by Nancy Warren
Coming into their complex was a bit like entering Aladdin’s cave of wonders. The furniture was opulent, and paintings, no doubt worth a fortune, hung from the walls.
Alfred, Christopher and Theodore were headed to a poker game and soon left. Hester and Carlos sat together while she helped him knit a couple more rows and then decreed he was doing much better and they should go for a walk and enjoy the night air. Mabel and Clara decided to watch a film in Clara’s room and couldn’t decide between a new movie or an old one.
After several minutes of dithering, Sylvia coldly suggested that, since they had all night, they had time to watch both films. They cast a glance at her and scuttled away.
Finally, everyone was gone, and only then did Sylvia take me and Gran into her suite of rooms. I’d been here often enough that I no longer marveled at how much like a glamorous film set she kept her private space.
After making sure her door was shut, she took down a Cubist painting she’d been given back in the day. It wasn’t a Picasso; it was from the school of. I got the feeling she could have had the real thing and was irked that she hadn’t bought a Picasso when his paintings went for about twenty-five bucks. This “school of” guy was never going to hang in a world-famous gallery, but as a cover for a safe, it wasn’t bad.
Even though we were all alone, she still glanced around to double-check and then punched in some complicated security code. She opened the safe, and I held my breath. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help myself. How often does a person get to look inside the safe of a very wealthy vampire?
Chapter 2
The contents of that safe were almost as exciting as my imagination had suggested. There was a stack of gold bricks in there, some small chests, envelopes that I suspected contained stock certificates and probably deeds of property, and who knew what else. And then, from the very back, she pulled out a set of jewelry boxes.
Gran and I looked at each other, and I could see my grandmother’s eyes dancing with excitement. Sylvia stroked the top of the largest box the way she would a favorite pet and then opened it, stared at the contents with a little smile, and passed it towards me.
I’d expected something fabulous, but even so, I gasped. The necklace was without doubt the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’d ever seen. Yes, I’d seen the Crown Jewels, and I’m not going to pretend that the Koh-i-Noor isn’t amazing, but a big, honking diamond the size of an ostrich egg in a crown has a different kind of beauty than a set of jewels designed by Cartier for an actress in the 1920s. It was never meant to denote royalty. This piece was all about glamour in a time when glamour meant something, as Sylvia would be the first to tell you.
It was a necklace of diamonds and strategically placed emeralds. The large emerald was off-center, sort of the way you might tie a bow to the side. Surrounding it were a couple of baguette-cut emeralds, and the whole thing was set in a collar of diamonds that sparkled like nothing I’d ever seen before. I almost felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. She seemed quite pleased at my stunned response.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
“I cannot even begin to tell you how beautiful this is.”
She put that box down and opened the rest: matching earrings, bracelets for each wrist, and an emerald and diamond ring.
I was overwhelmed. Also panicked.
“Sylvia, I can’t go out in public wearing all this stuff. I’d be terrified.”
“Naturally, on the night of the gala, we’ll drive you in the Bentley and bring you home again afterward. During the gala there will, of course, be tight security. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
My eyes opened wide. “You’re coming too?” This seemed like a very bad idea. I glanced at Gran, hoping she could talk Sylvia out of this crazy carpool, but she seemed like she was completely on board.
“It’ll be such an adventure. Of course, we won’t go to the gala. But we can watch you walk up the red carpet.”
“Red carpet?”
“Yes. At St. Peter’s College. It’s going to be so beautiful.”
St. Peter’s College was one of the oldest colleges in Oxford, and that was saying something. The earliest part of the college dated back to the middle ages. That much I knew. I’d peeked through the gates when I’d walked by and admired the ancient spire and the gorgeous gardens. Now I was going to enter the gates in a Bentley and walk into the college on a red carpet.
I felt like I was sinking deeper and deeper in quicksand. “How big is this shindig?”
Sylvia looked pained. Those famous eyes half-closed as though the very sight of me was painful to her. “The press and dignitaries as well as influential movie people have been invited.”
“I’m not sure I can hang around with a bunch of famous rich people and pretend to be your heir. I’m not an actress.”
She stiffened. “You are my heir. Although how you could be when you have so little sense of style is completely beyond me. You will go to the meeting, where you will sign the contracts that I will naturally have looked over first. Then, you’ll wear the jewels at the gala.”
“What if I trip or something?” I asked in a nervous voice. I was more the jeans and sweater type. She looked me up and down, and I knew she was thinking I was the jeans and sweater type too.
“We’ve a little time. We must practice.”
I didn’t like the sound of this. “Practice what?”
“Lucy. If you are going to wear these jewels, you will wear them properly. Now—” She reached out and tilted my chin up. “You’ve quite a nice neck. Not, of course, as lovely as mine, which was once likened to the stem of a lily, but acceptable if you hold your head up properly. Also, the shoulders. The spine must be lovely and straight. What you really need is a full training in the Alexander Technique, but there isn’t time.”
“The Alexander Technique?” I’d heard of it but thought it was a style of acting, like the Stanislavski Method.
“Yes. The Alexander Technique is a full regimen that teaches movement and breathwork. It was essential to my acting success. The training might help you to stand and move with more grace.”
She was killing me with the compliments.
She studied me. “You’ll wear a simple gown. Black, of course, to emphasize the jewels. Your hair won’t be exactly the way I wore it when I filmed The Professor’s Wife. You haven’t the bone structure, but I have an idea.”
And it was very clear that I wasn’t going to have any say in my own appearance for this gala.
“The dressmaker is working on your evening gown now. Your role is quite simple. You will pose. You will smile. You will make sure the jewels are shown off to perfection. You will mingle and say the words I will script for you. And then you will slip away.”
Before I could stop her, Sylvia took the beautiful necklace out of the box and placed it around my neck. I could see in her eyes that she didn’t want to do it, and she could no doubt see in my eyes that I didn’t want her to do it. This was her necklace, her fame and her career, not mine. The necklace felt cool and heavy and foreign around my neck. The earrings hung heavily from my lobes, and when she clasped the two bracelets around my wrists, they felt like shackles. She slipped the ring on last and made a face when she saw the state of my nails. To Gran, she said, “Make a note that she’ll need a manicure.”
Gran nodded and did as she was bid. I didn’t like that the undead movie star was turning my grandmother into a personal secretary, but Gran seemed so thrilled that I didn’t say anything. I would have loved to take just one glimpse of what I looked like in a mirror, but of course, down here, there were no mirrors. It would be pointless. Soon enough I’d be able to see what the set looked like on me. No doubt there’d be plenty of photographs snapped at this gala. My mind shied away from that idea.
Sylvia also seemed to be thinking ahead to when I’d be the human mannequin whose only purpose was to display these jewels to advantage. She said in a commanding tone, “Now. Remember what I said.” She put her hand on t
op of my head and plucked at a lock of hair. “There is a rope attached to the top of your head, and it is pulling you gently upward.” I felt it, too. Like I was a human puppet. And I knew who was pulling the strings.
Still, I did as she told me and stood straighter. “And the shoulders back,” she said. “And the hips slightly forward.”
This was like some weird game where you impersonated a robot. That’s how I felt, jerking back and forth. I felt extremely uncomfortable, but she nodded. “And now we walk.”
I barely prevented myself from rolling my eyes. I was tired, it was after midnight, and I already knew how to walk. However, I had learned with Sylvia that it was easier and quicker to do her bidding. Obligingly, I walked across the living space and back again.
“What?” I asked, seeing her expression.
“It pains me. It absolutely pains me to watch young women walk these days. Are you hiking a mountain? Are you an explorer in the Arctic on snowshoes?”
I didn’t answer her because these were obviously rhetorical questions and not the most polite ones at that. She waved her hand, bending only at the wrist as though she were conducting a ballet. “Light on the feet. We don’t march. We glide.” And then she demonstrated. She looked magnificent. There was no doubt about it. She walked like a runway model. Or a movie star. But I wasn’t a movie star, and I had no pretense to be one. I was an American woman who sold wool for a living and wore hand-knit sweaters. I was struggling enough to knit, never mind glide.
But she pierced me with a steely gaze. “Now do what I just did.”
Oh yeah, that was going to happen. I did my best. I imagined this rope was pulling me up. I pushed my shoulders back, my hips forward, took a few jerky steps, and I nearly fell over.
She shook her head. To Gran, she said, “What is this passion among young women to wear boots and trousers and go about looking like men?”
“Times change, Syliva,” Gran reminded her gently. “And fashion changes with them.”
“Not always for the better.”
I might not be an expert in fashion history but I’d take my ‘men’s clothes’ any day over corsets and girdles. However, I wisely kept my mouth shut.
“Never mind, when you get up to your apartment, you must practice on your high heels.”
Of course, this torture could only get worse. I couldn’t manage to walk across the room looking like her in my comfortable boots. How on earth could I manage in high heels? Besides, I didn’t actually own any. I had some low-heeled pumps. That was it. Somehow, I didn’t think my pumps would suit Sylvia’s plan to turn me into a pale version of her for one night.
“I have to be honest, Sylvia. I don’t think I can pull this off.”
Her eyes were cold and very hard. That emerald had nothing on her. “You will do it because you promised me you would. And I am relying on you.”
I bit my lip. I remembered all the nice things she’d done for me. All the beautiful sweaters she’d knitted, and all the times she’d done my hair and lent me jewelry—not the priceless stuff though—and I weakened. I knew this film remake meant the world to her.
“Okay. But please don’t expect miracles. I’ll never be you, Sylvia.”
She laughed softly. “Naturally. But one must do one’s best.”
As I went back upstairs, I wondered how I had ever been talked into this mess.
And why did I have this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was going to go wrong?
Chapter 3
“What on earth are you doing?” a cool, critical voice demanded.
I nearly jumped out of my skin. I hadn’t heard the bell ring. That wonderful warning bell that told me someone was entering my shop. I’d thought I was all alone with the wools and patterns.
I’d been practicing walking, and of all the people to catch me at it, looking like I was rehearsing for some Milan runway show, did it have to be Margaret Twigg? Margaret was a witch who was my sometime mentor and always sarcastic and rude about it. I wasn’t about to tell her about Sylvia and the gala, so I said, “I got bored. It was something I saw on YouTube.”
Her piercing, blue eyes lit with sarcastic humor. “Have we been watching weddings? Practicing that glide down the aisle, were you?”
It was better she thought that than the truth. “Something like that.”
Her lips curved in a superior smile. Her corkscrewed, gray hair jumped up and down as though it was laughing at me. “It’s usually advisable to have a groom lined up before practicing that walk down the aisle.”
Oh, ha ha ha. Little did she know. I could have a wedding with a pretty amazing groom if I wanted one.
The trouble was that marriage with the undead came with a whole set of problems that were a lot more sticky than what to do when you got two identical blenders as wedding presents and didn’t want either of them.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked her. I doubted she was here for knitting needles.
“I’m glad you’re alone,” she said, which immediately made me wish I wasn’t. If there was something Margaret Twigg had to tell me that no one else could hear, it was probably something I didn’t want to know about. She came closer and dropped her voice. Oh, this was really making me nervous. “It’s time for you to choose your athame.”
When I looked at her blankly, she added, “Your ceremonial dagger.”
I could feel the expression of horror pull my facial muscles into some sort of grotesque mask. “My what?”
“Oh, come on,” she snapped. “You can’t be that clueless.” And then she looked at me. “Well, actually, you can. But I wish you’d try a little harder, Lucy. The athame is an important part of your training.”
The word dagger was flashing on and off in my head like a neon sign. I shook my head. “I’m a pacifist. My body is a no-weapons zone.”
She regarded me from her sharp blue eyes as though I was being a tedious toddler. “An athame is not a weapon. It’s symbolic. Metaphoric, if you like. The athame cuts away lies and reveals the truth. It helps you focus your power and your magic.”
Okay, that didn’t sound so bad. And there were a lot of times I could use such a tool. I looked at the bag she carried at her side. “Are you going to give it to me now?”
She shuddered and took a step back. “I will never forgive your grandmother for not teaching you even the most basic rudiments of our craft.”
And I’d never forgive her for dissing my grandmother every chance she got. I must have looked as steely as I felt, for she backed down and said, “Anyway, that’s not the point. I can’t give you your athame. No one can. You must choose each other.”
I didn’t want to choose something with a pointy end that could hurt anyone, ceremonial or not.
She said, “Make sure you’ve got a few hours free tomorrow morning.”
“I have a business to run,” I reminded her.
She glanced around the shop, empty but for the two of us. “Perhaps you could tear yourself away. Don’t you have staff?”
No doubt she knew very well that on Saturdays I did have help. A couple of students from Cardinal College, Polly and Scarlett, worked Saturday mornings, and they could definitely manage fine without me. Still, I didn’t want to make it too easy for her. “I’ll see if I can clear my schedule.”
“Do. We’re going shopping.”
“For daggers.”
She nodded once.
And then she left. This time I did hear the bells. It sounded to me like they were cheering that she was leaving. I felt like cheering too.
I tried to think of an excuse not to go dagger shopping. I considered feigning illness, telling her I had too much work, that my horoscope was inauspicious, but in the end, it was easier to do what Margaret Twigg wanted me to do. If I got out of it tomorrow, she’d only make my life more miserable until I succumbed. Easier to do it the first time out.
So Saturday morning I left Polly and Scarlett to run Cardinal Woolsey’s while Margaret Twigg, my cous
in Violet and my great-aunt Lavinia and I went shopping.
Violet drove. I thought at first we were headed for Glastonbury. We were definitely headed in that direction, but Margaret told her to turn off onto one of those country roads so narrow that if a car comes the other way, one of the drivers has to back the car up until there’s room to pull over and let the other car pass.
Then we turned into another lane, passed a pub called The Green Man and pulled up in front of an obscure little shop in a tiny village that didn’t appear to have a name. It certainly didn’t have any road signs or a billboard saying, Welcome to Crazy Magic Town. One minute we were driving along a country road, and the next minute there were cottages and houses and a street of shops and the pub, just like any other village in the Cotswolds.
The shop sign was so old, the hand-painted picture on the wooden sign had faded. I could make out a frog sitting on a globe, or maybe that was supposed to be a crystal ball. The shop was called Eye of Newt.
In the front window was a skull, books of shadows, crystals, feathers and printed spells. A Ouija board packaged like a board game. I hadn’t been a witch as long as my companions, but this looked like a cheesy tourist shop. When we walked in and I saw the plastic cauldron that was a fountain with multicolored water spewing up, I was convinced this was more toy store than witch emporium. I began to relax. If we bought something here, no doubt my ceremonial dagger would be plastic and made in China.
A small, wizened man was sitting behind the counter, idly playing with a pack of cards. He glanced up when we entered, with the typical shopkeeper’s expression and the words “May I help you?” on his lips. I knew because I was an expert at that very same expression and those very same words, having spoken them probably a hundred times a day. But he barely got past the “May I” when he recognized who was calling. He came forward, deferential, practically bowing at the waist in front of Margaret Twigg. “Mistress, you are most welcome.”
