by Dani Lamia
“I knew it!” she said too loudly.
Holgrave put his finger to his lips. “To be honest, it was several dreams.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Who is she, you dork?” Her whisper was rising again.
“I’ve no idea.”
Phoebe checked for eavesdroppers again. “Were they sexy dreams?”
Holgrave rolled his eyes and began to blush.
“Thought so.” She said this definitively, and the look in her eyes was telling.
“You? You’ve dreamt of her, too?” he asked.
“No. Dzolali.”
“Ah,” he replied. “That makes sense.”
Phoebe appeared offended. “What?”
“Well, you two have hit it off, as you Yanks say.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Holgrave nodded but quickly added, “I’m not being judgy. You are both consenting adults.”
Phoebe crossed her arms and took a step closer to him. “She appeared to me in a dream the first night I got here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, well, it was nice at first,” Phoebe admitted and turned red. “Great, actually.”
“I see.”
“And the next night, the same thing.” Phoebe lowered to a whisper he could barely hear as she said, “When I awoke, I was convinced that I was in love with her. I think she was getting into my room. Her scent, that water lily and vanilla, was all over everything.”
“Indeed!” Holgrave was intrigued. “The woman that visited me on both occasions had the same effect. The scent was more musky, with lavender,” he recalled with a pleasant smile that quickly disappeared when he noticed Phoebe could see it. “I was convinced I was mad.”
“But that woman, the brunette, doesn’t exist,” Phoebe said, though at that moment, she recalled the morning two days prior, when she’d walked into the kitchen and sworn that she had seen a tall, dark-haired woman at the kitchen window.
“What?” Holgrave asked, noting the expression on Phoebe’s face.
“Um, nothing,” she said, but went on. “But you didn’t wake up feeling like you were in love with this visitor,” she concluded.
“Not at all.”
Phoebe shook her head, both in disgust and dismay. “It’s too much of a coincidence that we both had similar dreams.”
“Perhaps,” he said guardedly. “I think we should run along.”
On the ride back, Phoebe sat watching the trees go by, intending to be silent, but the previous night’s encounter with Holgrave came to mind. “Hey, you weren’t developing film in the basement last night,” she said definitively.
“I was not,” he confirmed.
“What were you doing down there?”
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I was doing down there, if you tell me what you were going to do down there at half past three in the morning with a pick and a shovel.”
“Deal,” she agreed. “You first.”
“Right,” he said and pulled the Mercedes to the side of the road. He put it in park and turned to her. “My name is not Alec Holgrave.”
Phoebe stared at him, and although her psychic abilities, which now would be welcome, continued to fail her, she could see truth in his brown eyes. “Oh, that’s just stellar,” she said. Panic flashed through her and she glanced out the window, planning an escape route.
“My name is Holgrave, however,” he added, seeing that Phoebe had grown uncomfortable. “It just so happens that it’s my Christian name. My surname is Maule.”
“Why does that name keep popping up in conversation?” she asked.
“The Maule family was once quite prevalent in this area,” he explained. “In fact, we used to own the art gallery that is now in the hands of your great-aunt.”
“Really,” Phoebe said with a trace of doubt, although she felt she had no real reason to doubt him.
“My English ancestors settled here in the late seventeen hundreds. The Maules were teachers, blacksmiths, woodsmen, hunters, and even a few lawyers and doctors.”
Phoebe said nothing. She just watched his face as he spoke.
“My great-great-grandfather made the error of crossing the Pyncheons in a business deal,” he explained, looking beyond the windshield. “I’m not sure of the specifics of that initial incident, but since then, members of the Pyncheon family worked to take away everything that belonged to anyone by the name of Maule.”
“And, so, you’re what? Here for revenge on my great-aunt Hester?”
“Perhaps,” he said, though he grinned crookedly. “Over the years, the Pyncheon family took over White Lake, either by attempting to own everything or becoming an elected official, judge, and so on.”
“What does this have to do with you being in the basement?” Phoebe asked, anxiously curious.
“Your great-aunt Hester’s father arranged to, shall we say, swindle my great-grandfather, Horace Maule, out of his shares of the Butterfield Overland Mail Company.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Indeed,” he said, and quickly added, “Few have because the company was purchased nearly a century ago by Wells Fargo.”
“Okay,” she said, looking at him blankly.
“When a company is sold, the stockholders of that company either have their stocks transferred into the purchasing company, or the purchasing company buys out the stockholders’ shares. While I was going through my father’s business files, I found documents from Wells Fargo that indicated they had transferred them into their portfolio. Unfortunately, since the Butterfield stocks were acquired long before an internet, they needed the certificates in hand to verify the ownership.”
“Why didn’t your father do something about this?” Phoebe asked.
“I’m not sure,” Holgrave answered. “He can’t now, anyway. He passed away some months ago.”
“Oh! I’m sorry,” Phoebe offered.
“Thank you,” he said and sighed. “Anyway, I did peruse my grandfather’s will, and there’s specific mention of the certificates and the fact that they’re missing. In case they were recovered, my father could have redeemed them. However, since my father didn’t include any information on them in his will, it tells me that he had no luck locating them.”
“They must be worth quite a lot,” Phoebe commented.
“They are.”
“Well, how do you know they’re here?”
Holgrave looked into her eyes intently, as if pondering one more time whether he could trust the youngest Pyncheon. “My great-grandfather had a diary, in which he describes being bewitched, into freely giving them over to a Hepzibah Pyncheon, who was your great-great-aunt.”
“Do you believe it?”
Holgrave’s eyes turned hard as he looked upon her. “I didn’t until I came to stay at the house. The trickery in the parlor, though I didn’t investigate as deeply as you, was ludicrous on the surface. However, as you’ve come to know, there are odd happenings there.”
Phoebe turned away, looking into the polarized world beyond the safety glass. She crossed her arms and feet. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“Your dreams sound remarkably similar to mine,” he said.
“So?”
“And you bore the full brunt of the spirit the other night—”
“That was an electrical shock!” she retorted, her voice filling the cabin of the Mercedes.
“—and it knocked you on your arse for a few hours,” he went on, not raising his voice. “I watched you for those hours. You dreamt.”
“Again, so?”
“What did you dream about?”
“What difference does it make to you?” she asked, exasperatedly raising her hands up, then letting them drop to her legs with a slap.
“I
don’t wish to see anything happen to you,” he said.
“Same question.”
“Pardon me for saying so, Ms. Pyncheon,” he said, quite riled himself, “but you are not protected against your great-aunt’s power.”
“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” Phoebe said.
Holgrave reached to his neck, unfastened the highest button, and reached in. “This is a protection stone against black magic.” He withdrew a pendant on the end of a thick silver chain. It was a circular piece of black rock with designs carved upon it.
“You’re a crazy person,” she said hotly.
Holgrave pushed on as if she had not said a word. “On the front of the charm here, is a Feng Shui symbol.”
Phoebe laughed harshly. “I don’t need help rearranging the fuckin’ furniture.”
“Typical Yank!” Holgrave returned with equal fire. “All you people do is glean your culture from the rest of the world, commercialize it, redefine and defile it, all the while stubbornly ignorant of any meaning!”
Phoebe, stunned, had no retort.
Holgrave leaned closer so she could see the charm. The outer edges of the medallion featured writing in a language that Phoebe did not recognize. The center was taken up by what resembled a steering wheel of a ship.
“Each point of the wheel represents a type of black magic,” Holgrave explained. He turned the charm around, revealing the design carved into it. To Phoebe, it looked like two capital As, with one flipped upside-down and laid upon the other, the points of which touched the outer circle. “This side is basically the same thing, but the design is Pagan.”
“So?” Phoebe ventured to ask, though she kept her voice quiet.
“According to my great-grandfather’s diary, the charm was made by a Pagan priest of white magic and blessed by his wife, a white witch.”
“Dude,” Phoebe said in a tone of disbelief. She leaned against the door and crossed her arms, thinking about bolting from the car again.
Holgrave removed the necklace and held it in his hand. “Ms. Pyncheon, if you can honestly tell me that you can rationally explain everything you’ve seen and experienced while you’ve been at the House of the Seven Gables, then by all means, don’t allow me to lend this to you for a night.”
Phoebe’s first reaction was to take it in her fingers for a closer inspection.
“Even if all you wish to do is humor me, then wear it around your neck for a day,” he said and put the Mercedes in gear. He pulled out into the narrow road, continuing their short journey back to the house. “If you don’t see any difference in your dreams tonight, or perhaps if you come to realize that your love for Dzolali is true, then you may throw that charm at my skull at breakfast.”
Phoebe, realizing they would come into view of the house, quickly placed it around her neck and stuffed the charm under her t-shirt. Around the last bend, they could see a strange car in front. One of the coven had another client in the parlor. As they drove by, they could see both Hester and Glendarah sitting on the porch. Their expressionless faces turned as the Mercedes rolled past.
“What should we tell them?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s likely that they will soon discover our gallery visit,” Holgrave said. “I recommend that we simply say that we were out for a drive and admit to stopping in for a look. Nothing more.”
Phoebe thought of something else. “Should we mention the prices we saw on that stuff to Ned? He might want to know he’s getting ripped off.”
“I would say keep that under your bonnet for a bit longer,” he suggested.
Holgrave parked the Mercedes, and he and Phoebe walked to the house. The raven greeted them in its usual manner, while Hester and Glendarah continued to stare in their direction with unreadable faces.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Holgrave greeted them.
Both returned it politely enough. To Phoebe, however, Hester was not as gracious.
“Phoebe, I don’t wish to suggest that you aren’t free to leave the premises,” Hester said, “but do not allow your work to suffer. Alva is awaiting your presence in the kitchen.”
“Uh, okay,” Phoebe answered and followed Holgrave through the front door. “On it,” she called over her shoulder.
Holgrave turned to Phoebe as they arrived at the staircase. “Remember to call me Alec.”
“Yes, Mr. Holgrave,” Phoebe replied sweetly.
“I think I shall retrieve my cameras and make myself scarce until dinner,” he said with a wary grin.
Phoebe nodded and went to the kitchen. Alva was indeed well into the task of preparing that evening’s dinner, so Phoebe took up her role as assistant, though there was much on her mind.
18
The Charmed
With the dining room table prepared, Phoebe returned to her bedroom and contemplated her dress for the evening. She sifted through the extravagant collection that Dzolali had given her, trying to decide, though it had occurred to her that, out of protest, she should present herself at the table ‘as is,’ in the jeans and t-shirt she had been wearing all day.
Not much of a protest if Dzolali has no idea what I’m protesting, she thought.
After everything she and Holgrave Maule had discovered and talked about that day, Phoebe had felt her desire and feelings for Dzolali weaken. Holgrave’s words had rattled around in her mind since their return to the house, and Phoebe found herself worrying about her reaction to seeing the woman.
She was just about to go with the ‘as is’ idea when she found a dress that would work. It was a light salmon color with a narrow skirt that went to her shins and a white lace collar that encompassed her neck. She put it on, forewent the visit to Dzolali’s room for jewelry, and handled her own makeup. It was already five to seven.
Phoebe slipped on the pumps that Dzolali thought would go with everything and quickly went upstairs. As she suspected, Dzolali, Onenspek, and Holgrave were already seated. Dzolali’s face brightened when she laid eyes on Phoebe, but Phoebe kept her own smile restrained.
“Pardon me, everyone,” Phoebe greeted as she walked in.
“Ah, there you are,” replied Hester.
Phoebe just smiled, trying not to meet Dzolali’s eyes, or anyone’s for that matter. She did catch a glimpse of Ned Onenspek’s face and bit her lip to stifle a gasp. His chin was bright red and purple from her uppercut, and his right eye was similarly colored, and heavily swollen. The assaulted eyelid was twice its usual size, and Phoebe doubted if the man could open it beyond halfway.
Good, Phoebe thought, remembering what he had done to earn those bruises. She had covered the marks at her throat with foundation. As casual conversation went on around her, Phoebe ate in silence. At one point, Onenspek’s eye met hers. Phoebe did not look away. Ned gave a smile which might have been interpreted by anyone else at the table as apologetic. Not receiving anything from Phoebe but a cool stare, Ned turned his attention back to his food.
Dzolali noticed this interaction and caught Phoebe’s eyes. The two women looked at each other for several breaths. Phoebe realized that she was not overcome with the feeling of adoration that she’d had the previous day. Attractiveness, certainly, but the insane need to be with her was gone. Equally surprising to Phoebe was the knowledge that she was happy about this development. A sense of freedom had returned to her. She smiled at the Latina triumphantly and gave her a wink.
Dzolali returned the smile, though Phoebe thought it appeared to be mocking her.
Dinner concluded as per usual, just after the stroke of eight, and Phoebe began to clear the table, again attempting to avoid everyone’s eyes, except Holgrave’s. As she bid him a good evening and picked up his plate, she felt a gentle tap on the shoulder.
“Pardon me, Ms. Pyncheon.” It was Ned Onenspek.
Phoebe looked at him, her face carefully free of expression, though her fing
ers did clench around a steak knife.
“I cannot say how terribly sorry I am for my behavior yesterday,” he said with a lisp, brought on by the swelling of his mouth on the right side.
A torrent of expletives rained through Phoebe’s mind, though from his being, she could read that he was genuinely sorry. Additionally, Dzolali had just stepped to Onenspek’s left and was watching Phoebe’s face intently, apparently curious about Phoebe’s response. But there was something else in Dzolali’s face, something new and suspicious.
“I understand, Mr. Onenspek,” Phoebe settled on, and turned to her work, loading another pile of dishes into the dumbwaiter. For a long moment, she was convinced that Dzolali was going to send Ned on his way and stop to talk with Phoebe.
When Phoebe turned around, she found herself alone. She surprised herself by breathing a sigh of relief. She reached toward her chest to take hold of the amulet Holgrave had lent her, but Phoebe found that it was already out, having slipped out of the bodice when she leaned over as she served dinner, no doubt.
So that’s what Dzolali was looking at. Could she even know what it is?
“Of course she knows what it is,” Phoebe answered herself. She finished her tasks in the dining room and hesitated before leaving. She tucked the charm inside her dress and walked briskly to her bedroom.
When she opened the door, Dzolali was there. Her back was to the door, and she was staring out the window.
Phoebe, though startled, attempted to act casual. “Hi!” she greeted her.
Dzolali turned and stepped around the bed. Her form-fitting black dress accentuated her attributes, and Phoebe felt her heart flutter as the Latina approached.
“Haven’t seen you all day, dear,” Dzolali greeted. Without halting, she reached out and pulled Phoebe to her, then planted a kiss on her lips.
Phoebe’s breath left her lungs. Dzolali’s grip was tight, folding around her body at the bottom of her rib cage. Her lips were warm, her scent as strong as her passion.
