The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  “Beatrice!” a voice shouted behind her. “Beatrice Dunn!”

  Withdrawing her head, Beatrice turned to see Joseph approaching, wringing his cap in his hands. “Come away from there, we’ll miss the train!”

  The gentleman who’d opened the box for her was gone.

  Not waiting for Joseph to reach her, Beatrice climbed down from the platform on her own. Misjudging the distance, she stumbled and tripped on the hem of her skirts, and landed in a heap on the ground. Her world went sideways, then black. The last thing she heard was the sound of coins tumbling out of her petticoat, cheerily ringing as they lost themselves among the planks and stones.

  The Known World is filled with mystical messages. Signs, portents and foretellings come in many guises—smoke on the wind, sparks from a fire, ripples on the water, lines in the sand. If you wish to master magic, pay attention. If you wish to master love, do the same.

  —From the grimoire of Eleanor St. Clair

  Shop Talk (and Secrets).

  ELEANOR LIT THE WICK on a small kerosene stove and watched the flame flicker and bloom in the heater’s isinglass window. Filling a copper kettle, she placed it on the stove’s iron rest, and waited for the water to boil—and for the three women who were standing at her counter to make up their minds.

  “I quite like the hibiscus,” the youngest woman remarked. “Doesn’t it smell divine?”

  “Orange pekoe is my favourite,” said the woman on her right.

  “You must try the Darjeeling,” urged the woman to her left.

  Each of them had paid a recent visit to the shop, albeit alone and for very different reasons. Mrs. Orange Pekoe had been in search of a tonic to help her sleep, Madame Darjeeling had requested an elixir to foster desire, and Lady Hibiscus had required a tincture of Queen Anne’s lace to clear the womb and restore peace of mind. This pretty young woman had also been responsible for Eleanor’s broken heart. For a few blissful weeks in the spring they’d carried on an affair, quietly hidden from the rest of the world, even Adelaide. All through the month of May it’d been flesh against flesh—honey sucked off fingers and breasts, silk sashes wrapped around wrists, feathers plucked from bonnets for tickling thighs and ribs. “This must remain a secret,” Lady Hibiscus had insisted, “just between us two.” She was promised to a gentleman of great social prominence and had no intention of breaking their engagement. Eleanor thought she could stay levelheaded, but being dismissed by the young woman had hurt more than she’d imagined. Once the wedding was over and done, the girl’s affection had turned to calculated indifference. Still, she insisted on coming into the shop for this and that, never giving so much as a nod to her former place in Eleanor’s life. If that’s what she wants, Eleanor had vowed to herself, so be it.

  As the trio took turns sniffing at open tea tins, Eleanor covered her mouth to stifle a yawn. Her sleep had been fitful and brief, especially after her dream, and before she’d known it the sun had risen and it was time to drag her tired body out of bed.

  There’d been books to balance, and remedies to concoct, linens to press and honey pots to fill. There’d been blessings to recite, spells to consider, and a pleasant exchange with Mr. Markowitz’s son, a bright-natured boy named Isaac, who’d come to the door bearing a basket of baked goods to sell. Feeling generous, Eleanor had chosen to buy the whole lot—three glazed lemon tarts, one loaf of scalded rye, and an assortment of teacakes, fritters and biscuits (honey, apple and buttermilk).

  Despite her exhaustion, Eleanor quite liked waking when most of the city’s inhabitants (including Adelaide) were still half asleep, and the only sounds on the sidewalk were the yappy bickering of newsboys and the cheerful swell of the milkman’s voice singing a ditty as his wagon rolled by. This morning she’d even taken a few moments to sit on the roof amidst the maze of potted herbs that surrounded her two small beehives and collect her thoughts.

  Everything in the humble potager had had its beginnings in her mother’s garden, from lemon balm to lavender, from mugwort to mint. As the sun hit the rooftop, a few keen bees had straggled forth from their hives. Soon, Eleanor thought, all her golden beauties would be taking to the air to nuzzle among the late summer blooms of Madison Square—the last of the daylilies that surrounded the fountain in the park, the bright asters and pot marigolds that graced every flower box on Fifth Avenue, the hardy roses that climbed the trellises of the grand houses on Marble Row. Soon, their sisters would commence their preparations for autumn’s chill by capping their stores for winter and ridding themselves of anything that got in their way—failed eggs, lost wings, and every last one of their brothers, whose usefulness had come to an end. Crouching near a hive, Eleanor had listened in on the glorious steady hum of their work. This, and the heady scent of their honey, never failed to make her worries disappear.

  Carrying this sense of contentment in her heart, she’d gone about her daily tasks with ease until the teapot had crashed to the floor. Oddly enough, she hadn’t been standing anywhere near the pot when it fell. Only the lid had survived, sitting safe and untouched in the centre of the counter. Perdu’s startled cries of “Top off the pot!” had caused her mother’s voice to sound in her head. Top off the pot means a stranger’s coming to call.

  Madame St. Clair had always put great faith in the happenstances that occurred while making, serving and drinking tea: two spoons placed on the same saucer mean a wedding will soon follow; two women pouring from the same pot means one will soon carry a child; tea spilled from the spout of a carried pot means a secret will soon be revealed; tea stirred while in the pot will surely stir up a quarrel.

  Sometimes Eleanor wondered if her mother’s sayings mattered anymore. The world was changing at an alarming pace and the city right along with it. Perhaps all these changes called for a new sort of magic, one divined not from teacups and spoons, but from the rickety-tick of the elevated trains as they roared past, or the flickering haloes cast by the street lamps that stood outside her window. Something strange was in the air, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was. How was she supposed to understand what the city was trying to tell her when she couldn’t properly remember her dreams? Closing her eyes, she tried once more to catch a glimpse of her most recent vision, but she only felt off-balance and dizzy, as if she were about to fall from a great height. Had some dark spectre come into the shop without her knowing? A ghost, a ghoul, a demon, the Devil in disguise? She’d always been so careful to keep the place protected and safe. “Mother, help me,” she’d whispered. Then, “Mère, aide-moi.”

  —

  “I can’t decide,” Madame Darjeeling said shaking her head.

  “Neither can I,” Mrs. Orange Pekoe seconded.

  “Nor can I,” said Lady Hibiscus.

  Can’t you? Eleanor thought. She really wanted to hate the girl but couldn’t. She watched as the young woman nervously turned her wedding ring around her finger. Was something bothering her? Was something wrong? “Why don’t I brew a pot of each so you can sample them all?” she suggested. “My treat.”

  “That would be lovely,” said Madame Darjeeling.

  “Simply splendid,” remarked Mrs. Orange Pekoe.

  “If it’s not any trouble,” Lady Hibiscus added.

  As Eleanor set the tea to steep, a single honeybee clung fast to a fold in her sleeve. Perdu, watching intently from his perch, spotted the bee before his mistress. Flapping his wings, he bobbed his head and exclaimed, “Treat, treat, treat!”

  Mrs. Orange Pekoe’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “Was that the bird?” she asked.

  Lady Hibiscus smiled and nodded. “I’ve heard him speak before.”

  “What a clever trick!” exclaimed Madame Darjeeling.

  Holding a bit of teacake in the palm of her hand, Eleanor offered it to Perdu. “What’s gotten into you?” she whispered. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat.”

  The bird refused to take the sweet.

  Eleanor ignored her pet’s antics
and resumed the work of preparing the tea. “Why don’t you ladies take a seat? I’ll only be a minute.”

  Perdu hopped to the counter and took hold of her sleeve with his beak. He knew what he wanted, even if she didn’t.

  The bee, enticed by a pitcher of honey Eleanor had placed on the counter, crawled out of hiding, and moved towards her hand.

  “Well hello, m’dear,” Eleanor said, spotting the object of Perdu’s desire.

  “Treat!” Perdu demanded again.

  “She’s not for you,” Eleanor scolded, moving out of his reach.

  Had it been a drone, she might well have handed the doomed creature over to the raven to gobble up, but this bee was no drone. She was a healthy female, meant to be rushing from flower to flower in the last days of harvest. Knowing the ruckus the little darling would cause if she happened to get tangled in Madame Darjeeling’s curls, Eleanor poured a single drop of honey onto a saucer, gently transferred the bee alongside it, and covered them both with an empty, upturned cup. For a moment, the bee bumped and buzzed against the porcelain in protest, but as soon as Eleanor bent near the cup and whispered, “Patience, my dear, you’ll soon be free,” she stopped.

  Perdu returned to his perch to sulk.

  Amidst a collection of Moroccan lanterns, tasselled pillows and tufted furniture, Adelaide Thom was sitting in the back corner of the shop, taking advantage of a brief lull in her morning. She’d been holding court since half past nine, turning cards and entertaining questions from a steady stream of clients.

  Miss Edith Jones. A dear, bright girl, always on time. She came in blushing, fidgeting, heart aflutter. Crossed her legs at the ankles, once, twice, three times over. So keen to fall in love.

  Her question: Is he the one?

  Her cards: Courtship. Jealousy. Disappointment.

  Adelaide’s answer: He thinks he is, but his mother does not.

  The mother of the “he” in question was Mrs. Marietta Stevens—socialite, widow, owner of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. She’d visited Adelaide the previous day for her own consultation, during which she’d heartily complained of Miss Jones’s pursuit of her son and repeatedly asked if she might eventually find success in breaking up the pair. All signs had pointed to yes. (What a pity, Adelaide had thought. Edith is such a lovely girl.)

  Mrs. Violet Pritchett. Newlywed. Face aglow. Dress hugging her figure. Downed two cups of peppermint tea in quick succession. Complained of shoes feeling tight, and of stiff, swollen fingers.

  Her question: When shall I get with child?

  Her cards: Fortune. Plenty. Home.

  Adelaide’s answer: Congratulations, my dear, you already are.

  Mrs. Rose Blanchard. Nervous. Quiet. Eyes downcast. Every time she moved, the right cuff of her dress shifted, revealing a ring of dark bruises on her wrist.

  Her question: When will it end?

  Her cards: Deceit. Ruin. Death.

  Adelaide’s answer: Not until you leave him, or he’s dead.

  Mrs. Blanchard’s response: It’s easier to kill a man than to divorce him, I’d guess.

  Adelaide thought that she’d like to kill the woman’s husband herself, if she could get away with it. Perhaps she could pose as a housemaid and slip the powder of some noxious root from Eleanor’s cupboard into his coffee. Until she could think of a better plan, poor Mrs. Blanchard would have to go it alone.

  Checking her watch Adelaide saw it was five past noon. The prospective shop girls would be arriving in less than an hour. She knew that she should inform Eleanor since her partner hated surprises, even when they were good.

  Shuffling her cards, Adelaide posed a question of her own, in hopes the answer might direct her to do what she wished, rather than what she should.

  Miss Adelaide Thom. Hopeful. Confident. Impeccably dressed. Holds her impatience in check with the steady tap of her left foot.

  Her question: What will Eleanor think of me if I don’t tell her?

  Her cards: Falsehood. Treachery. The Judge.

  Her answer: Nothing good.

  Picking up the cards, Adelaide shuffled them back into the deck as quickly as she could. As with her sitters, they had served to remind her of what she’d already supposed. She didn’t need them to discern the truth, but having them near certainly didn’t hurt. By turns, they gave her courage to say what needed to be said, or admonished her to stay quiet when she might’ve been inclined to speak too freely. Frayed and worn at the edges, they’d come from another era, each card holding a simple, crude illustration skirted by a word or two of description written by a shaky hand in English, German, Italian and French. The reverse of each card had been decorated with a curious symbol, a flaming heart entwined in the grip of two snakes. When Eleanor had first seen the cards, she’d asked all sorts of questions. Where did they come from? Has anyone blessed them? Are they enchanted? If so, by what order of magic? All Adelaide could say was that they’d been left for her long ago at the ticket booth of Mr. Dink’s sideshow with a note that had simply read, “From an admirer.” Since the loss of her eye, she’d been especially grateful to have them, as they gave her sitters something to gaze upon other than her face. (Not a day went by without someone trying to get a better look at what sat beneath her veil.) Slipping the cards inside her pocket, she checked her watch again—twenty after twelve. Time’s a wastin’, Adelaide. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  Approaching Eleanor, she sweetly said, “Sorry, I forgot to wind the clock.”

  “I would’ve done it myself,” Eleanor replied, “but I couldn’t find the key.”

  “You couldn’t?” Adelaide asked. “That’s strange. I left it where I always do, inside your favourite teapot.”

  “The pot is no more.”

  With a nod, Adelaide said, “So that was the crash I heard. I’m sorry for that too.”

  “Did you leave it out on the counter?”

  “The clock key?”

  “No, the teapot.”

  “Why would I? What are you getting at?”

  “You were out so late…Where were you, by the way?”

  “Here and there. No place special.”

  “I see.”

  “I wasn’t drunk, and I didn’t touch your teapot.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “It’s just you look a little worse for wear.”

  “I do?”

  “Only in the way that I can see. No one else can tell.”

  Staring at her reflection in the mirror behind the counter, Adelaide turned first to the right and then to the left. As she leaned forward to get a better look, she felt a sharp, nagging twinge of pain. Over time, she’d come to accept her scars, but she often wondered if she’d ever get used to the pain. If only she had some way of predicting when it was coming, and how long it would last. It’d been a week since her last bout and she’d even begun to hope that perhaps she might be rid of it at last. If it had to persist, why couldn’t it be of some use? Why couldn’t it warn her of impending danger or of the presence of insufferable company, at the very least? “Give it time,” Eleanor had advised. “It may prove useful yet.” One could hope. One could pray. One could wish.

  “Cup of tea?” Eleanor asked, staring at Adelaide with concern.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “Willow bark?”

  “That would be good.”

  Eleanor could always tell when the pain was with her. As she turned to her herbs, Adelaide took a deep breath. It’s now or never, she thought. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “What’s that?” Eleanor asked.

  “Promise you won’t get angry?”

  Eleanor sighed. “It was you who misplaced the pot, wasn’t it? Honestly, Adelaide, I wouldn’t be half so displeased if you’d just confessed it from the start.”

  Just then the bells above the door jangled, announcing the arrival of another customer. Perdu glanced up from his perch, and then resumed his sulking over
the loss of the bee. The three ladies sitting in the window seat turned to stare, taking a brief nosy pause before continuing their discussion of the impending resurgence of the bustle.

  When Adelaide turned and spied the woman standing in the doorway, she abandoned her conversation with Eleanor.

  “Mrs. Dashley,” she said, advancing on her with open arms.

  “Miss Thom!” Judith Dashley replied, enthusiastically kissing the air on either side of Adelaide’s cheeks. Lace parasol in hand, pearls at her bosom, she was a perfect specimen of a Fifth Avenue Femme, a true New York Lady.

  She was also Adelaide’s best customer, coming to the shop for tea and divinations every day of the week except Sundays throughout the season. This was her first visit since she’d gotten back to town after her summer in the country, and Adelaide had high hopes that they’d resume their previous schedule. If the lady wished to consult the cards on a regular basis, who was she to say no?

  “I trust your holiday agreed with you,” Adelaide said. “You look radiant.”

  “You flatter me,” Judith replied with a blush.

  “I only speak the truth,” Adelaide said. “It’s my gift as well as my curse.”

  “Trust me, my dear, it’s the city that’s put a spring in my step. That, and getting away from the damnable scenic riverfront at Tarrytown. The place was simply crawling with catch-penny girls come by steamboat from the city hoping to land themselves a rich lad. Oh, to be young and free and taut and firm, and to have more life ahead, than not!” Jutting out her chin ever so slightly, she forced a small pucker of crepey wrinkles to disappear from her neck.

  “I’m sure when they caught sight of you, they were sick with envy.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t give me a second thought.”