I swallowed to ease the knot in my throat and opened up our insurance company’s Web site to start an online claim for the damage to the library. I’d be talking to Jennifer tomorrow about cutting back to a half-time position in order to focus more time and energy on my research. Nicola Pallas had already arranged a cover story to explain my absence over the past week: a severe bout of rotavirus that had put me in the hospital. A forged doctor’s note was on its way to Jennifer’s mailbox.

Once the insurance claim was sent, I logged into the Porter database. Research began with reading, and I had a lot to catch up on.

For two straight days, I threw myself into my work, reading every treatise on magic, every report on possession, every scrap of information I could find.

Including the personnel reports on every Porter whose magic had been locked and their memories rewritten. There were fewer than I had feared. On average, it looked like Gutenberg only had to do it once every decade or so. The records included notes on the magic used to wipe both the memories of the subject and to adjust the memories of their family and friends—including other Porters—in order to eliminate any questions.

“Asshole,” I muttered. But having seen what Charles Hubert had become, on some level, I understood Gutenberg’s fear.

I also looked for information on Ponce de Leon, but found little of use. Records of his time with the Porters were minimal, with nothing to indicate why he had finally been banished or what spells had been used to confine him to Spain. But there were other sources of information. Thanks to interlibrary loans, I would be receiving a copy of pretty much every biography of Ponce de Leon currently available. One way or another, I intended to piece together exactly what had happened, and how worried I should be about de Leon making off with Gutenberg’s book.

And then there was the book FedEx had dropped on my doorstep this morning: an annotated copy of the Malleus Maleficarum, a fifteenth-century guide to witchcraft which Gutenberg believed might hold some insight.

I had been reading for three straight hours when I heard a vehicle pull into the driveway. I sat back and rubbed my eyes. The book was in Latin, Gutenberg’s notes were in Middle High German, and trying to jump back and forth between the two was shorting out my brain. My knees and back cracked as I stood and headed for the door. A peek through the window showed Nidhi Shah and Lena Greenwood walking up the driveway.