Ink and Shadows

by Ellery Adams

  Finally, Nora decided to stop leaving messages. Once Jed was back in Miracle Springs, she’d show up at his house and bang on his front door until he let her in. At that point, she’d do her best to breach the divide between them. But for now, all she could do was wait.

  Nora also called Bobbie. She didn’t answer her phone either, so Nora left a message and went back to her book. It was one of several she’d gathered based on their inclusion of terms like spells, grimoires, herbals, symbolism, arcane magic, witch, and ancient medicine. Though the research was fascinating, it gave her no fresh insight about the mysterious book page.

  It was four in the afternoon and still raining when Nora finally heard from Bobbie.

  “I meant to call you hours ago, but I had to get second and third opinions on our Potion Page,” she said. “I had to give it a name. Librarians. We’re compelled to categorize things.”

  Nora walked over to the front door and looked out. “Please, Bobbie. It’s rained all day, I’m expecting people to protest my shop tomorrow, and Jed refuses to speak to me. Skip the dramatic reveal and tell me what you learned.”

  “Okay, but what I’m about to say will make things clear as mud.” When Nora groaned, Bobbie said, “Chin up, buttercup. We’ll get there. Anyway, here’s what we know. The paper is old. Circa 1700s. It’s laid paper, which—”

  “Laid paper?” Nora interrupted. “It’s been a few years since grad school. Can you refresh my memory?”

  Bobbie said, “Laid paper was used in the 1500s and 1600s until about 1750. It was made on a mesh with wires. When you hold a piece up to the light, you can see a grid pattern. The Potion Page has that pattern. My friend is an expert in paper forensics, and he says the paper is legit. But the ink isn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The chemical composition is off. It’s a carbon ink with a charcoal base, which is kosher, as is its dark-brown color. But the charcoal should be suspended in glue, gum, or varnish. My friend thinks that part of the mix is off, so he sent the page to his friend, who has access to Columbia’s radiocarbon dating machine. The results confirmed that the paper is legit, but the ink isn’t.”

  “Whoa.”

  There was a pause before Bobbie said, “We’re talking forgery here. Someone made a near-perfect eighteenth-century grimoire page. The paper looks and feels right. The ink is close. The forger did their homework. Without an expert’s examination or access to scientific dating, plenty of people would think it was the real deal.”

  Nora didn’t need to ask who these people were because she already knew. Collectors. Of rare books. Of rare occult materials.

  “Do you think the writing was copied from a real book of spells? Or is it pure nonsense?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve seen robed figures in other books from the same time period. The clothes and the drawing style are similar to recipes found in herbals. But the symbols? They could be an invented language meant to seduce collectors into believing in a newly discovered form of magic. A code waiting to be broken. Whoever breaks the code becomes powerful. Has all their wishes granted. It sounds ridiculous until you see what people have paid for other indecipherable spell books.”

  After mulling this over, Nora said, “The forger can’t send the page to Sotheby’s. It has to be sold on the black market. There must be an online forum or marketplace where something like this can be offered for sale.”

  “I asked one of our professors the same thing, and she sent me a link to a forum called Solomon’s Alley. It’s named after a medieval grimoire. I’ve already created a fake account and posted a photo and some tantalizing details about the Potion Page. If someone contacts me about the page, we might get a lead on our forger’s identity.”

  Nora was amazed by how much Bobbie had accomplished. “You’ve gone above and beyond. Thank you.”

  “I’ve done all I can, but you haven’t. I know I’m being blunt, but isn’t it time to confront Celeste? The symbols were tattooed on her daughter’s neck. What did they mean? What’s the deal with Still Waters? Are they a community of reclusive artists or sketchy forgers? If you want to know what happened to Bren, you have to push Celeste for answers.”

  Nora glanced through the rain-splattered glass. The sidewalks were empty, and the streets were mostly deserted.

  “I’ll see her in a few hours. My friends will be there too, so I’m not sure how much interrogating I’ll get in.”

  “Just use those keen powers of observation that served you so well in school. I bet you’ll spot some detail—a knickknack or a photo—and a light bulb will go off.”

  Thunder roared so loudly that the windows shook.

  “What the hell was that?” Bobbie asked.

  “Just a noisy storm. It should be gone by tomorrow.”

  “I hope lots of things are cleared up by tomorrow. The weather, the protest, your love life, the mystery involving the Potion Page.”

  Nora promised to give Bobbie regular updates and ended the call. She then closed the shop an hour early and went home.

  After a shower, Nora warmed Dominique’s cheese enchiladas in the oven while she cooked a pot of lentils with garlic and olive oil. When the beans were ready, she transferred them to a casserole dish and garnished them with chopped tomatoes and cilantro. With both dishes snugly packed in a cardboard box, she stepped out into the damp night.

  It was no longer raining, and downtown was filled with people. The lethargy that had fallen over Miracle Springs during the storm had lifted. Music and laughter drifted through the air. There was a scrubbed clean feeling to the night, which was just what Nora needed. When she met her friends at Soothe’s rear entrance, she was smiling.

  Nora rang the bell, and before long, Celeste was inviting them in.

  As they followed Celeste upstairs, Nora and Hester compared notes about sluggish sales while Estella and June complained about being run ragged.

  “Were you busy today?” Nora asked Celeste.

  “No. But I took advantage of the quiet to make a few batches of soap.”

  The women had just entered Celeste’s apartment when Estella said, “I love homemade soap. Do you make a magnolia scent?”

  While Celeste and Estella talked fragrances, Nora took in the kitchen. It was crowded with plants. Herb pots lined the windowsill, houseplants sat on top of the refrigerator, and potted trees occupied any free corner. The only piece of furniture was a small café table covered in a green-checked cloth. There were no chairs. It was like standing in an urban jungle.

  “We planned a supper buffet,” June said. “We’ll just line up our dishes on your cute table. Nice and casual.”

  Estella produced a bottle of wine from her tote bag. “You won’t have to clean up after us because we’re using compostable paper plates and cups. And our utensils are made of bamboo.”

  “I like green,” Celeste said in a brave attempt at levity. She pointed at the bottle of wine. “I have blackberry wine too. I make it every summer. Would anyone like to try it?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” Estella handed their hostess a glass.

  Instead of a traditional corkscrew, Celeste used a Swiss Army knife to open Estella’s bottle. Then she took her blackberry wine out of the fridge and placed it on the table.

  “We’re having a vegetarian meal tonight,” Nora told Celeste. She identified the dishes from left to right, pausing to credit Dominique for her contribution. “Roasted broccoli salad, sesame noodles with tofu, garlic lentils, cheese enchiladas, and Quiche Florentine. As always, Hester’s in charge of dessert.”

  Hester put her hand on the white bakery box. “This is an apple caramel crumb pie.”

  “Oh, my,” breathed Celeste, which made everyone laugh. As she looked over the various dishes, the light left her eyes. “Bren would have loved this. She became a vegetarian two years ago. I never asked her why. I just supported her decision.”

  “Like a good mom.” June pressed the salad tongs into Celeste’s hands. “You take as muc
h or as little as you want. Tonight is all about you.”

  After the women filled their plates, Celeste led them into the living room.

  “I hope you don’t mind eating on the floor,” she said. “As you can see, I don’t have much furniture.”

  Other than a floral rug, a folding chair, a set of plastic shelves, and a bunch of oversized pillows, the room would have felt empty if not for the plants. Potted plants lined the floor, perched on the shelves, and filled every corner.

  “Did you move all of these?” Hester asked, indicating the plants.

  Celeste sat down next to a fern and brushed her fingers along one of its fronds. “We sure did. We were going to plant a garden at Bren’s house next spring. . . .” She stopped, swallowed, and went on. “We’ve always grown our own herbs and vegetables. We use them for food and to make soap, shampoo, and household cleaners.”

  I bet you did that at Still Waters too, Nora thought.

  “It feels like a picnic,” June said. “Grab a pillow and get low, ladies.”

  Once they were seated with their plates on their laps, Nora raised her glass of water and said, “To Bren.”

  Celeste’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t cry. She held out her glass and thanked the members of the Secret, Book, and Scone Society for their kindness.

  Estella sipped the blackberry wine and exclaimed, “Celeste! You figured out how to bottle summer.” She turned to Hester. “You have to try this.”

  Hester was also impressed by the wine. She and Celeste talked about home brewing, which led to Estella sharing a story about her granddaddy and his famous moonshine. She told them how he’d pour a thimble’s worth of liquor into a spoon and light it on fire. If the fire turned blue, the ’shine was good. If the fire turned yellow, her granddaddy would “sell it to a city fellow.”

  “I grew up in New York, so I don’t have stories like these,” bemoaned June. “Are you a country girl, Celeste? Is that why you know how to make all these things from scratch?”

  Celeste shrugged. “I grew up in Birmingham. Went to art school there too. I didn’t learn any homesteading skills until I moved to an artists’ community a few hours east of here. That’s where Bren was born.”

  “I’ve read about communities like that, but they were in big cities like San Francisco or Miami,” said Nora.

  “Ours was very unique,” Celeste said with a hint of nostalgia. “Instead of skyscrapers, pollution, and a frantic pace, we had a secluded forest, log cabins, and a peaceful existence.”

  “Getting away from the craziness of modern life must have been nice,” said Hester.

  Celeste’s expression was wistful. “Our community was meant to be a place for sensitive, creative souls. Quilters, knitters, painters, potters, musicians, glassblowers, metalsmiths, sculptors, fashion and jewelry designers, and so on.”

  “Meant to be?” Nora asked. “Did it start off as one thing and turn into something else?”

  “You could say that.” A curtain fell over Celeste’s features. She sighed and put her fork down. “Everything’s delicious, but I can’t eat another bite. I have room for one more glass of wine, though. Can I get anyone a refill?”

  Estella raised her hand. June and Hester declined. When Celeste got to her feet, Nora asked for directions to the bathroom.

  Celeste pointed at a dim hallway. “First door to the right.”

  The bathroom had two doors. After locking the door to the hallway, Nora examined the storage cabinet under the sink. Other than toilet paper, everything inside seemed related to soap making. There were soap molds, bottles of olive and coconut oil, high test lye, and a set of mixing bowls. In the shower, she saw a thick bar of soap that smelled of lemongrass and a glass bottle filled with what she assumed was homemade shampoo.

  Nora flushed the toilet and washed her hands with a bar of lavender soap. She then opened the second door and tiptoed into Celeste’s bedroom.

  Like the living room, the space was sparsely furnished. The bed was a twin mattress pushed into a corner. Her bureau was a set of plastic drawers on wheels. Her nightstand was an overturned milk crate. On the crate was a candle, a gratitude journal, a plant, and a framed photo of a much younger Celeste giving a piggyback ride to a little girl with a gap-toothed smile. Bren.

  Looking at the photograph, Nora remembered the main purpose of her visit. It hadn’t been to snoop, but to comfort and support a grieving woman.

  As Nora returned to the hall, she heard Hester mention the word stones. She listened for a few more seconds to confirm that her friend was telling Celeste about the evening’s activity, and then approached the door to the second bedroom.

  Telling herself that she’d just take a quick peek, she turned the knob. The door was locked. A purplish light escaped from the crack under the door, and Nora heard the rhythmic hum of machinery coming from the other side.

  What’s in there?

  By the time she rejoined the party, the dinner plates had been cleared, and Hester was gesturing at the assortment of paints, paintbrushes, and stones she’d spread out on the rug.

  “You’ll tell us some things that Bren loved, like ice cream, and we’ll paint it on a stone. When we’re done, you can take the stones to her, keep them, or leave them outside for other people to find. It’s totally up to you.”

  Celeste dabbed at her eyes and said, “I like the idea of strangers finding art. A surprise that brightens their day. What a lovely way to honor Bren.”

  “It is,” agreed Hester. “You can name things from any time in her life. If she loved unicorns when she was eight, then we’ll paint a unicorn.”

  Estella held out a warning finger. “Hold on there, Hester. I can paint highlights in hair. Or tiny little flowers on acrylic nails. But I don’t do unicorns.”

  “How about a daisy?” Celeste asked. She smiled as she called up a memory. “Bren must have made a thousand daisy crowns for us to wear.”

  As she shared other things her daughter had loved like monarch butterflies, tart apples, flying kites, and wishing on stars, there were more smiles.

  By the time their stones were painted, Nora and her friends had a clearer picture of Bren’s childhood. She’d spent her whole life among artists and not only had she learned how to make a variety of saleable art, but she could also grow her own food and make her own clothes. Though this self-sufficiency marked her as an outsider at school, she had plenty of friends in the community.

  Celeste appeared to be running out of steam. She fell silent and worked on the last stone. When she was done, she showed it to the rest of the women. A pair of mushroom stools were pulled up to a mushroom table holding a vase full of daisies.

  “Back when I was sculptor, I’d sell concrete garden statuary for extra pocket money. Once, Bren fell in love with this mushroom stool I’d made, and I ended up making two stools and a little table for us. Juliana and that mushroom set are the only pieces I’ll never sell.”

  “That’s so sweet.” Hester put a hand to her heart. “Where is that set?”

  “In my spare bedroom, which is a complete mess.”

  Thinking of the light under the bedroom door, Nora said, “Well, your bathroom is neat as a pin. I need the recipe for your homemade cleaners.”

  “My secret is fresh herbs. I put them in my soap, shampoo, cleaners, tea—everything. That’s why I have an indoor grow room,” Celeste said, lowering her voice. “Just don’t tell my landlord. I don’t think he’d approve.”

  June put a hand on Celeste’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. This group knows how to keep a secret.”

  The room went still, and Celeste looked like she might want to share another secret. Her lips parted and she drew in a fortifying breath. But what came out was a sigh.

  Hester filled the silence by asking if anyone wanted pie.

  “I’d love some tomorrow. Right now, I’m pretty tired,” said Celeste.

  Though the evening had clearly taxed Celeste, it had been good for her too. She’d shared conve
rsation, memories, and food with a group of women who wanted to be her friends. She was hurting, but for a little while, the Secret, Book, and Scone Society had held the hurt at bay. After accepting gentle hugs from her guests, Celeste thanked them for their kindness.

  It was a quiet walk to the parking lot. Every woman was lost in her own thoughts.

  When they reached June’s car, Nora turned to her friends. “So that grow room Celeste mentioned? I tried the door, but it was locked.”

  Hester’s eyes grew round as dinner plates. “Could it be that kind of grow room?”

  Estella dismissed this idea with a wave. “No way. A social worker has been in that apartment. And what about your man? Hasn’t Jasper been up there too?”

  “I’ll ask him if he saw the whole apartment or just the public spaces,” said Hester.

  June took out her key fob and unlocked her car. “Does it matter if her entire apartment is full of marijuana plants? Pot didn’t kill her daughter. Red meat did.”

  “It’s the locked door,” said Hester. “And all the things Celeste doesn’t say. We know how to keep secrets. We also know what it feels like to be crushed by the weight of a secret. Celeste is being crushed.”

  The truth of Hester’s words sat between the four friends, and for tonight, it seemed that no one else had anything to say.

  As Nora hugged herself against the cold and tried to come up with a connection linking the Potion Page, Still Waters, Bren’s fatal case of alpha-gal, and a locked grow room, a truck pulled into the parking lot.

  As the headlights cut a path through the darkness, the four women exchanged good nights. June, Estella, and Hester climbed into the Bronco, and Nora turned toward home.

  She didn’t want to cross the parking lot until the driver of a dark-colored pickup chose a spot. But he seemed to change his mind about parking and started circling back to the exit instead.

  As the truck passed under the streetlight, the driver looked at Nora. He gave her a leering smile and a slow wave. Nora’s blood went cold. She didn’t know the man, but she recognized him.

  “Let me in!” she shouted, slapping the side of June’s car.