The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  Flowers and well wishes arrived in the days after the incident, first at the hospital and then at Adelaide’s home as she lay sequestered in her bed. Her dearest, oldest friend, Dr. Sadie Fonda-Hetherington, came all the way from Ocean Grove to see to her every need. But as soon as Adelaide had been able to dress herself and make a cup of tea, she’d turned to her friend and said, “It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Come stay with me,” Sadie had urged. “James and I will take good care of you. There’s plenty of room to spare.”

  “Heavens no,” Adelaide had replied. “I’ll frighten your children out of their wits.”

  “Are you sure?” Sadie had asked, shaking her head. “I’ve no doubt you can look after yourself, but won’t you be lonely?”

  “Pity doesn’t sit well with me. It causes too much commotion. It makes me a nervous wreck. There’s only so much mending I can do in the company of friends.”

  Within a week of Sadie’s departure, a knock came at the door, and Adelaide had answered it to discover a woman standing on her stoop with a leather gripsack full of tinctures in one hand, and a birdcage with a sulking raven in the other.

  “I’m Eleanor St. Clair. I’m here in response to the ad in the Evening Star,” she had announced.

  “What ad?” Adelaide had asked.

  “This one,” Eleanor had replied, handing over a feathery bit of newsprint.

  PRIVATE NURSE DESIRED.

  Knowledge of wound care, nervous ailments and the pharmacopoeia required.

  Reply to: PO Box 314 Ocean Grove, New Jersey

  Room and board provided.

  “I didn’t place this,” Adelaide had said, returning the paper to its owner.

  “No,” Eleanor had replied, brushing past Adelaide and into the house’s foyer, “but the woman who did said you’d say precisely that. She also said that I should tell you, ‘There’s no sense arguing, the deed is done.’ ”

  It’d never occurred to Adelaide to flee the city after the destruction of her beauty. Even if she had, New York would’ve refused to let her go. She felt now, more than ever, that the city wasn’t done with her, or she with it. If there ever was a place where one could start again, it was Manhattan. Move a block, and your enemies become your friends. Move ten blocks and you might never see anyone you knew again. She’d gained a new costume, as it were, complete with a mask that could never be removed, and she’d soon learned there were advantages to that sort of thing as well as to calling herself a witch. In their gawking and their pity, people made themselves quite vulnerable. She saw more clearly now with one eye than she ever had with two—people’s desires, fears, hopes, dreams and sins were laid bare before her, plain as day. With that in mind she’d come up with the notion of opening the teashop. Eleanor had resisted the plan at first, but after some persuading she’d finally agreed to it. “You’ll be the Tea,” Adelaide had said, “I’ll be the Sympathy.” They’d started their venture the previous autumn selling tea, potions, advice and fortunes to the women who shopped on Ladies’ Mile.

  She could hear Eleanor still shuffling about downstairs, muttering under her breath. Adelaide couldn’t tell if it was in response to Perdu, or just a symptom of being overworked. More and more she’d noticed that Eleanor was exhausted at the end of the day—that her shoulders slumped and her eyes looked tired. Seeing her that way had made her wonder what she would have done without Eleanor. She owed so much to the woman and their friendship. That’s why she’d decided to take a page from Dr. Sadie and placed an ad of her own for a shop assistant in Harper’s Weekly, the Evening Star and the New York Times. As Eleanor went about her morning ritual of sprinkling salt and tea leaves across the threshold to keep the ghosts at bay, Adelaide hoped that what she’d done might serve as a bit of magic to help lighten Eleanor’s load.

  Placing her hat on her head, she tilted the brim slightly forward and to the left. Less crooked, more sincere. Gingerly draping the hat’s scalloped veil in front of her face, she took a deep breath and set her mind on the task ahead. The prospective shop girls would be arriving just after noon. How many? God only knew. Surely one of them would suit. She’d know the right one when she saw her, she was sure of that. Someone with spark. Someone they could trust. Someone to help Eleanor in her work, without being a pest.

  Just as she was about to make her way downstairs, the familiar scent of cherry liqueur filled the room. Pungent and sweet, it was a scent that Adelaide had always associated with her mother. This sort of thing had happened from time to time since the attack (coming out of the blue, like the mysterious sounds she heard in her head), but it’d never been this strong or seemed so close, and it’d never occurred in the shop. Perhaps Eleanor’s magic couldn’t keep the ghosts away after all.

  “Is that you, Mama?” Adelaide asked, not really expecting an answer. “If it’s you, give me a sign.”

  As quickly as the scent had come, it vanished.

  Go on with you then, Adelaide thought. You won’t like what I have to say. In death, as in life, Adelaide’s mother was largely absent. Whenever Adelaide had tried to address her spirit—out of grief, out of anger, out of curiosity, out of desperation—she’d never gotten so much as a boo from the other side. All she wanted from her was the answer to one question: Did you ever regret selling me away? Once, in her frustration she’d asked Eleanor if she’d be willing to help her contact her mother’s ghost, but Eleanor had firmly replied, “I can’t help you with that.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  “Those who can properly converse with the dead are rare. Anyone who dares to dabble in such matters without proper knowledge is dreadfully misguided. The laws that govern the dead are not the same as ours.”

  “Have you tried? I’m sure you could do it.”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  After that, Adelaide had chosen to pursue the matter on her own. She’d read many articles, attended countless lectures, even sought out mediums she’d read of in the paper in hopes that she might find at least one of them to be real. She hadn’t been home last night to wind the clock because she’d gone to Washington Square to visit Mrs. Seymour, a woman who reportedly acted as a conduit for spirit. But when she’d gotten there, the woman’s husband had said she was gone. “Good riddance, too!” he’d roared. “I was about to ship her off to the lunatic asylum on Blackwell’s Island.” Disappointed, Adelaide had put off going home, choosing instead to wander the city in pursuit of other, more pleasurable, spirits.

  “Will you be coming down anytime soon?” Eleanor called up the stairs. “Your tea is getting cold.”

  “Be right there,” Adelaide replied.

  Opening the top drawer of her dressing table, Adelaide brought out a delicate, heart-shaped bottle. Where it once had contained a generous dose of fine French brandy, it now held the glistening, floating orb of her left eye. Putting her lips to the glass, she kissed it and made a wish, “May the right girl appear, today.”

  “Careful what you wish for,” her mother’s ghost chirped from behind the eye in its watery little chamber, silent to Adelaide’s ears.

  SEPTEMBER 17, 1880 The Daily Messenger

  THE GREAT OBELISK

  The Egyptian monument commonly known as “Cleopatra’s Needle” is due to make landfall in Manhattan today. In anticipation of the next leg of the three-thousand-year-old obelisk’s journey, it was moved yesterday evening up the Hudson to a dockyard at Ninety-Sixth Street via a pair of sturdy pontoons. Although the Needle, a seven-storey, two-hundred-ton piece of granite, arrived from Alexandria aboard the SS Dessoug in late July, the obelisk was left in the ship’s hold at the dock at Staten Island until such time as the tide might conspire to carry it ashore.

  CLEOPATRA’S GUARD

  Even while the obelisk was settled in the ship’s hold, eager curiosity seekers came in great numbers to see it. Unable to delay their enthusiasm, the visitors balanced upon a
series of planks supported on dinghies in order to board the vessel. Upon reaching their destination, the visitors were greeted by a solemn-faced, smartly dressed watchman holding a lighted candle who led them into the dark region of the ship where the obelisk lay. “What a strange fellow!” one visitor remarked. “He never spoke a word the entire time I was aboard the ship.” Rumour has it the watchman was first spotted standing among the ruins when archeologists unearthed the Needle’s pedestal and insisted on accompanying the obelisk all the way to New York. Some say he’s not a man at all but rather a mystical jinni sent to guard the monument who will vanish when it no longer requires his protection.

  A TRUE SURVIVOR

  The obelisk has survived many hardships and journeys through the ages—the storming of Heliopolis, an arduous trip down the Nile, an earthquake at Alexandria, and last but not least, a perilous voyage across the Atlantic. Still, there are naysayers who question whether Cleopatra’s Needle will ever reach its final resting place in Central Park. If and when it does, will anyone pay it any mind “way up there” on Greywacke Knoll, among the shantytowns and the sparse constellation of mansions that surround the park? Commodore Henry Honeychurch Gorringe, the man in charge of moving the Needle, says they will. So, too, do the multitudes of Freemasons that populate this country, including Mr. William Vanderbilt, who paid a pretty sum to fund the Needle’s trip. No doubt these men are especially enamoured with the object, as they believe certain markings found upon it hold great symbolic ties to their order.

  THE OBELISK SPEAKS

  What significance, if any, does the obelisk hold for the rest of us? What secrets are hidden in the many hieroglyphs carved into the Needle’s faces? An expert in translations has confided to the Daily Messenger that he believes the glyphs foretell the future of America. Whatever meaning the ancient markings hold, the obelisk has certainly got New Yorkers under its spell.

  Beatrice Dunn Takes Flight.

  “ONE TICKET FOR the nine-thirty train to New York, please.”

  “Sorry, miss, the last passenger train left at half past seven.”

  “The last train for the day? How can that be? Don’t they usually run every two hours?”

  “They do, but not today. There’s an interruption on the tracks.”

  “What sort of interruption?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Are you sure there won’t be any more trains?”

  “Well, miss, all I’ve heard from the head office is that our passenger service is disrupted until further notice. For all I know that could mean today, tomorrow or next week. You can wait here if you like, but I can’t make any promises.”

  Picking up her bag, Beatrice turned from the station agent and looked for a bench where she could sit to sort her thoughts. For weeks she’d had the day mapped out, down to the minute. Was this roadblock a sign that she should turn back? Reaching inside her pocket, she felt for the witch’s ladder she’d fashioned from her hair, feathers, string and wishes. Shaking her head over the faith she’d put in the crude little charm, she wadded it up and tucked it deep inside her bag. Serves me right for believing I could perform even the simplest bit of magic, she thought. Still, until now, everything had gone right.

  8:00–8:40 Breakfast with Aunt Lydia. Oatmeal with stewed apples, tea with honey and milk. Lydia had insisted on it. “Such hearty fare will keep you sated and help to deter motion sickness on the train.” Their conversation had been cordial and kind—not too anxious on Beatrice’s part, not too sentimental on Lydia’s.

  “Will you be coming to visit me in the city?” Beatrice had asked, more out of obligation than desire. She knew that Lydia didn’t like to travel, that she’d made the annual trip to New York solely on her account, that the speed of the train caused her to fret and that the fumes aggravated her lungs (the faintest hint of smoke in the air could set her wheezing). Still, Beatrice had thought she should extend an invitation to let her aunt know that she’d be missed. “Perhaps you could travel by steamboat instead of train,” she’d suggested. “It might do you good to take in the fresh air along the river.”

  “I’ve got all the fresh air I need right here,” Lydia had countered. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather stay put. I’m sure you’ll get back to Stony Point for holidays.”

  “Of course I will,” Beatrice had assured her. “And I’ll write each and every day with all the details of my adventures.”

  Saying this had made Beatrice feel incredibly guilty, for she knew she’d just told her aunt a terrible lie. There might well be things she’d see or do or say while she was away that she wouldn’t wish to share with Lydia. It wasn’t that she didn’t love and trust her aunt, it was just that she’d reached the point where she believed she should keep certain things private if she was ever truly going to belong to herself. “Those adventures of yours had better be plenty grand,” Lydia had teased, bringing a handkerchief to the corner of her eye. Her words had been in jest, but the tears were real.

  “Oh they will be,” Beatrice had said, kissing her finger and crossing her heart. “I promise.” And then she, too, required the aid of a handkerchief. Although she knew Lydia would be fine on her own, she still worried about her. Over the years certain women in Stony Point had been awfully pointed in their opinions about the way Lydia had chosen to raise her. In recent days they’d been quick to play Cassandra, predicting all manner of misfortunes for Beatrice—seduction, illness, injury and so on—all stemming from Lydia’s liberal attitudes and her consent to letting her niece go. Beatrice couldn’t wait to prove them wrong.

  8:40–8:45 Goodbyes. “I’m not one for lengthy farewells,” Lydia had announced as she stood next to Beatrice on the wide front porch. Slipping her hand in her pocket, she’d pulled out a lovely silver brooch and pinned it to the collar of Beatrice’s coat.

  “What’s this?” Beatrice had asked, turning the edge of her lapel so she could examine the trinket—a beautiful striped feather encased in a delicate oval of glass.

  “It’s a wren’s feather,” Lydia had answered, “for protection and luck. Your father gave it to your mother on the occasion of your birth, but she thought it so precious, she rarely wore it. She gave it to me before she died and asked that I give it to you on a special occasion—such as your wedding or the birth of your first child.”

  “Maybe we should wait until then,” Beatrice had said. “Maybe you should hang onto it for me a little while longer?”

  “No,” Lydia had responded. “Today’s the day.”

  Fearing she might cry, Beatrice bowed her head and turned away, thinking helplessly that even proper goodbyes were hard. Lydia had taken great pains to keep her away from her parents in their last days, and although Beatrice no longer harboured any hard feelings towards her aunt over the matter, losing the chance to say goodbye to them had left a mark on Beatrice’s heart. Within that mark, dark and deep, lay Beatrice’s biggest fear—that one day, when the balance of the life she’d lived with her parents inevitably tipped in favour of her life without them, all her memories of their time together, precious and irreplaceable, would be lost. “Thank you,” she’d whispered to Lydia as she’d given the woman’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll cherish it, always.”

  8:45–9:00 Stagecoach to Stony Point Station. The stage had been on time, the ride uneventful. Beatrice hadn’t brought any trunks to stow and they’d made no stops for other passengers. Lydia had kindly offered to send along anything she might need from home once she was settled, and with that in mind Beatrice had packed only an extra dress (blue calico with velvet trim), a dressing gown, a pair of felt slippers, a cotton chemise, three hair ribbons (red, yellow and blue), a hair brush, a light shawl, an assortment of unmentionables, five handkerchiefs (two lace, three cotton), needles and thread, a bar of lavender soap, a tin of pins, pen and ink, pencils and paper, her book of observations, and the latest issue of Madam Morrow’s Strange Tales of Gotham for reading on the train. She’d tucked everything neatly inside a sturdy car
petbag that Lydia had given her.

  In preparation for the day’s travel, Beatrice had pulled her hair into a long braid, and donned a practical dress of dark green broadcloth. Along with black patent leather boots, a light plaid ulsterette and her favourite straw hat, she’d felt her ensemble accentuated her youth without seeming too naïve. The last thing she’d wanted was to appear fresh off the boat. She’d read enough of Madam Morrow’s tales to know what happens to girls like that.

  As an extra precaution, she’d sewn most of the money she’d saved for the trip into the hem of her petticoat. It wasn’t much—enough for a couple nights lodging, and a ticket back to Stony Point—but she couldn’t afford to lose it. When the stage had reached the station, she’d carefully handed over what she owed the driver, including a modest tip, and then proceeded to the ticket booth with plenty of time to spare, or so she’d thought.

  —

  Sitting on the bench now, she considered her next step. Should she wait for a train that might never come? Should she call it a day and go home? If only she’d come to the station earlier! She’d barely slept all night and had been ready to leave by sunrise. Still, she’d wanted to give Lydia a last morning together. She’d figured that by taking the 9:30 train she’d still be able to get to the teashop before the appointed hour and maybe even be the first in line. How many applicants could there be? She had no idea. All she knew was that the closer she was to the front of the line, the sooner the shopkeeper’s search could end, and the sooner her life in the city would start.