Curses Are for Cads

by Tamara Berry

  Information, for example.

  And, now that I think about it, my bags.

  Chapter 7

  By the time I’m done going over the castle and its grounds, I’m tempted to send a wire to Vivian asking her to send me that metal detector she suggested from the start.

  Castles are, by their nature, full of winding stairways and walled-up cubbies, with closets shoved into any available crawlspace and rooms closed off due to centuries of disrepair. In fact, it’s one of my favorite things about them. I love the twists and turns that can only be found in architecture that’s several hundred years old.

  This castle takes that idea to a whole new level . . . and then multiplies it. Not content with a haphazard construction of stairways that lead nowhere, dumbwaiters that haven’t worked in two hundred years, and—in one alarming instance—a door that opens up onto nothing but a sheer drop to the ocean below, the Stewarts are collectors. The gilded room from last night turns out to be just one of many such opulent, overwhelming displays in the castle. Thanks either to their piratical past or to the simple pride and greed of acquisition, every room is stuffed to the ceiling with artifacts. I’ve looked behind the heads of numerous animals killed in African safaris, inside curio cupboards brimming with exquisite Chinese figurines, and underneath rugs that look as though they were once trod by maharajas of centuries past. With the exception of Antarctica, no continent is lacking representation inside the Stewart castle walls.

  In other words, the places to hide a pile of gold number in the thousands, with hundreds more in the rocky outcroppings and coves that dot the island’s exterior. If the treasure is hidden here somewhere—a thing that isn’t guaranteed—then it won’t be found by merely narrowing down the likeliest places and making an educated guess.

  I’m not as daunted by this prospect as it seems. In fact, I’m rather pleased to find this task to be more complicated than expected, if only because Birdie will be facing the same obstacles as me.

  There’s no way she’s going to figure out what happened to that gold first. This is a case that requires skill and finesse. This is a case that needs me to dig into the intricacies of Glenn’s life and death. This is a case that—

  “Ahoy ! Who goes thar?”

  At the sound of a voice, I whirl where I stand. I’ve since given up on the interior and am standing on a platform up a long, rocky path from the castle itself. At one point, it must have been used as a way to view ships as they came in from the ocean. A bronze telescope is bolted to the rocks at one end of the platform, but it isn’t able to pierce the swirling gray mist in the distance. I’d been hoping a bird’s-eye view would help me get a feeling for my surroundings, but I mostly just feel dizzy.

  The feeling doesn’t abate when the voice sounds again. “Blow the man down!”

  I whirl again, unable to tell where it hails from. This isn’t the smartest move in the world, since I’m wearing T-strap heels on a damp and uneven stone path. Fortunately, there’s a handrail screwed into the rock wall to my right. I realize why it’s there when my foot gives way underneath me and I almost plunge off the edge of my vantage point.

  “Lucifer’s touch!” I curse as I grip the handrail so tight I can feel a splinter working into my palm. I manage to keep myself from slipping off the edge, but it’s a much closer thing than I care to admit.

  I can think of few worse fates than to die in the middle of this investigation. Birdie would probably have me conjured up by morning, making me say and do all sorts of nonsensical things.

  “Who said that?” I ask as I plant my feet once again on the ground and look for the owner of the voice. There doesn’t seem to be anyone on the path leading to the platform, but that doesn’t mean much considering the recent turn of events. For all I know, it’s old Glenn Stewart himself materializing for a chat. “Who’s there?”

  “Shiver me timbers!” the voice replies.

  My heart has resumed a normal beating pattern by this time, and no ghostly figure has appeared through the mist, so I’m able to make a more accurate assessment of the situation. Or as accurate as I’m able to get, anyway.

  “Avast, ye landlubbers?” I call back with a hint of a question.

  There’s a pause and a scuffle before a head appears over the edge of the platform. It’s a small and scruffy head, and it appears to be boasting an eyepatch over its right eye in a way that looks alarmingly like Otis’s. Neither the boy’s impaired vision nor the fact that the rocks are almost cliff-like in that direction seem to be slowing him down.

  “I’ll give ye no quarter,” he warns as he scampers up over the edge and plants himself in front of me.

  My knowledge of pirate lingo now at an end, I have to make do with an “Aye, aye, captain” and wait for him to speak.

  Although I don’t have children of my own, my recent experience as the village freak has turned me into something of an expert. I’d gauge this boy’s age to be around eight. His brown hair is incredibly dirty, but then, so is the rest of him. He’s not wearing nearly enough layers to protect him against the mist and mizzling rain, and what he does have on is more like loosely jointed rags than actual clothing. Only a blue scarf tied around his waist looks to have been manufactured in this century.

  He looks, I’m forced to admit, very much like an actual pirate. Or a cabin boy, at any rate.

  “Oh, dear. Are you a ghost?” I ask, blinking down at him.

  He doesn’t seem to take this question amiss. He blinks back at me. “No. Are you?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I admit. “But ghosts sometimes don’t realize they’re dead until someone points it out to them. Can you see me?”

  The boy’s one visible eye narrows. “Yes.”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  I hold out a hand. “Can you feel me?”

  He hesitates a moment before dashing a grubby finger out and poking my palm. Any anxiety he might feel melts away the moment he makes contact. “Yes.”

  I shrug. “Then I guess we’re both alive and well.” Now that he’s drawn a little closer, my gaze is caught once again by the flash of blue around his waist. The scarf is damp and muddied, which is no surprise, given the state of the rest of him, but I could almost swear the sheen on it signals pashmina.

  I know this because I own a scarf exactly like that. Or rather, I used to until my bags disappeared. I always travel with a full rainbow of scarves at my disposal.

  “You’re a boy,” I say, a light suddenly dawning. I don’t mean that a light literally dawns, since the clouds overhead have formed a barrier against any and all heavenly bodies, but certain pieces of the puzzle are starting to click into place. When McGee said that the boys were going to grab my bags, he meant actual boys. I cast a glance around. “There must be another one of you around here somewhere.”

  A second head pops up in the exact spot where the first one appeared. If I hadn’t already ascertained for myself that these are no ghostly apparitions, I might have started to question my sanity. He’s one hundred percent identical to the other boy, from the scruffy hair to the ragged clothes and the eyepatch over the right eye. He even has one of my scarves tied around his waist, though this one is red rather than blue.

  My favorite red. I have a nail polish and lipstick in the exact same shade. They go incredibly well with my liquid eyeliner—a thing these two boys seem to have discovered for themselves, if those inexpert rings around their eyes are any indication.

  That solves one of the mysteries around here, at least.

  “How on earth did the two of you get up here?” I demand as I pick my way carefully to the platform’s edge and peer down. We’re at a dizzying height, level with the tallest tower of the castle, and it looks to me as though the way down is nothing but rocks and treachery. There’s not even a rope that they might have feasibly scrambled up.

  “We climbed, o’course,” the red one says.

  The blue one elbows him.

  “I mean, we walke
d,” the red one says hastily. “On the path. Just like you.”

  “I don’t believe it. I didn’t see you as I came up. You must be ghosts.”

  They both grin to reveal not-so-twin smiles. Red has a full mouth of pearly whites, but Blue’s smile is made crooked by the absence of one of his front teeth. “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Blue informs me.

  “Or witches,” Red says, but not without a dubious look at my attire.

  “Or curses?” I suggest before I can stop myself. Interrogating small children—even small children who stole my bags—isn’t my normal way of doing things, but these two seem to know what they’re about. Anyone who scaled a rock wall as steep as that one can stand up to a few questions about what’s going on inside this castle.

  They share a look, brown eye meeting like. Red turns a shoulder on me. “We’re not ’fraid of the curse,” he says, but with a wariness that indicates he might not be quite as brave as he’d like me to think.

  “We’re not ’fraid of witches, either,” Blue claims. Of the two boys, he seems to be the ringleader. His chin comes up at a tilt. “Leastaways, not a witch like you.”

  “But t’other one . . .” Red begins, but he meets his brother’s eye again and clamps his mouth shut.

  I’m trying to decide how to best broach the subject of my missing luggage when Blue flips up his eyepatch. The organ underneath is perfectly sound, though he blinks at the sudden change in light. “D’you know any spells for removing teeth?” he asks.

  I blink, too, but only at the quick change of subject. That’s another thing I’ve learned about children over the past few months—they don’t hesitate to say exactly what’s on their minds at any given moment. It’s what makes them such valuable allies in situations like these. As long as Sid and Ashley are bound by their fears and superstitions, I can’t trust a word out of their mouths. Otis might prove a better source of information, but I doubt he’s going to make anything easy. I haven’t gotten much of a read on Elspeth yet, but she doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman to be hoarding information on the gold’s whereabouts.

  And since I’m not likely to see Harvey again unless Birdie manifests him over dinner, I’m going to have to forge new paths.

  “I thought you said you don’t believe in witches.”

  “I don’t,” Red says.

  “Me either,” Blue agrees. He adds, after a brief pause, “But d’you know any?”

  I hold up my hand and begin ticking off fingers. “I can remove warts. I can remove curses. I can remove bad energy. Teeth, however, are outside my jurisdiction. Have you thought about seeing a dentist?”

  The boys don’t seem to appreciate my attempt at a joke. Red looks slightly relieved, but Blue falls into a deep scowl.

  “I told you she wouldn’t be able to do it,” Red says.

  Blue heaves a sigh and squares his little shoulders. “It’ll hafta be the doorknob, then.”

  Red’s eye shows a tendency to spring from its socket at this. He swallows heavily and runs his tongue over the unbroken line of his teeth. It’s that gesture, more than the perplexing conversation, that brings enlightenment. With the exception of my beautiful pashminas, these boys are completely identical. They look the same, they walk the same, and they talk the same. Having grown up as a non-identical triplet to Winnie and Liam, being the exact mirror image of my siblings isn’t something I ever aspired to.

  With these two, it’s clearly otherwise. Blue is the only one to have lost a front tooth and, until Red screws up the courage to tie his face to a doorknob, is likely to remain that way.

  “Twins are very powerful forces in witchcraft, you know,” I say, struggling to subdue my grin at Red’s predicament. In my particular sibling trio, I was more of a Blue than a Red, creating havoc and mayhem everywhere I went, but I can understand Red’s reservations. “The duality of nature, the binding of souls—that sort of thing.”

  They both nod as if this makes perfect sense.

  “Although there’s no magic that can remove teeth, there are ways you can use your twin power to help move nature on her course.” With one glance at Red’s stricken look, I hasten to add, “No doorknobs or strings, I promise. It’s more of a kind of incantation—”

  I’m unable to finish proffering my not-so-expert advice. Even though I don’t hear a sound, Blue’s attention snaps on something a few inches above my left shoulder. He must not care for what he sees, since he loses no time in turning around and darting back the way he came.

  And, yes, by that I mean the cliff. Every instinct I have warns me to catch hold of his collar—or, you know, his scarf—and hold him fast. No good can come of anyone plunging off the side of those rocks in a hurry, especially since Red follows closely in his wake. But although I’m in decent shape, I’m no match for a pair of eight-year-olds who could easily pass for mountain goats. Before I realize what’s happening, they’ve dashed over the edge and out of sight.

  I turn to find myself facing Otis. Other than a slight twist to his lips that could just as easily be a sneer as a smile, there’s no sign that he noticed my recent company—or if he did, he has no interest in small, thieving children in desperate need of adult supervision.

  “I hate to interrupt you while you’re communing with the elements, but you’re wanted inside.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s been an incident.”

  “An incident?” I don’t have to look at my watch to know that it’s only been a few hours since the last one. “Already?”

  Otis must share my sentiments, because his lips decide on the smile. “I’m afraid so. It’s the one with the eyebrows.”

  “Oh, for the love of Beelzebub. What’s she done now?”

  “You mean, other than tell Elspeth that she doesn’t have a lifeline on her palm and should therefore be dead already? Or quote Edgar Allan Poe at Ashley in an attempt to outdo him? Oh, not much. She’s currently having a fit of the hysterics in the wine cellar. A delightful woman, to be sure.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, but it doesn’t help in keeping an encroaching headache at bay. There’s not enough gold in the world to make up for this kind of trouble. I don’t care if the lost crown jewels are buried with it.

  “You’ll forgive my saying so, but you have odd taste in friends.”

  I rearrange my paisley scarf around my shoulders and take a deep breath. It does much to fortify me for the trials ahead. “Birdie White is not my friend.”

  “Coworker?” he guesses. “Associate? The evil sorceress who taught you everything you know?”

  I don’t allow my laugh to escape. “As hard as I’m sure it is to believe, I met that woman for the first time yesterday. She attached herself to me on the train, and I haven’t yet been able to shake her.”

  “I should rather think not. I don’t know how much experience you have with unwanted houseguests, but women like that are only removed by force. Well, force or death. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and the curse will take her next.”

  We’ve started down the rocky path back to the castle, but our steps are dawdling. Not, as I first suspect, because of how difficult the way is, but because Otis seems to want a private word with me as much as I want one with him.

  “You don’t believe in the curse or that your uncle died because of it,” I say, making no attempt to hide my sentiments on this subject. Experience has taught me that it’ll be the fastest way to get him to open up. “You think Sid is sentimental and soft, and Ashley a fool.”

  “Ashley is a fool.”

  I wholeheartedly agree but am not about to say so. Especially since I consider Otis just as much of a fool—only of a different type. He belongs to the class of people who never learned that it’s much easier to catch flies with honey than a battering ram.

  “Men with a poetical turn of mind often appear that way on the outside. His head and his heart are searching for somewhere they can comfortably coexist. It’s not an easy place to find.”

  Otis scoffs with so much sc
orn that he sounds exactly like, well, a battering ram. “I can tell you exactly where to find it. In the halls of academia. A more overblown, self-aggrandizing, pompous set of persons—”

  I place a hand to my temple. “You are not a scholar. I can see it so clearly.”

  Despite himself, Otis laughs. It’s a promising start, but he cuts it short and immediately turns sober. “Neither is my cousin, despite what he may have told you. Uncle Glenn sunk tens of thousands of dollars into that precious university of his, but it never did the least use. They want nothing to do with him or the drivel he writes.”

  Since I haven’t heard any verse from Ashley that doesn’t come from a long-dead poet’s pen, I maintain my silence. I have every expectation that Otis will continue on in this vein, spilling family secrets in his bitter, straightforward way, but it seems I’ve underestimated my foe.

  He gives a short laugh. “He didn’t tell you anything about it, did he? And since you can no more read minds than I can, you had no idea. Well, well.”

  It’s my intention to defend both my honor and my professional abilities, but Otis continues before I can come up with the most efficient way to do it. “You know, you’re going to have to make some drastic improvements if you intend to beat that other one.”

  We’ve reached the bottom of the path by this time. The doorway to the castle is a large wooden portal. The bright, well-fitted slats look similar to the ones on the hidden stairway leading up from the docks. For all that this castle is an old one, the family has done an incredible job making sure it stays up to date.

  An incredible, expensive job. That sort of upkeep can’t be easy to maintain over the course of four hundred years.

  “Beat her?” I ask.

  “I had a feeling you two were evenly matched, but that was before she took it into her head to start screaming fit to cave the roofs in.”