Handed down, probably, possibly, maybe from another place, a book amalgamation of past and present, this one cased by ring of metal, let's say twist of Scotland, watched by unstable skull beneath glittering crown, bottles of who-knows-what, a crick of some imaginary thing, possibly vegetable, mineral, animal, a tapping of objects, who-knows-where, sound their arrival to your hands, a sparkle, a crackle, a leather that creaks and speaks, petals that never die, and secret tucks and folds to close your fingers. No bones of babies, but Certificate (merit) for Practitioner of Witchery and Wizardry. Strange? Your preferred name added. Somewhere.
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