The creature—half goat, half man, with pages of the book tattooed on its skin—laughed. “St. Cyprian himself could not cheat this contract. For every leaf I turn, you lose one memory. Your son’s face. Your name. The sound of rain.”
She turned to the index: “To summon the Familiar Who Knows the Herbs of the Invisible Garden.” The ritual required a silver coin, a black rooster’s feather, and a drop of blood from the left hand. She followed each step in the flickering gaslight.
Clara rushed downstairs, already forgetting why she’d gone to the attic. She knew only that a book was open on the floor, and a child was crying—her child—though she could not recall his name.