“When this is done, place a measure of ash in the west of the circle, and in it a bone no longer than a man’s finger and no smaller than one joint. When you have done this, kneel facing the east, and with an unwavering voice say—”
I ceased to whisper aloud. Should I dare speak these words without a circle, ash, or bone?
But why not? I didn’t believe in real magic.
And although I didn’t understand the book, or the passage, or the rumor of terrors roaming our streets, I wish I had, for I would not have done what I did next. And though I didn’t believe it could be done, I did not care.
I marked the page with a finger, lifted the book, and pressed the latch beneath the wardrobe.
I planned to hide this passage, if only in my own imagination.
But first? I had to gather cinders.
11
The Circle
I found the parlour without much difficulty, though the heightened need for complete silence—so as to not wake a sleeping household—caused me to step even more carefully than before. I couldn’t afford to fall this time.
When I pulled the lever to enter the room, I was seized with panic, for I had forgotten about the scraping and grinding. Once upstairs, once here below. How long until someone came to investigate the noise?
Rather than risk discovery as I did in Father’s office, I closed the fireplace—for that is what opened onto the parlour—just far enough to provide semblance of illusion, should someone glance inside, but far enough from the wall that I could dash back into hiding at a moment’s notice.
Moonlight glinted through the gauzy curtains of the room, setting the jewelled adornments to sparkle like stars. It was, I admit, a beautiful sight. My fears of discovery eased as I took in the room, the silence, and the calming charm of the night sky.
I set the heavy book on a nearby chaise and reread the instructions. Knowing where to stand would be simple enough, as the rising sun caught these windows early each morning. But what would I use for the circle?
Lacking sense, I used the closest thing at my disposal. I climbed across the backs of the couches and chairs near the window and, using those implements fully intended to stoke fires and not indulge careless young women’s fancies, lifted the curtain rod and pulled down the fabrics.
I twisted the curtains until they became thin, rolled lengths that nearly begged to be curved this way and that, forming two small circles—one outer, one inner—about the width of skirt hoops in the middle of the parlour floor.
From the fireplace, I gathered handfuls of cinders and ash, the powder and burnt shards coloring my hands a mournful shade of gray. I placed these in the circle facing east and, in a stroke of genius I still pride myself on, took a stick of half-burnt wood that I might—without regard for discovery, consequence, or damage—copy the words from the book between the lines of my circles. Legible they were not, for charcoal and Persian carpets don’t do any favors for one’s penmanship. I hoped it would do.
In the center of the circle, as clear as I could make them, my hand formed six letters: Curson. A name, but one which sounded foreign to my ears. I dared whisper it aloud as I checked the writing and a tremor ran up my spine at the sound of it.
Only at that moment did it occur to me that I might be playing at something, well, otherworldly. But the concept of danger wasn’t yet a reality, and truthfully, the possibility of real danger might have heightened my determination if it did anything at all.
Tasks complete, it was left to my ivory night shift and the book’s key to play the roles of white robe and small bone. On the surface, I knew I was being both silly and reckless. Looking around at the curtains on the floor, my charcoal scratches, and my ash-stained hands, I couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all.
Father gone. A new, cruel stepmother and her obstinate daughters. Rumors of terrors in the town, whatever those might be. And strangest of all, secret passages in our home! I placed the bone key in the center of the ash pile, covering it enough so that only the very edge remained visible.
I stepped to the center of the circle, quiet laughs escaping with every movement as though life itself was naught but one extended jest at my expense. I turned to the west, knelt, and placed the book on the floor inside the circle. Leaning over so that the candle would illuminate the words, I read with as strong a voice as one can, when whispering into the night’s dark shadows.
“I, so-and-so, conjure … oh.” I stopped, for I’d made a puerile error. I began anew. “I, Ellison, conjure you, O Curson, powerful and illustrious spirit, in whom I place every trust, by the one and only undivided and inseparable Trinity—” I rolled my eyes at this, for I doubted the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost could be bothered to listen to a girl kneeling inside a circle of curtains, “—that you should come forth humbly and with restraint, sworn to carry out whatever I ask and make hidden that which has been revealed, or reveal that which is hidden.”
According to the book, I was to wait until my summons received an answer, at which time I should present my request. No, my command.
I sat in darkness for some time, enjoying the flit and play of shadows against the far wall. Without curtains across the glass, the moon’s rays acted of their own accord on the elaborate adornments of the parlour.
I waited and waited, growing wearier with each passing moment as the novelty of my adventure waned. I was beyond tired, for the exhaustion of the day caused me to teeter as I knelt. Sensing my imagination’s indulgence was about to come to an end, I made one final effort. I repeated the summons, this time in a clear and firm voice without whispers, as weariness had made me careless.
The moment I finished the recitation, I closed my eyes, yearning to succumb to sleep if only for a moment. The warm comfort of darkness called to me, that I might take its refuge and replace the curtains in the morning instead …
The air hissed.
There was a softness to the sound, and my eyes flew open at the thought that perhaps a garden snake—or worse—had wandered into our home.
The hissing grew louder, sharper, until I realized that it wasn’t a snake at all but something that spoke my name.
“Ellisssssson.”
I leapt to my feet and spun to face the uncovered windows, looking toward the circle’s east. The bone key and the pile of ash pulsed with a dark light, if indeed there is such a thing. It was as though all joy, all happiness, and all hope had been sucked from the room into the little pile of ash and cinders, which burned with an unflamed fire.
A tendril of black smoke rose from the center, curling through the air, rising and rising, until it rested directly in front of my trembling face. The smoke hissed my name once more.
“Ellisssssson.”
I nearly lost control of my functions, as crude as that is. But it is important to understand this: beyond all else, however the book and key and passage might have excited my curiosity, I was more afraid in that moment than at any other.
I wanted to believe I stood in a dream. That I’d fallen asleep, that I dreamt all that occurred.
But I did not.
The smoke grew thicker as I stood, rooted, shaking inside the circle. I tried to lift one foot, to move away, but the hissing grew louder and louder until I was certain the entire town would come running to my aid.
Tendrils of smoke curled around my ankles and wrists and a scream caught in my throat, for when I looked back at that which hovered before me, I thought I saw two eyes, glinting within the blackness, looking into my own.
Something within the swirling mass of smoke could see.
And it waited.
“Command me, mistress,” it said.
I did not hold back my scream, then.
I dove for the bone key and ripped it from the ash, fingers burning at the touch as though they’d reached into tongues of real fire. A hand of smoke clasped over mine, cold and rough and firm as flesh. It pushed against my own, and in surprise I allowed th
e bone to re-enter the ash for only a moment.
“Command me, mistress, for I am yours.”
I cried out a second time, tears springing to my eyes as I pulled back the bone with all my might, kicked at the ash once, bent to grab the book, and ran back toward the passage as if the Devil himself had appeared in our parlour.
For all I knew, he had.
My feet tripped over the circle of curtains, tangling around my ankles. I shook them off, dove through the passageway door, and fell aground gasping for air.
From the parlour, silence.
My labored breath was the only sound I heard, though I dared not peek out, should that … creature … be there.
And in that silence, the truth of the matter became clear.
I had conjured a spirit.
Oh, Mother, what have I done?
12
The First Spirit
How long I remained in the passage, I cannot say. I slept with my back to the wall, clutching bone and book to my chest for some time. On waking, I had a choice: Peek out to see if the spirit remained, or return to my room and risk Celia’s wrath when she found the mess in the parlour.
And as I’m not known for my ability to resist the temptations of curiosity, of course I chose the former. The morning sun’s earliest rays peeked over the tops of the trees, and another panic seized my breast. I had slept for longer than I thought. Celia would awaken at any moment.
As there was no spirit in sight—and truly, daylight tends to wash away even the deepest frights of darkness—I burst from the passageway and began futile efforts to right the room. How could a young woman whose talents did not extend to growing upward replace the high curtains? Or clean the stain of ash and charcoal from the carpets?
My tears returned, sending droplets of water spinning down to pool at my chin, where they slid into the ash. Every drop left a small, circular dent in the pile, and I might have laughed at the spotted ash had I not been facing certain death—or at least, some manner of painful punishment.
“Need help?”
I sprang to my feet at the sound of Cook’s gravelly voice, a sharp release of fear in my gut. I faced her and I must have looked a fright, for she smiled at me as one does upon seeing a stumbling calf in a farmer’s field. She glanced around the room, taking in the curtains, the carpets, and—to my horror—the displaced fireplace.
“I was … I didn’t … ” What could I say?
“It’s all right, Miss Ellison,” said Gretel. “Let’s get them curtains righted afore the lady comes down.”
And to think I’d often dismissed Cook as a pleasant but simple woman. She had more perception and sense than I in those days. I accepted her help, and she assisted with hanging the curtains, sweeping the carpet as best we could—which she then took for washing, despite the laundering not being her job—and at last she inclined her chin at the fireplace.
“Best you get back to bed, girl. The lady’ll have my hide and yours if she finds you out of your chamber.”
I shook my head, heart swollen with gratitude, but also a mite fearful that Cook knew my secret.
“Why are you helping me?” I couldn’t leave without knowing.
She smiled, a genuine smile as I’d never before seen on her round, flushed face. “Your father be a good man, miss, and you and the little one not far behind.” She nodded toward the book, which I’d dropped at the edge of the passage. “And though I be sworn to secrets of his own, I’ll keep yours as well, seeing them as they are.”
“But why? What can I give you in return?” I needed some assurance, at least.
Gretel brushed her hands across her apron, smudged despite the day’s early hours. “Naught but that my place in the house continues.”
“But I can’t—”
“I know, girl.” She placed a finger against her lips. “But I know you’ll do your best until the master returns. Likewise, I’ll help you in your, ah … ” She glanced at the floor where I’d laid my circle. “Otherworldly doings.”
She crossed herself, shooed me into the passage, and shut the fireplace behind until it latched. Though bewildered that Gretel seemed to have some knowledge of what I’d attempted, I was ever the more grateful for her help—and this gratefulness only increased tenfold when I reached my room and slid inside, for footsteps down the hallway revealed that Celia had indeed arisen and was headed my way.
A key turned in the door. Ah, so she locked me in overnight.
I might have been enraged, had I not been preoccupied with presenting a picture of innocence.
She opened the door to find me sitting abed, perusing Faust, hair askew.
“Get up, child. Laziness isn’t becoming. Go down and make ready the dining table, and fetch breakfast and tea.”
I could hardly be accused of laziness if locked in the room!
“For three?” I asked through clenched teeth.
Celia stiffened. “Don’t be foolish. I will dine alone. My daughters will dine when they rise.”
She said “my daughters” to emphasize, surely, that I was not to be included, despite the pleasant words we’d exchanged only the week prior.
I couldn’t suppress my sigh, and once loosed, why not dig myself a further grave? “Is it really so difficult to retrieve it yourself?”
Celia entered the room, walked across my floor, and plucked Faust from my hands. I couldn’t read her expression, her face a blank canvas. “You ungrateful child. After all your father has done for you, you can’t be bothered to help his poor, new wife adjust to life in a strange place?”
Whatever was she on about?
“You should be ashamed of yourself, lying about, selfishly loafing whilst—”
“It’s hard to do much else when locked in one’s room. Please return my book.”
Eyes flashing like a cat’s in the night, she lowered her face to within a finger’s width from mine. “Lest you wish to see yourself and your brother on the next carriage to Saint Antony’s, I suggest you still that insolent tongue and do as you’re told.”
With that, she swept out of the room still holding my book, a precious lifeline to memories of better days. I clenched my fists as anger rose from deep within.
Saint Antony’s? Oh yes, because Father would certainly approve of his children entering the priesthood and the nunnery before they’re old enough to guide a carriage through the streets.
Her threats were sorely lacking.
Still, in an effort to spare Edward from her misdeeds, I rose and did as asked. It hadn’t escaped my notice that today, she’d included my brother in her threat. I had hoped it would take longer, but as cruel as she seemed, Celia was not stupid. If she couldn’t control my will through threats to my person, she could do it through threats to the one I loved most.
I dressed in yellow lace and wore a necklace of one tiny pearl that rested in the center of my breastbone. Just because they wore hideous fashions didn’t mean I had to follow suit. I had a wardrobe full of perfectly wonderful gowns and more than enough adornments to match. Better a simple pearl than a lavish hat made from expired creatures.
The early morning passed, and I hadn’t yet seen my brother. I had a moment of fright around late morning tea that perhaps Celia had made good on her threat after all, but I stole away from the tasks demanded to poke my head into Edward’s room.
I loosed a sigh of deep relief at seeing him there, still lying abed, but the relief didn’t last long as a moan escaped from beneath the sheets. I flew across the room and knelt by his side, placing a hand on his forehead. It felt warm to the touch, though not so warm that I could affirm a fever.
“Eddie,” I whispered, and pulled back the covering that shielded his sleeping face. He stirred, blinked sleepy eyes, and yawned a great yawn.
“Ellison?” He turned to his side but made no effort to sit.
“Are you well?” For I saw then that his face was pale, eyes unfocused, and his tiny lips too dry.
“My stomach hurts,” he said, his little hands disappearing beneath the blanket folds to clutch his belly. “I don’t feel good.”
This was most inconvenient, and more than a little worrisome. “I’ll send for Doctor Hofstadter, yes? Where does it hurt? Can you show me?”
He pushed himself up onto his elbows and I drew the blankets back all the way, my heart tightening as he shivered. Edward held his stomach as one does after a full meal. “It feels like I ate too many sweets, but I didn’t! I promise I didn’t. Not even one.”
I gave him a smile, though more for his sake than mine. My insides shook like fresh jelly, for how could I care for an ill child while keeping house? Surely, Celia would understand and allow me to spend my day here. But first, the doctor.
“The doctor will have you righted before you know it,” I said, smoothing a hand along his forehead, “and you’ll be up and about in an instant. I’m sure it’s a bit of bad beef or a spring cold.”
Edward wrinkled his nose and slapped a hand over his mouth. “He won’t make me take any of his medicines, will he?” How he knew of the doctor’s ill-tasting medicines was beyond me, though I suspect he recalled Mother’s reaction at the foul-scented concoctions the doctor had suggested during her early months of illness.
I prayed silently that Edward had simply caught a short bout of stomach ache. Overreaction, perhaps, but not for me. Not for our family.
I offered him reassurances, retrieved a book for him full of pictures and familiar words, and promised to return as soon as I could. I had Cook send for the doctor and took my pleas to Celia. I found her standing in the parlour doorway, staring into the room.
My blood froze.
I stepped backward, hoping to remove myself from notice, and collided with someone behind.
“Watch where you’re going, you clumsy oaf,” squeaked Charlotte, fanning her face in false shock. I mumbled an apology and pushed past as she sniffed in disdain.
Cinderella Necromancer Page 5
