So Enchanting

by Connie Brockway

  “You’ve seen so much of the world, Hayden, and I so little.” She sounded doubtful, as though she were wondering whether they could ever truly suit.

  He couldn’t have that.

  “Yes, but you’ve seen magic,” he reminded her, and it said much about the state of his heart that he actually meant it. “And I haven’t.”

  “You have,” she said, turning to regard him seriously. “The Eiffel Tower, motorcars…those are examples of true magic, the type of magic that transforms the world, not pictures falling from a wall.”

  With more animation, she went on. “Did you know that with something called the roentgen ray it is possible to see the structure inside the human living body without, er, opening it up?” She blushed. “I’m sorry. Of course you would. You’d be up on all these things.”

  Oh, dear. He’d never heard of the roentgen ray. “Ah, well…” He couldn’t lie to her, but he could prevaricate. “Why would one want to do such a thing? It seems a little, well, vulgar, doesn’t it?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I suppose,” she said. Luckily, she abandoned the topic, as they’d reached the big old tom. Amelie bent down and made a little chucking sound.

  “Ought you to try to coax it to you, Amelie?” he asked worriedly. “It looks feral.”

  Amelie smiled. “I suspect it is, but I don’t worry.”

  “Why not?”

  “As I told you, animals respond to me. They would never hurt me. We have a sort of bond.”

  “You must have quite a menagerie of pets,” he said.

  “No. None,” she said sadly. “Fanny…well, I don’t think she actively dislikes them, but she can’t abide being near them. She says they make her sneeze.”

  From the bedroom above came the sound of voices rising in a heated conversation. The cat swiveled its one good ear toward the sound and commenced purring. From underneath the shade of some bright green lettuces trundled a hedgehog, another in close pursuit. Very close pursuit. The one behind caught up to the smaller one and was— Oh, my.

  Hastily, Hayden gripped Amelie’s elbow and spun her around, heading back toward the house. She didn’t seem to take anything amiss. Hayden glanced over his shoulder. Who would have thought hedgehogs would be such randy little blighters?

  “Have you seen the cinematograph?” Amelie asked.

  Hayden nodded. Here, at last, was a topic with which he was well acquainted, the topic of entertainment. “Oh, yes. Moving pictures. They’re all the rage.”

  She gazed at him as though he were a god stepped down from Olympus to reveal the secrets of paradise. “Have you drunk a Coca-Cola? Have you ridden in the London underground electric rail cars? Have you been to the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City?”

  He laughed at her eagerness. She was utterly charming, so fresh, so spontaneous, so curious about everything, so, well, so inexperienced. He frowned. She might be inexperienced, but she was certainly better informed than he was. Of course, what else was there to do here if one didn’t fish or hunt? “No, no, and no.”

  She halted, regarding him in surprise. “Why ever not? If I were you and had your opportunities available to me, I would take full advantage of them to experience everything the world has to offer.” She sounded, if not precisely critical, dismayed.

  Hayden was unused to such a reaction. Generally, people were apt to praise him.

  But for what? he wondered. Humor, urbanity, but mostly grooming. Not that grooming wasn’t important, but perhaps he shouldn’t be satisfied to be defined by the cut of his coat. Amelie deserved the best of him. In all things.

  Yes. He would read up on the roentgen ray. Though what it could possibly be any good— “Diagnostics,” he announced, startling Amelie.

  “Pardon me?”

  “The roentgen rays. They could be used to locate breaks in the bone, the degree and severity of them.”

  “Oh, Hayden, that is clever,” she said, her admiration shining in her face.

  He preened a bit. He’d always had an interest in medicine. Maybe he would take it up as a hobby or something, or be an academician, since one might find practicing medicine difficult if one were to keel over every time some bleeding blighter popped into the surgery.

  He’d think about it later.

  Right now, he wanted nothing more than to enjoy being with Amelie.

  Chapter 24

  What an awful day, Grey thought morosely, staring out the window, where a battalion of chimney swifts dove in and out of his view. Not only had he been laid flat by a flowerpot and rendered incapable of navigating under his own power, but he’d passed out like a girl. When he’d come to again, it had been to find himself piled awkwardly into a highly aromatic cart, being transported down the hall by Violet and Ploddy.

  As his demand that they stop had been completely ignored, he stayed there until they reached the bottom of the stairs, at which point it became evident even to the stubborn, iron-willed Juno overseeing their progress that they weren’t going to get any farther with their prisoner.

  With Ploddy’s aid, he’d managed to struggle out of the cart, which was then hauled up the stairs ahead of him. Then, under her hard and unsympathetic eye, he’d pulled himself step by step up the seventeen risers before collapsing once more into the cart.

  And now, now he lay between pristine linen bedsheets, a new bandage wrapped around his throbbing head, utterly and completely in the siren’s clutches. He hated feeling so powerless. It brought back too many memories of arguments with his father, recalled too many episodes of impotent adolescent rage played out in reeking spiritualist dens.

  Adding to his misery, he was now beholden to her. And she was nowhere to be seen. Damn the woman. Didn’t she have a particle of human feeling? She ought to be here gloating, not flouncing about elsewhere. He would have been, had the situation been reversed. He would have been smiling down at him, smoothing back the hair from his brow, laying cool fingers to his cheek, and jeering.

  The blazes with her. He didn’t have time to satisfy her need to feel superior anyway. Because that urn could have killed Amelie Chase, and someone might be responsible for its falling, and, damn it all, she was right: It was his responsibility to ascertain where the threat came from—if there was a threat—which would be bloody hard to do lying in bed.

  He’d been so certain Fanny had written the letter summoning him to Little Firkin. It made sense. She’d been trying to escape her prison without abandoning her charge.

  But if the urn hadn’t toppled over by itself, then his theory was wrong and Amelie stood in grave danger. But who would want to kill the girl? The throbbing in his head grew.

  A light tap on the door interrupted his thoughts. He pushed himself higher on the pillows before calling for Fanny to enter. It had to be her. Everyone else pussyfooted around him.

  It was.

  She looked him over and then turned to someone behind her and motioned. A crone entered his room. There really was no better word to describe the small, wizened female festooned with an extraordinary array of what appeared to be old tablecloths. She looked familiar. Ah, yes, she was the old woman who’d challenged Amelie Chase to an incantation contest.

  The crone sailed into the room with an exultant air, trailing crumbs and cat hair. She looked like a high priestess of some alien culture who’d just gotten word there was a human sacrifice available for the night’s festivities. Violet followed her in.

  “This is Grammy Beadle.” Fanny spoke without preface. “She is here to see to your head.”

  Dumbstruck, Grey looked at Fanny. Her face wore a closed, uncompromising expression.

  Grammy smirked.

  “You have hired a witch to see to my wound,” he said, just to make sure he had it right. “Knowing my views on witchcraft, necromancers, spiritualists, and the rest of the world’s snake-oil salesmen.”

  “Snake oil’s no good fer a cracked skull, young man,” Grammy said with obvious disgust.

  “I don’t need her,” Grey told Fanny. “It’
s not the first time I’ve been knocked unconscious. I know a thing or two about the signs of a concussion.”

  “You are the patient here. Be quiet,” Fanny replied calmly, folding her hands at her waist like a schoolteacher dealing with a tiresome student. “Grammy is a talented herbalist.”

  “Don’t you be callin’ Grammy names!” Violet said sharply.

  “Now, now, lass,” Grammy said soothingly. “I’ll deal with this.”

  “An herbalist is one who makes poultices and tinctures from herbs and green growing things,” Fanny explained to Violet.

  Violet snickered. “Ach. Any witch worth her mettle knows aboot sech things.”

  “And potions,” Grammy put in severely, fearing her witchly light was being dimmed. “Don’t ferget the potions. Not limited to salves and teas, I ain’t.”

  “And potions,” Fanny dutifully amended.

  “She’ll poison me,” Grey protested, his head pounding like Thor’s anvil beneath the hammer.

  “Perhaps.” Fanny didn’t sound terribly concerned. “Or she might rid you of your headache.”

  “I’ll need a pot filled with boiling water,” Grammy told Fanny.

  In turn, Fanny nodded at Ploddy, hovering uselessly by the door. “Have Miss Oglethorpe bring up a pot of boiling water,” she said.

  “Can’t,” Ploddy intoned. “The Oglethorpe left as soon as the witch crossed the threshold. Said one witch was enough, wouldn’t stand two, and she’s off to report yer doin’s to the vicar. Says she’ll be back when one or t’other leaves. Said that fer herself, she didn’t care which witch went, but I was to remind you that the young witch might not be as set in her evil ways as the old one.”

  Fanny’s composed demeanor showed a crack. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, muttering, “By all that’s holy.”

  “Not exactly, mum,” Ploddy corrected. At Fanny’s expression, Grey started to chuckle, which bloody well hurt and turned into a moan.

  “Get me that boiling water, Ploddy.”

  The old man disappeared.

  Apparently, the introductions were over, for with a quick, workmanlike clap of her hands, Grammy came to the side of the bed and leaned over him. She smelled of onions and cat.

  Her small eyes, nearly hidden beneath the overhanging lids, grew smaller still as she peered at him. Before he could react, she reached out and stuck her thumb and forefinger above and below his right eye socket, wrenching his eye open as far as it would go. Then, grabbing his chin in a pincerlike grip with her other hand, she wrested his head around until he was facing directly into the brutal light. She leaned even closer, her gimlet eye inches from his.

  “Look ta th’ right,” she commanded.

  This was ridiculous. Gentleman or not, subjecting himself to the ministrations of the local witch was beyond what good manners demanded. The light seared his skull.

  “My good woman—”

  “Look ta th’ right, ye great lummox!’ Grammy said, bringing her point home by jabbing her elbow into his chest.

  “Ow!” He looked to the right.

  “Now left.”

  He looked left and caught sight of Fanny watching with imperious indifference.

  “Up, then down.”

  “For the love of—”

  “Up. And. Down.”

  Churlishly, he acquiesced.

  She grunted, released her death hold on his head, and began poking his wound with sharp-tipped, shriveled fingers.

  He endured with commendable stoicism, his gaze locked on Fanny. She would pay for this indignity.

  Finally satisfied, the old lady turned toward her granddaughter. “Violet, fetch me some pussytoes and feverfew, a bit of greenswort, and a nice handful of St. Joe’s weed.”

  With an alacrity Grey had yet to witness in the girl, Violet took off out the door. Grammy continued peering, muttering, and poking.

  “I hope you are satisfied,” Grey said to Fanny in his coldest voice.

  She didn’t look a bit intimidated. But then, neither had Grammy nor even that slip of a girl Violet. In fact, everyone in the damn house, including his own nephew, seemed summarily unimpressed with his bad temper. And he was in a bad temper. Very bad.

  He hated being at the mercy of a little pain. She would think him weak, like the vapid Alphonse or that cold fish McGowan, men not of her caliber, unworthy of testing her mettle. That she didn’t seem in the least disconcerted by his temper, his words, or his tone only made his case for him. She considered him negligible.

  Bloody hell.

  She didn’t answer him, instead turning to leave the room.

  “Where are you go— Ah!”

  She glanced back. “Shouting will only make your head throb worse. I am going to get my sewing basket.”

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “You are still oozing blood. If I do not stitch up that wound you will have a very nasty scar.”

  Dear God, the woman was going to poke him full of holes. Was there no end to her sadism? First the witch, now a needle?

  “I assure you, ma’am, I do not have the least interest in whether or not I am scarred.”

  “I doubt that,” she said primly, and before he could protest she continued, “I suspect you would like a big, mean, horrifying scar very well. But since you are in my house and under my care, you will abide by my decisions, and I have decided I do not want you to have a disfiguring scar.”

  “‘Vanity, thy name is woman,’” he paraphrased darkly.

  “Why not? That’s as good a reason as any I can come up with as to why I care,” she said, and with that enigmatic statement she left, passing Violet.

  The girl came in out of breath from running, her apron filled with forage. Ploddy followed her at a more sedate pace, carrying a china teapot, a tendril of steam rising from the spout.

  “Here ye be, Grammy.”

  The old lady nodded, digging into the stained velvet pouch hanging from a cord around her waist and withdrawing a small mortar and pestle. Humming, she looked over the vegetation Violet held out for her inspection. She plucked a few leaves, shredded them into the mortar, and began grinding them into a paste.

  Grey watched her, trying to ignore the bludgeoning pain in his head. “Do you really believe yourself to be imbued with special powers?” he asked after a moment.

  “Aye, I am,” she replied absently, then, “Marquardt Ploddy, set that pot down and get out of here before I turns you into a toad. Just trying to shirk some work is all you’re doin’ here.”

  Ploddy needed no further encouragement.

  “You actually think you can cast spells, place hexes on people…make love potions?”

  “Ayup.” Grammy nodded. “A love potion’ll cost ye a quid. Bit steep, I admit, but it’s guaranteed.”

  “No. Oh, no,” Grey said. “You misunderstand. I don’t need a love potion.”

  “Never win her without one, not with yer lack of charm,” Grammy said calmly.

  “Win her? I don’t want to win her,” Grey protested, and then, because he didn’t want the old biddy thinking he was thinking about Fanny, added, “Besides, I don’t know to whom you are referring.”

  “Men,” she muttered, then, “When ye’re done playing blindman’s buff by yer lonesome,” she said, “you ken send word to me by Violet. And it’ll still be a quid.”

  She took the lid off the teapot and dumped the greenish gray contents from the mortar into it. A sweet, pleasant-smelling steam rose. After a moment, she poured out a saucerful of the foul-looking matter and handed it to him.

  “Drink the first ’alf now and the second ’alf in a few minutes after it’s ’ad a chance to steep a bit.”

  “Really, I’m feeling—”

  “Drink,” she commanded, advancing on him with an outstretched claw.

  He drank. Happily, it tasted better than it looked. He handed her the half-empty saucer and sank back against the pillows.

  “Girl!” Grammy snapped her fingers.

  At once, Violet da
rted forward, dragging a small fiddle-backed chair with her. Arranging her myriad tablecloth skirts with a waggle of her scrawny behind, Grammy settled down on it like a brooding hen. “Better yet?”

  Astonishingly, Grey had already begun to feel better. The thundering ache in his head was still there, but more like thunder on the horizon, distant and less acute. He also felt a bit light limbed.

  “What is in that brew?” he asked.

  “Like I’d tell you,” she scoffed. “Prettier faces than yers have tried to pry me secrets from me.”

  “I don’t have a pretty face.”

  She looked him up and down with a critical eye. “True enough.”

  Grey laughed. Once again, it was a mistake.

  Chapter 25

  After Grey finished moaning—bringing not a hint of sympathy to Grammy’s raisinlike eye (what was wrong with the women in this town that they were devoid of every feminine impulse toward charity?)—he collapsed back on the pillows. Happily, the pain had been short-lived, and it occurred to him that in Grammy Beadle he had a font of information, in essence a star witness ready for cross-examination.

  “Did you push that urn off the balcony rail?”

  A look of astonishment spread over Grammy’s face. “No,” she said. “Are ye daft? Why’d I do a thing like that?”

  “Because it is rumored that you want to be the only witch hereabouts,” he said.

  “That’s right,” she admitted. “And I will be, too. Once Amelie Chase leaves.”

  “Which is precisely why someone might suspect you of trying to hasten that day by upturning an urn onto the girl.”

  “Huh,” Grammy said, and stared at nothing for so long a time that Grey became convinced that the notion of murdering Amelie was only just now occurring to her, and that she thought the idea might have some merit. Then, sighing, she shook her head. “Naw. In the end, it would only make things harder fer me.”

  “Because of the threat of prison,” he suggested.