Goose bumps ripple up my arms. It appears my aunt Sage had a flair for the dramatic. Part of me wants to start flipping through it, but another, bigger part is holding me back. What are “The Consequences”?

I glance at my phone again. Generally not written for others unless intended as a legacy.

Sage may not have exactly given me the journal, but she was my aunt, which makes me her legacy. Even if we never met each other, I am technically her posterity. Would she mind if I looked at her book, or will that subject me to The Consequences?

And then I see it at the bottom. This opening epitaph or whatever it is signed in two swirly signatures. Rosemary & Sage Bell.

Seeing those names together takes my breath away. This belonged to my mom too. Now I can’t possibly stop myself.

I quickly begin flipping through pages. I’m expecting journal entries, but instead what I find reminds me of a much more colorful version of the old notebooks I toss out at the end of the school year—a bunch of scribbly notes plus drawings and the occasional glued-in item. But most of the book is dedicated to what looks like magical spells. Pages and pages of instructions written out in painstaking detail. Some of them are serious: Spell for Broken Promises, Spell for Confidence, Spell to Banish Negative Energy. Others are funny: Spell to Banish Annoying Lab Partner, Spell to Grow Out Bad Haircut. They’re all handwritten in colorful pens with lots of places crossed out and written over, the margins filled with notes. Try waxing moon next time. Red and white chime candles for this one. Call in element of fire. Each spell is marked with either an R or an S, some both, and on several of Sage’s spells I see encouraging notes written in my mom’s loopy handwriting. You’ve got this! You’re the baddest witch in town! On Sage’s Spell to Pass Geometry Even if Your Teacher Is the Worst, my mom wrote, WITCHY SISTERS FOREVER I BELIEVE IN YOU and affixed several star stickers as well as a handful of loose glitter, which dumps out onto my lap. The book is adorable and magical, and if I thought my heart was hurting before, now it feels like it’s swelled to two times its normal size.

It’s like meeting an entirely different version of my mom. One who believed in magic, and who had a sister she adored.

Suddenly I realize what the Book of Shadows reminds me of. It’s like my mom’s event binders, only with glitter.

As I attempt to replace the glitter, I picture my mom from earlier today, her posture razor straight, her mouth set in a firm line, then look back down at the book. Where did this version of my mom go?