One thing most of the librarians had in common was a disheveled-professor fashion sense. The Athenaeum had no official dress code, and the staff ran the gamut from wrinkled business-casual to pajamas. Lefse himself strutted around daily in baggy sweatpants and button-strained cardigans.

Fashion-sense was only one of many reasons that Lefse disliked the Head Librarian, who called himself Mabahazi. Mid-fifties but aging without grace as evidenced by his darkly dyed hair, Mabahazi dressed like a stockbroker and acted like a lawyer. Normally he only met with staff members begrudgingly, but today the Head Librarian gregariously ushered Lefse into his office and offered him a seat in an overly expensive leather chair at his overly luxurious mahogany desk. Lefse knew that the man’s excitement had nothing to do with seeing him.

“Are those the tarot cards?” Mabahazi asked excitedly, wringing his hands.

Lefse set the box on the desk. “Yes.”

Mabahazi reached for it, hesitated, and drew back. “Can you open it for me?”

This was another reason Lefse disliked him. If Mabahazi were an archaeologist he’d be the kind that sat under an umbrella while hired hands did the digging. At least the man’s excitement distracted him from the look of contempt on Lefse’s face as he flipped the lid. Mabahazi appeared skittish as if he expected a jack-in-the-box to spring out, but when nothing happened, he peered in.

“Amazing,” he whispered in awe. As the cards were stacked, he could only see one and after staring for a bit he asked, “Would you mind moving the top card?”

This request stunned Lefse and left him half-tempted to throttle the smaller man. “I will not. These cards are powerful. Unpredictable. If you want to touch them then be my guest.”

At first Mabahazi was visibly annoyed but quickly relented, either because of being intimidated by Lefse’s size or he realized how much of a dangerously unreasonable request it was. “Yes. Yes. You’re right. How many are there?”

“Six.”

“Only six? I thought there were supposed to be more.”

“Isaac said Maloc only had six.”

Mabahazi hummed distrustfully but accepted that no contrasting evidence had been presented. “Close the box please. You may go.”

Eager to be away from the man Lefse did as instructed and then headed for the door. “I filed Isaac Unknown’s interview.”

“Thank you. Did he touch the cards?”

“I’m sure he did. Knowing Isaac, he probably shuffled them like he was playing poker.” Lefse knew this to be untrue but had an idea that it would rankle Mabahazi, which it did as the man’s face darkened. He again went to exit.

“It’s a shame, don’t you think?”

Lefse looked back. “What?”

“That we have to lock up such wondrous artifacts. Imagine the things we could learn if we had the time to properly study and use them.”

While this wasn’t unappealing to his own inquisitive nature Lefse knew his boss used the word we loosely. The scenario that popped into Lefse’s head consisted of him and his peers delving into some very dangerous work while Mabahazi watched with binoculars from a bomb shelter. “I guess. Although, isn’t that why we turn them over to Arrangement? Because this knowledge isn’t meant for us mere mortals?”

Mabahazi’s earlier enthusiasm vanished, replaced now by his usual generalized disdain. “Yes. Mere...” He waved a hand. “Dismissed.”

And Lefse, grateful to be done with the meeting, wandered out, mumbling under his breath, “Dismissed? I’ll dismiss you with a body slam, you pompous ass.”

***

Alone in his office Mabahazi seethed impotently. He cherished his decor too much to willfully smash anything and he did not possess the kind of power that could lash out violently. As a manager he knew better than to vent on his subordinates, knowing he’d need their loyalty in the future. So, sulking in his chair was the only method of venting available and he did that with vigor.

If he could have possessed anything at that moment it would have been the courage to open the box. Mabahazi was not a brave man. Inquisitive. Intelligent. Rational. But not brave.

It wasn’t the tarot cards he feared, despite their dangerous legends. After all, if that derelict nomad Isaac had handled them safely, then he should have no issues. Instead, the act of disobedience terrified him—stepping out of line when he had no idea where the boundary had been drawn.

But otherworldly secrets were the blood and bane of all magicians and he, despite his lofty title, was no different. Surely just a peek wouldn’t hurt. He moved his fingertips to the sides of the box, his eyes creeping to the phone as he did. When nothing happened, he grew bolder and flipped the lid. Still nothing. Giddy with anticipation he reached for the top card.

The phone on his desk rang. Just once but with enough force that Mabahazi had to slap both hands to his head at the burst of pain. With trembling voice, he repeatedly apologized to the air, hoping that the Voice of Arrangement heard and forgave.

Box in hand he hurried from his office to the freight elevator that carried him to the basement. The doors opened to a long concrete hallway that dead-ended into an iron wall. At first glance it appeared to be a door, but there were no hinges or handles—only a drop slot exactly the same size as the box of tarot cards. This was not a coincidence. The slot was always the exact dimension to accommodate a delivered artifact. Be it the size of a jewelry box or a coffin, the small hatch preemptively transformed to fit.

It was a moment he hated—a complete surrender, akin to handing over a life-changing lottery ticket. He pushed the box a quarter way into the slot and immediately felt it yanked from him by a greedy force. It disappeared into the iron wall and to where and to what purpose he had no idea.

And not knowing was the most infuriating thing.