't so odd. Sophie looks up from the page and watches you warily, like you're a horse that might suddenly bolt.
Oh god, he didn't get her out of a cult. She recruited him in.
Before you can react further to that thought, you realise that the book has started to glow.
You'd think it was a patch of sunlight, but you're well below the horizon down here, lit only by ancient orange bulbs that might flicker, but could never give off the sort of etherial shimmering blue light that is currently flowing out of the book and around your ex boyfriend. He watches the light flow up around him with an expression of anticipation but not a hint of surprise.
You hear yourself gasp. The couple looks at you as one, and your spine shivers with numinous dread.
"What... is that magic?"
"The author would describe it as occult philosophy," says Howell, smugly. "Says so right here on the spine." He taps his finger against the words 'Occulta Philosophia', which you can barely make out through the glowing blue light.
"Sorry," says Sophie. "He's being an ass. I'm sure this is very strange for you! But it's not dangerous. He should be done soon. Isn't that right?" She pokes him in the side. She seems much less tense, and more present, and more strange, like before she was putting all her effort into seeming like a Normal Woman instead of...
"Howell, did you marry a witch?"
"Yes!" says Howell, with the biggest grin you've ever seen. "Isn't it wonderful? She's amazing, you have no idea."
"I'm very happy for you," you say, flatly. "I know it's what you always wanted." You'd thought it was his way of saying he wanted to date a hippy girl who'd be impressed by his degree, but apparently it was literal. "Though it's a bit rich to act like you're the one teaching her."
You feel like you should be more shocked, but deep down a little part of you always believed magic was real. After all, it's not like you took this job for the money. And if anyone was going to turn a Phd on the history of magic into actual wizardry, it would be Howell Jenkins.
And you'll be damned before you let him see that you think any of this is cool or impressive.
"That actually isn't him being arrogant for once," says Sophie. "I didn't know I was a natural witch until I met him, and he'd already been a wizard for years by then." She gives Howell a thin smile, irritated and fond. "Howell got his magic by being an irresponsible idiot." She puts an extra emphasis on the second syllable of his name, like she finds it funny. Maybe in her language it's some kind of dirty pun.
You think you like this girl. Witch. Whatever.
"That does sound like Howell."
"It all turned out alright!" says Howell with the same sunny optimism with which he said he wasn't risking your job as an academic studying occultism by doing ACTUAL MAGIC in the research library. If you tried to tell anyone about this you'd never be able to show your face at a conference again.
"So is this... an important ritual to save the world or something?" You have to admit, it's all a little exciting.
Sophie lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Hardly. Once again, this idiot is using forces beyond the ken of mortal man for his pointless vanity."
"I was CURSED," says Howell, hotly. "My body has been horribly marred! And by my own wife!"
He looks the same as always to you, certainly not like he's been cursed in a way that would affect his vanity. He perhaps hasn't aged as much as you would expect, is that the problem? You could live with a curse like that.
"It was an accident," said Sophie, without a hint of remorse. "You should have gotten out of the way of my spell, I did warn you. And if anything it's the opposite of a curse. Your hair, and everyone around you, has been freed from the burden of your terrible taste." She sniffs. "In fact, perhaps it was a mistake for me to agree to help you fix it..."
"You wanted to come here and see the books, don't pretend you didn't. And anyway, it's too late now! I can feel the magic working!" He mutters to himself, "I knew you did it on purpose. Just because you didn't like that shade of purple..."
"I don't know what you're talking about," says Sophie, but she doesn't try very hard to hide a self satisfied smirk. You revise your earlier opinion on the longevity of their relationship. These two are perfect for each other.
"Well I defy thee, witch!" cries Howell, and points a finger at his head. Then he turns to you with a hopeful smile. "Is it a winning shade of purple?"
"No."
His face falls. It's very satisfying. "No?"
"It's a very ugly shade of purple."
You and Sophie laugh until Howell pouts and surrounds himself with what you can only assume is some sort of sound cancelling bubble. It shimmers delicately, far too beautiful to have been made by a such a ridiculous man.
"Thank you for your help," says Sophie, cheerfully ignoring her husband. "It was lovely to meet you."
"Likewise," you reply. "You're welcome back any time, with or without him. Assuming it's possible for you to come here again from... fairyland, or wherever you're from?"
"Something like that, I think," says Sophie. "From my understanding of your mythology. But yes, it should be possible. And I would like that."
"Excellent. Now, what was that about you wanting to look at some other books?"
"Ah, yes," says Sophie. "Howell was right, I am a little curious. Your world lacks the natural magic of mine, but something about the way nature works here creates the potential for remarkable feats that simply aren't possible in my world. Howell brought me back some of your 'chemistry and 'physics' textbooks, and they was very interesting, but I thought that if I could read a proper alchemy manual I might be able to better understand the similarities between your world and mine, rather than just the differences. And it seems that your library here has some works which deal in real magic, so that seems like a good place to start."
"Gosh," you say, no longer feeling the need to hide the fact that you're impressed. "I can't pretend to understand anything about science, but I would gladly direct you towards our books on alchemy. Especially if you tell me a little more about magic."
"I would be delighted to."
"Well then. Ms Hatter?" You bow and hold out your arm. You're not the only one who can be charming to pretty young women, Howell Jenkins.
Sophie does a little curtsy and takes your arm, and two of you start exploring the cosy gaps between the stacks.
"Hey!" says Howell. "No stealing my wife!" He sounds more surprised than angry.
"I'm just borrowing her," you say, cheerfully. Sophie squeezes your arm and laughs, and then produces her own little bubble of magic, which does indeed block out the sound of Howell's complaints. It's even more pretty now.
Looks like your life just got more interesting.