The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  “All right,” Adelaide said. “Past it is. Shall we begin?”

  “I suppose so,” Dr. Brody replied, then gave her a more assured “Yes.”

  Ignoring the chatter and clinking of cutlery on plates all around them, Adelaide closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and inhaled a scent that was medicinal and clean. It reminded her of waking up in the operating theatre at Bellevue with a dozen surgeons gathered around her. “Carbolic soap,” she said, opening her eyes again. “A tool of Listerism. You used it then, as you use it now, because you believe in things that can’t be seen.” Examining the doctor’s graceful yet strong fingers, she added, “And it reminds you of who you used to be.”

  Glancing at the handkerchief folded in the breast pocket of his coat, Adelaide saw that the monogram, though elegantly stitched, was faded. It wasn’t something he’d gotten for himself. It was a gift from long ago, from someone he’d loved, so he hadn’t the heart to replace it. “You live alone,” she said, “but that wasn’t always the case. You had a wife, but she’s been gone for several years.”

  Brody looked towards Heaven, then lowered his gaze and closed his eyes.

  “She believed in God,” Adelaide said, pushing forward, “but you’re not sure He exists. She promised she’d send you a sign, but you’ve never received it.” Fingers resting on his wrist, Adelaide felt the doctor’s heartbeat begin to race. Leaning close, she whispered, “You’re starting to wonder if you ever will.”

  Dr. Brody could barely breathe—not because she’d laid bare his past, but because she’d exposed his heart. How could this lilac-scented bohemian know so much about him? She’d spoken of things he’d never shared with anyone. What a gift she had. What a beautiful mind she’d been given. When Judith had pointed her out to him, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her scars, couldn’t help but think of how he might’ve done things differently if he’d been the one to put the scalpel to her skin. Now that he was in her presence, those thoughts, along with her scars, had faded away. All he could think of was how rare she was, this woman who could see into a heart he’d thought was no longer even there.

  “Thank you, Miss Thom,” he said, wondering if she knew how right she’d been. Oh how he’d like to spend hour after hour in pursuit of how her brain worked!

  “You’re welcome,” Adelaide replied, her palms moist, her face flushing. “It was my pleasure.” She wondered if she shouldn’t be thanking him instead. She’d almost forgotten how it felt to blush.

  My Dearest Eleanor,

  Please meet me at Lady Liberty’s Torch at eleven a.m. I must speak with you today. It’s urgent.

  Come alone to the usual spot.

  This is a private matter.

  Yours,

  L.N.

  Seeing Is Believing.

  THE NOTE WAS slipped under the shop door by an anonymous hand.

  Perdu, first to see it, pinched the letter in his beak and delivered it to Eleanor.

  “Good bird,” Eleanor said, rewarding the raven with a hunk of stale bread.

  While the bird pecked at the treat, Eleanor read the brief missive and thought, Something’s gone wrong. The clock on the shelf read quarter to eleven. Was that right or had the infernal thing wound down again? Leaning close, Eleanor listened for the steady click of its works. Everything seemed to be in order.

  She tucked the note inside a small leather satchel at her waist. She’d owned the bag since she was young, had carried it with her everywhere—through the meadow behind her mother’s cottage, into the woods at the edge of the meadow, along the banks of the river that would one day lead her away from the place she’d called home. Each time she opened the little bag she was reminded of her childhood, of days spent gathering roots and blossoms for her mother and muddy worms to present to Perdu as treats. These days she used the purse for holding things she needed in her daily doings—pencil and paper, a phial of salt, a ball of beeswax pierced with pins and needles, a trio of engraved measuring spoons (pinch, dash, smidgen), a few coins to give to the needy, and a packet of parchment envelopes for collecting botanical specimens in the park. Opening a small wooden cabinet under the counter, she brought out a few other items she thought she might need—among them, mandrake root for protection and a tangle of dried oarweed stalks (as she suspected the young woman might be late with her courses).

  She wished she knew when Adelaide would be back from breakfast. She really didn’t like the thought of leaving Beatrice alone on her first day on the job. Ten minutes to eleven. No time left to fret. Slipping beneath the counter again, she fetched three paper-wrapped parcels and placed them on the shelf. One was labelled “Mrs. Anna Stewart,” another “Miss Lorna Gowan” and the third “Mrs. Judith Dashley.” Thank heavens she’d already filled the orders. At least that much had gone according to plan.

  Beatrice was across the room, washing the front window, with Perdu overseeing her efforts. The shop was free from customers, but Eleanor had no idea how long the lull might last. Saturday mornings were unpredictable, as women tended to come through the door in fits and starts. She suspected their ebb and flow was dependent on things like the phase of the moon, the latest play at Booth’s Theatre, the season of the year, the sales at Macy’s, the state of the weather. With any luck the shop would stay quiet at least until after noon and surely she wouldn’t be gone any longer than that. Walking over to Beatrice, Eleanor gave the girl’s shoulder a soft tap.

  Beatrice dropped the rag she was holding into a wash bucket at her feet. The air around her was scented with vinegar and lemon. “Let me know if I’ve missed any spots. I’ll happily go after them again.”

  Eleanor found the girl’s enthusiasm endearing. Had she ever been that eager? “You’re doing a fine job,” she said, giving Beatrice’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “In fact, I was wondering if you might be up to the task of looking after the shop while I run a quick errand?”

  Beatrice crinkled her brow. She didn’t want to seem unwilling. She wanted to do her best, but she wasn’t sure she wanted that much responsibility just yet. “I could run the errand for you,” she volunteered. “I studied several maps of the city before I came. I’m sure I can find my way around, given a few landmarks.”

  “It’s very kind of you to offer,” Eleanor said, “but I’m afraid the task is mine alone.”

  “In that case,” Beatrice said, “I’d be glad to look after the shop.” She hoped she appeared more confident than she felt.

  “Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Eleanor asked. “If not, I can close up until I get back.”

  “Please don’t do that on my account,” Beatrice said. “I promise if I feel the slightest bit uneasy, I’ll turn the sign in the window and lock the door.”

  “All right then,” Eleanor replied. “Here are the things you’ll need to remember.”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Beatrice gave an eager nod.

  “First,” Eleanor said, pointing to the shelves behind the counter, “don’t trouble yourself with every jar and tin. Orange pekoe, Darjeeling and jasmine are the most popular choices among the fashionable set, so if you offer them as ‘our preferred teas,’ chances are you won’t need to bother with anything else. They’re kept in those three large containers to the right of the stove.”

  “I see them,” Beatrice said, pointing to a trio of squat, wide-mouthed crocks.

  Realizing she hadn’t bothered to label the jars, Eleanor asked, “And you know how to tell the teas apart?”

  “Yes,” Beatrice answered. “They’re among my aunt Lydia’s favourites.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But suppose someone isn’t content to choose one of those three?” Beatrice asked.

  “Explain to them that you’re new and that those are the teas you brew best. If they seem put out, offer a sweet on the house.”

  “Right,” Beatrice said. “On the house.”

  “And if a customer presents you with a question you can’t answer, don’t guess or make up s
ome silly story. Just admit that you don’t know and tell them they’re welcome to wait until I come back. Whatever you do, don’t lie.”

  “No,” Beatrice said, shaking her head. “I mean yes. I won’t guess. I won’t lie.”

  “Good.”

  As Eleanor started for the door, Beatrice spotted the parcels on the counter. “Miss St. Clair,” she called, “what are those?”

  “Oh, heavens,” Eleanor said, rushing back. “Well noticed, dear girl. They’re orders waiting to be picked up—special requests.”

  “Do you get many of those?”

  “Yes indeed. If a lady tells you there’s something out of the ordinary she’d like me to make, then write it down and place it in the shop’s ledger. The book is under the counter.”

  The clock’s chimes sounded eleven times, chiding Eleanor. “I’m sorry, but I really must go. You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage until you return,” Beatrice answered.

  Perdu waddled behind his mistress and tugged at her skirt.

  “I’ll be back soon,” Eleanor said, bending down to speak to her pet. “Be good,” she whispered. “No magic while I’m gone.”

  Once Eleanor was out the door, Beatrice spread her arms wide in the middle of the shop floor and twirled.

  Perdu whistled with approval.

  Although she was nervous, Beatrice couldn’t help but feel she’d been given the perfect opportunity to prove her worth. Yesterday things had been so topsy-turvy she’d wondered if she’d ever feel right again. Today, aside from the brief vision that had appeared in the mirror during breakfast, things seemed better, maybe even fortuitous. There were so many questions she had for Miss St. Clair (and Miss Thom, too, if she could penetrate her reserve), but they’d have to wait. Curtsying to the raven, Beatrice rehearsed her best greeting in anticipation of her first customer: “Welcome to St. Clair and Thom’s Tea and Sympathy. How may I serve you today?”

  Upstairs, a window that overlooked the street rattled in its sash.

  Perdu hopped to the counter and tilted his head towards the ceiling. “Hush!” he warned. “She’s coming.”

  No sooner had the bird spoken, than a woman came through the door dressed in a long black cloak.

  “Welcome to Tea and Sympathy,” Beatrice said, hands folded at her waist. “How may I serve you?”

  “Is the seer here?” the woman asked, looking past Beatrice to the back of the shop. “Is she available for consultation?”

  “I’m afraid Miss Thom is out,” Beatrice replied. “But I imagine she’ll return soon, if you’d like to wait.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I can’t say for certain.”

  The cloak the woman was wearing nearly swallowed her whole. Beatrice could tell by the tone of her voice that she wasn’t pleased. The only bright spot on the woman’s person was a small brass bell that dangled around her neck, its jangle as impatient and tinny as its owner’s words.

  Pointing to the clock behind the counter the woman asked, “Is that the right time?”

  “I believe so,” Beatrice answered.

  “Then no, I wouldn’t like to wait.”

  Thinking fast, Beatrice asked, “Would you like to leave your name? Or a message for Miss Thom?”

  With a sneer the woman replied, “Tell her God sees who she is and what she does.” Looking Beatrice up and down she clicked her tongue. “Caught in Satan’s web at such a tender age. Don’t you know this place is designed to lead women astray? God bless you, my child. May you soon see the light.” And with that, she exited the shop.

  Leaning on the counter Beatrice looked at Perdu. “Was it something I said?”

  Perdu hissed and ruffled his feathers, looking as if he’d sprouted a sooty lion’s mane.

  Beatrice shrugged off the woman’s words, and wondered how she should pass the time. She’d spent much of the morning washing cups, saucers and windowpanes, and filling honey pots. What was left to be done? Everything seemed to be in order. Lighting the stove, she put a kettle on, thinking she might as well brew herself a cup of tea. As she waited for the water to boil, she turned to the crocks of tea near the stove and said, “Orange pekoe for me, please.” Fetching a cup, saucer and teaspoon, she made a half pirouette, cut short when the toe of her left shoe got caught in a gap between the floorboards. The cup went airborne, but Beatrice caught it in one graceful swoop before it crashed, sacrificing the teaspoon for the china. When she bent to retrieve the spoon, she spied a large book sitting on the shelf beneath the counter, overflowing with scraps of paper and coloured ribbons that stuck like snake’s tongues from between its pages. Was this the ledger Miss St. Clair had mentioned that was meant for special orders? Lifting the heavy volume to the counter, Beatrice decided it might be in her best interest to inspect it. After all, as Aunt Lydia would say, fortune favours the prepared mind.

  Perdu watched from his perch, not the least bit surprised.

  Beatrice opened the book’s cover and found the following verse.

  This book belongs to none but me,

  For there’s my name inside to see.

  To steal this book, if you should try,

  It’s by the throat you’ll hang high.

  And ravens then will gather ’bout,

  To find your eyes and pull them out.

  And when you’re screaming ‘oh, oh, oh!’

  Remember, you deserved this woe.

  Beatrice looked to Perdu for direction. “I’m not stealing it,” she said. “I’m only looking.”

  The raven chortled and croaked, “Only looking.”

  Taking his response as permission, Beatrice turned the pages one by one. Botanical sketches gave way to herbal remedies, which in turn led to recipes for everything from “dream tea” to “angel water.” In and amongst these entries were other, more intriguing accounts of fairy rings, demon banishing and dream interpretation. Curious symbols and diagrams were annotated with instructions such as “charm against thieves,” “talisman against the stupidities of wine” and “incantations for luck, love, and the dispelling of spirits.” Eyes fixed on a page titled “Wish Magic,” Beatrice spotted an illustration that looked remarkably like the charm she’d made for herself in Stony Point. “A Witch’s Ladder” was written beneath the diagram in red ink.

  Between a section called “The Oration of the Salamanders” and another called “Against Maladies and Accidents” was an entry that made Beatrice’s blood run cold.

  A VERSE for MAKING ONESELF OBLIVIOUS to TORTURE.

  To avoid suffering under the question of a malevolent being, or when put to the stake, rope, rock, rack, pricking, scolding, dunking or screws—swallow a note on which the following words have been written in your own blood.

  Before she could read any further, the shop’s door opened again to admit a pleasant-looking woman with a sweet-faced boy clinging to her skirts. The woman, who was carrying a large bouquet of flowers, was having great difficulty getting through the door.

  Coming to the rescue, Beatrice held the door for her, and gave the boy a friendly wink. “I’ve got it,” she said. “Please come inside. Watch your step.”

  As the woman fussed with her skirts, the boy leapt over the threshold. Running to the back of the store he hid under Adelaide’s fortune-telling table, peeking at them from beneath the fringe of the tablecloth.

  “Welcome to Tea and Sympathy,” Beatrice announced. “How may I serve you?”

  “Well you can start,” the woman replied, “by telling me who you are.”

  Beatrice’s cheeks flushed. “Miss Beatrice Dunn,” she stammered, “the newly hired help.”

  Circling around Beatrice, the woman scrutinized her carefully, then nodded with approval. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Dunn. I’m Mrs. Judith Dashley, friend of the proprietors.”

  “Mrs. Dashley!” Beatrice exclaimed, recognizing the name from one of the parcels that was waiting on the counter. “So pleased t
o meet you.”

  Judith smiled with the satisfaction of someone who enjoyed being known. Clutching the bouquet, she asked, “Would Miss Thom happen to be about? I’ve brought her a present.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Beatrice replied, shaking her head.

  “Oh dear,” Judith said. “I’m not quite sure what to make of that.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Beatrice asked.

  With a sigh, Judith plucked a wilted petal from an otherwise unblemished white rose. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Or it could be something…and that could be a good thing, I guess. Yes, let’s hope for that.”

  In addition to the rose, the pretty bouquet contained geranium, heather, white chrysanthemum and ivy. Beatrice guessed that if she had the floriography right (and she was sure that she had), the flowers were meant to be a peace offering. Holding her hands out to Mrs. Dashley, she asked, “Would you like me to put those in some water?”

  Judith happily surrendered the bouquet. “Yes, please,” she said. “How very thoughtful of you.”

  Beatrice took the flowers and set them inside a water pitcher. “Miss Thom should be back soon. I’d be happy to make you some tea if you’d like to wait for her return.”

  Nodding, Judith settled herself in the window seat at the front of the shop.

  “What kind of tea would you prefer—Darjeeling, orange pekoe, jasmine?”

  “Hmm…” Judith pondered, finger to her chin. “Darjeeling, I think…no, wait, orange pekoe. No, begging your pardon, it’s Saturday isn’t it—so let’s make it jasmine. Saturday mornings and jasmine tea go together nicely, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Jasmine it is,” Beatrice said, relieved.

  As she prepared the tea, Beatrice heard laughter waft from under Adelaide’s table. She wondered if she should offer to make something for the little boy as well—warm milk, toast with honey, a slice of lemon tart? No, wait, on second thought, perhaps she shouldn’t. Mothers had hard and fast rules about indulging their children, and she didn’t wish to do anything that might offend Mrs. Dashley. For the time being, she’d leave well enough alone.