The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  “I will,” Beatrice said, suddenly feeling quite tired. She hadn’t even taken her first sip of the tea, but the scent spiralling from her cup was already working its magic. “Who listens to your dreams?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

  “My mother did, when I was young,” Eleanor replied, “and there’s always been Perdu.”

  “Not Miss Thom?” Beatrice asked, thinking she would’ve been a more likely choice.

  Eleanor laughed. “Attempting to wake Adelaide from sleep is like trying to wake the dead. Who knows, someday soon, I might tell my dreams to you.”

  Notebook tucked under her arm, cup and saucer in hand, Beatrice bid Eleanor goodnight. “Thank you for the tea,” she said, “and the advice.”

  “Goodnight, dear Beatrice,” Eleanor replied. “May your dreams be all you need them to be.”

  Bright sat on the edge of Beatrice’s saucer staring at Twitch. “Is she asleep?” she asked, impatiently tapping her foot. Twitch had insisted on singing to the girl each night, mostly lullabies in the languages of the Fay. “We don’t have time for a serenade,” she complained. “There’s work to be done, at last!”

  “My, she smells heavenly!” Twitch swooned, hovering over the girl, sniffing her hair, her cheeks, her lips.

  “That’s just the mugwort on her breath,” Bright said, arms folded. “Don’t let yourself get incapacitated by her glamour. It grows more powerful every day.” Walking along the rim of Beatrice’s cup, she peered into its bowl to take stock of how much tea the girl had consumed. “It’s still half full,” she observed. “We’ll need to work fast.”

  Twitch crouched near the brooch Beatrice had pinned to the neck of her nightdress. Clouding the pretty trinket with his breath, he polished the glass with his coat sleeve until it shone bright. He was more excited about Beatrice’s dream than he’d been about anything in his entire life. He and Bright had been planning it for days, constructing the details, bit by precious bit. He’d thought of it each night as he’d sung to her in her sleep, each day as he’d trailed around her room, sharpening her pencils with the edge of a rose thorn, re-mending the hem of her dress with fairy silk. Gently blowing her a kiss, he whispered in her ear, “Sweet dreams, dear Beatrice.”

  She was flying through the air, high above the city, over rooftops and trees in a cloudless, moonlit sky. She was surrounded by hundreds of witches, careening about on broomsticks, robes trailing in the wind, hair loose, eyes wild. She was not afraid. To her, they were the most beautiful creatures she’d ever seen—powerful, intelligent—free from all care. She followed wherever they led. This was where she belonged.

  Their destination was half familiar, half strange—Madison Square Park transformed into a witches’ lair. The footpaths glowed with enchantment, the tree branches were strewn with bells, bones and poppets. The flames of Lady Liberty’s torch were no longer made of glass, but fire. It raged and hissed and shot overhead as the witches danced around it dressed in veils that trailed to the ground. They were singing in a language she’d never heard but somehow understood. They spoke of the Land of Dreams, the Realm of the Dead, the Wonders of the Otherworld. They called to Hecate, to Circe, to the Morai “to open our minds, to strengthen our spells, to bless our works.”

  When their rite was finished, they turned and looked upon Beatrice, blessings and secrets flowing from their mouths like a thousand babbling brooks. As she marvelled at the sight, one witch stepped forward. Pulling the veil from her face, she revealed herself to be Adelaide Thom.

  “Look!” Adelaide commanded, pointing to the scarred hollow above her cheek.

  Beatrice did, and was startled to find that Billy Dashley’s precious toy, his shining blue marble, had replaced Adelaide’s missing eye. As she stared at the glowing orb twinkling in the firelight, she was transported to an endless corridor lined with chandeliers and mirrors. Ghostly figures flitted all around her, their reflections appearing more as wisps of smoke than flesh. Most of them were unknown to her, but there were a few she recognized—Dr. Brody’s father holding the dial of the spiritoscope; Adelaide’s mother wearing her tattered silk scarf; Billy Dashley clutching his bag of peanuts, giving her a toothy smile; and her own beloved mother extending a lonely, empty hand. As Beatrice reached for her, the ghost changed into the spirit of Madame St. Clair. “Be still,” the witch ordered, reaching through the looking glass and placing a crooked finger on Beatrice’s mouth.

  Beatrice blinked and Madame St. Clair disappeared, her own reflection taking the witch’s place. Her eyes were lined with charcoal and she wore a crown of gold on her head as if she were a queen, or a priestess, or perhaps even a goddess. “This is who you are,” Madame St. Clair’s voice announced.

  No sooner were the words spoken than the corridor went black as pitch. Lost and afraid, Beatrice clung to the wall, hoping to find her way out. The glassy surface beneath her fingers turned to stone, cold and damp and covered with glyphs like those that were carved into the obelisk. In the darkness, she heard a creature draw near, growling and snarling and gnashing its teeth.

  “This way!” Eleanor’s voice called from the right.

  “Follow me!” Adelaide’s voice called from the left.

  Not knowing which way to turn, Beatrice tore a string from the hem of her dress and began tying knots along the length of it. “By knot of one, my spell’s begun. By knot of two, it will come true. By knot of three, so may it be. By knot of four, this power I store. By knot of five, my spell is alive.”

  With the fifth knot, a door appeared in front of her, fitted with a forbidding iron lock.

  “By knot of six, this spell I fix. By knot of seven, the future I’ll leaven. By knot of eight, my will be fate. By knot of nine, what’s done is mine!”

  With that, a key appeared around her neck, hot to the touch, as if it’d been freshly pulled from the forge and quenched in oil.

  Putting the key in the lock, Beatrice made to turn it, but was shaken from her dream by the sound of breaking glass.

  Perdu squawked and spat and sounded an alarm. “Fiend!” he cried. “Fiend, fiend, fiend!”

  Twitch tugged at Bright’s arm. “Your cheeks…” he whispered, watching them turn blue.

  “I know,” Bright replied, hands to her face as she helplessly watched Beatrice rise from her bed.

  Hearing Eleanor and Adelaide tramping down the stairs, Beatrice threw on a wrap and followed them. The three women huddled together near the door, bathed in the dim glow of lantern light. A rock had come through a windowpane and settled amongst a scattering of glass shards. They might’ve thought it simple vandalism had there not been a message attached.

  Eleanor picked up the rock and examined the crude note.

  “What does it say?” Adelaide asked.

  Peering over Eleanor’s shoulder Beatrice read the words aloud, “I know what you are.”

  Late, late, yestreen

  I saw the Old Moon in the New Moon’s arms.

  I fear, I fear, my Master dear,

  That we shall come to great harm.

  —The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens

  The Sibyl, with frenzied mouth uttering things not to be laughed at, unadorned and unperfumed, yet reaches to a thousand years with her voice by the aid of the god.

  —HERACLITUS

  Into the Fire.

  THE WITCHES WERE seated around a table in the teashop, enjoying a quiet dinner of brown bread and onion soup. They could’ve been dining at Delmonico’s (Judith Dashley had offered to treat them), but Beatrice had declined the woman’s invitation in favour of having supper in, just the three of them. She’d wanted to be surrounded by peace and quiet and familiar faces before they made their way to the Fifth Avenue Hotel where she’d agreed to perform a demonstration with Dr. Brody’s spiritoscope for Mr. and Mrs. Dashley, and Marietta Stevens.

  Sopping up the last of her soup with a piece of crust, Adelaide glanced at the clock to check the time—quarter past seven. They were expected at the hotel for eight. “I’m goin
g on ahead,” she announced. “I’d like to make sure everything’s in order.”

  “We’ll be along shortly,” Eleanor said, speaking on Beatrice’s behalf. “I thought Beatrice might like to have a cup of tea to sort her thoughts.”

  Beatrice gave Eleanor a grateful nod.

  It was just the kind of response Adelaide had expected from Eleanor. In fact, she was surprised her partner hadn’t found some excuse for them to call the whole thing off. Since that rock had come crashing through the window, Eleanor had been jittery, on edge. Mr. Withrow, the landlord, had spotted the broken pane before she could get the glazer in to fix it.

  “You’ll have the repair done and paid for before the next rent is due,” he’d grumbled, “or else you’ll be out on your ears. I don’t know why I even agreed to rent to a pair of petticoats.”

  Adelaide had tried to calm Eleanor by saying, “As soon as it’s fixed, Withrow will forget it ever happened.” Shaking her head, Eleanor had replied, “I doubt it.”

  And she was not wild about the idea of the demonstration at the hotel. “Participating in a few supervised experiments at Dr. Brody’s home is one thing, but getting pulled into his search for ghosts is quite another. Can’t he conduct that sort of research without Beatrice? And why must the hotel’s owner and the Dashleys be present? It’s looking for trouble, especially when Beatrice still has so much to learn about her gifts.”

  “How horribly maternal of you,” Adelaide had retorted. “It’s Beatrice’s choice. Who are we to ask her to wait when the stars are so magnificently aligned? The signs, as you would say, couldn’t be clearer. Everything—from Beatrice’s arrival, to Dr. Brody’s research, to the sudden influx of ghosts—points in this direction. Oh Great Witch of the Bronx River, how many portents do you require?”

  Arms crossed, Eleanor had said, “I haven’t even met this Dr. Brody of yours. How can you be certain he’s not playing Beatrice and you for fools?”

  “Have you forgotten I, too, have gifts? Or aren’t they worth trusting anymore? If anyone should be worried about getting hoodwinked, it’s Dr. Brody. This city is rife with false prophets and seers who’d happily pull the wool over his eyes. And he’s not my anything. He’s a decent man with an open mind.”

  “You’re saying that because you fancy him,” Eleanor had accused.

  “I make it a practice not to fancy anyone: it’s a horrid way to live.”

  “I have eyes,” Eleanor had countered. “Your cheeks turn crimson at each mention of his name. But what does Dr. Brody know of magic? Just because he has an interest in all things supernatural, that doesn’t mean he respects Beatrice’s gifts.”

  “Before you condemn the man, you should take the trouble to get to know him,” Adelaide said stiffly.

  “Very well then,” Eleanor had relented. “I’ll defer my judgement until I see the good doctor’s work for myself. That is, if I’m allowed to attend this grand affair?”

  Dr. Brody was standing with Mr. Dashley in a private salon on the second floor of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The room, richly appointed with Persian rugs, rosewood panelling, crystal chandeliers, overstuffed chairs and a half-dozen porcelain vases filled with palm fronds and tuberoses, was generally reserved for lectures and meetings held by the hotel’s elite clientele. Mrs. Stevens had been kind enough to lend it to them for the evening, so long as she was allowed to witness the proceedings. Quinn would’ve happily continued his experiments at home, but Adelaide had suggested they try their luck at the hotel instead, since the place was supposed to be crawling with ghosts. So there he was, at half past seven on a Saturday night, preparing to help a young woman talk with spirits. Who would’ve imagined it?

  “Is the table where you’d like it?” Mr. Dashley asked. “I can call the porter if you’d like it moved.”

  “It’s fine where it is,” Quinn answered. He’d spent the last hour adjusting the various components of the spiritoscope in relation to its position on the table. Moving the table would mean he’d have to go through the entire process again. As he checked the angle of the machine’s dial one last time, the powerful scent of tuberoses filled his nose and caused him to sneeze. Fiddling in his pocket for his handkerchief, he stared down the offending flowers. “What the porter can do,” he said, pointing to the many vases around the room, “is get rid of those.” Mr. Dashley called the porter and one by one the vases disappeared, whisked off to some other part of the hotel to spread their overwhelming scent.

  “Better, eh?” Quinn said, looking pleased.

  “Much,” Mr. Dashley replied, then hoped he hadn’t just quashed some act of generosity by his wife. Judith hadn’t mentioned she was going to send flowers, but he wouldn’t put it past her. Short, stout and balding, Dashley was a veritable giant when it came to intellect, but never certain of himself when it came to his wife. He found it difficult to express feelings, although he, too, had been hit hard by their son’s death, so entrenched in sorrow that he’d feared it couldn’t be lifted up without a system of fortified levers and wedges. Many men in his position might’ve drunk themselves into oblivion or thrown themselves into their work, but Alden Dashley had never had much of a taste for drink, and he didn’t have to work in any true sense of the word. Judith’s family’s fortune was the engine that pulled the train of their financial success. He was just the conductor, keeping things on track—legal matters, real estate, business investments and such. In the wake of their son’s death, Judith had found distraction and solace in her quest to make contact with the spirit realm. While he’d supported her efforts, he’d found he’d needed to take a different tack. To that end, he’d joined several benevolent societies and lodges including the Freemasons and the Odd Fellows. But it wasn’t until he’d gone into Mr. Brody’s shop in search of a new magnifying glass that he’d finally found the sort of camaraderie he’d been looking for. Joining the Fraternal Order of the Unknown Philosophers had been a welcome balm for his weary heart. And now he had grown very fond of the late Mr. Brody’s only son.

  “Thank you for agreeing to attend this evening’s proceedings,” Quinn said, resisting the urge to tinker with the spiritoscope any further.

  “I’m always happy to come to the aid of a fellow Philosopher,” Mr. Dashley replied. “Besides, Judith has been going on about Miss Dunn ever since they met. I’d be in hot water if I passed up the opportunity to make her acquaintance. I’m quite curious to see what all the fuss is about. With you involved, I dare say I’m even hopeful something miraculous might transpire.” His tone at the end was wistful, his gaze far off.

  Dr. Brody recalled just then, with some embarrassment, mind that the ghost child Beatrice had seen in the teashop was Mr. Dashley’s son.

  —

  When Adelaide arrived, she surveyed the room to see if there was anything left to be done. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. “Flowers,” she muttered at last. She’d left the task to Judith, who was keen to be helpful with anything involving the young Miss Dunn, telling her that something understated, yet elegant, would be best. “Leave it with me,” Judith had said. “I’ll find just the right blooms to create the perfect ambience.”

  Approaching the porter, Adelaide asked, “Has there been any mention of flowers for the room?”

  “Yes, miss,” the young man answered. “They arrived this afternoon.”

  “Then where have they got to? I don’t suppose they walked off by themselves.”

  “No, miss,” the porter replied. “The gentleman sent them away.”

  Adelaide checked the time. It was too late to go chasing after the flowers (and where was Beatrice? It was a quarter to eight already). Just as she tried to think of a plausible excuse for the missing bouquets, Marietta and Judith entered the room. Mrs. Stevens was dressed in her usual black on black on black, several strands of jet beads around her neck. Adelaide admired the way the woman could make her perpetual mourning look fashionable, when so many widows became invisible, swallowed up by endless yards of cre
pe. Judith had chosen to wear a mustard-coloured dress with a perky bustle and matching hat. The felt topper was trimmed with velvet ribbons and a stuffed goldfinch with glass eyes that stared inquisitively from the brim as if it were a sailor on a ship’s prow. Six well-pressed housemaids trailed behind her, each one carrying a large vase filled with the banished tuberose bouquets. “Two on the mantel, two on the floor and two on that table over there,” Judith directed, as her husband regarded her with wry affection. Shaking her head she turned to Marietta. “Thank heavens I spotted them in the lobby or they might never have made it upstairs.”

  As a pair of maids headed to the table that held the spiritoscope, Quinn intervened. Hands up, he politely suggested, “Perhaps those could go on the hallway table outside the door, instead?”

  The maids looked at Judith.

  “Do as the good doctor wishes,” Judith said, giving Quinn a friendly nod. Then turning to Adelaide she breathlessly asked, “Where is our Beatrice?”

  “She’ll be here soon,” Adelaide assured her. “She and Eleanor decided some tea was in order, to calm the nerves and clear the mind.”

  “Of course,” Judith said. “Miss Dunn is remarkably wise for her age.”

  Adelaide wasn’t sure if Judith’s unwavering admiration for the girl was good or bad. Beatrice was an unbelievably forthright creature, but she knew nothing of managing expectations or brokering respect. If she wanted to make headway in this town, especially with the likes of Marietta Stevens, she’d have to temper her goodness with confidence and savvy. In Adelaide’s opinion, it was the only way to survive.