The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  As the seamstress put the final touches on the dress’s embroidered sleeves, Beatrice kept her eye on the curtains on the other side of the room. The damask panels were moving to and fro, much as they would if a cat were weaving in and out between them. The only trouble was, the Dashleys didn’t own a cat.

  Judith, noticing Beatrice’s distracted state, asked, “Is that my Billy? Is he here?”

  Trying her best to keep still, Beatrice whispered yes.

  The seamstress let out an impatient cough.

  “I knew I sensed him,” Judith said. “Ever since that day with you in the teashop I’ve become increasingly attuned to his presence. I can feel him come and go—sometimes he gives a little tug on my skirt, or rolls a pen out of Alden’s reach. I don’t know why I never noticed it before. Do you think it might be due to my keeping company with you? Is it possible I’ve been touched by magic? Sympathetically, of course.”

  Beatrice just smiled and held her breath as the seamstress slid several pins through a length of lace at the nape of her neck.

  Judith’s mouth turned down. “You don’t suppose they’re here, too, do you?”

  “Who?” Beatrice asked as soon as the seamstress moved on to the dress’s hem.

  “The scrubber girls.” Judith gave a shudder.

  The seamstress winced as she pricked her thumb with a pin. Saying a silent prayer she sucked the blood from its fleshy tip. God protect me from the things I cannot see. She’d heard tales from the night porter of the unhappy spirits that haunted the hotel corridors.

  Shaking her head, Beatrice replied, “They’re not here, at least not in your suite. Nor do I think they ever will be. They’re much happier now that they’re at ease with their fate.”

  “Thank you for entertaining such questions,” Judith said, flushing. “I don’t mean to impose on you.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” Beatrice said. “You and Alden have been incredibly kind.”

  Holding out her hand, the seamstress motioned for Beatrice to step down from the stool. “All finished,” she announced as she waited for Judith’s approval.

  Eyes gleaming, Judith clapped her hands. “It’s simply ravishing!”

  Sewing basket in hand, the seamstress took a bow, then took her leave.

  Judith rushed to fetch a small box that was sitting on a nearby table. “While I have you here,” she said, “I’d like to present you with a little gift.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Dashley,” Beatrice protested, “you shouldn’t do such things.”

  “It’s just a trifle,” Judith said. “A small thank-you from me and Alden and the rest of the Philosophers.”

  Beatrice took the box from her and gently opened its lid. Nestled in a bed of green silk was a little doll with a card that read: “Miss Fortuna.” The plaything had dark curls under a pointed velvet hat and was dressed in a long red gown with moons, owls, bats and snakes embroidered on the skirt, like the Gypsy fortune tellers in children’s books and European romances. She held a crystal ball in one hand and a tambourine in the other. Her legs were stiff and affixed to the base of a wooden top. Under her skirt, Miss Fortuna held a secret, or more precisely hundreds of them—page upon page of coloured paper shaped, stitched, folded and inscribed to form a never-ending book of tiny prophecies.

  “You spin her around to find your fortune,” Judith had said, demonstrating how the toy worked. “Wherever the pages fall open is where your luck lies. The fortunes are written inside.”

  Giving the doll a playful turn, Beatrice tried it for herself.

  Pages fluttering, the toy spun around several times then wobbled to a stop.

  Hand to her heart, Beatrice read her fortune.

  Courage always. Without it there is no hope.

  Dr. Brody sat in the hotel reading room, cup of coffee in hand, programme for the symposium laid out before him on the table. He was glad to have a few moments to himself. He enjoyed eavesdropping on the hum of ideas, boasts and complaints that got bandied about the place. Brody found comfort in the predictable din (so long as he wasn’t required to participate in it).

  “Hello there, St. Nick,” a familiar voice sounded, accompanied by the clap of a hand on his shoulder.

  “Andersen,” Brody replied, turning to greet his old acquaintance. The burly army hero didn’t look half so well as he had the last time they’d met. His skin was pale, his eyes dark, his suit rumpled and smelling stale. “How have you been?” Brody asked, wondering if the poor fellow might be suffering from a lingering illness, or was simply down on his luck.

  Andersen pulled up a chair. Wiping sweat from his brow, he tugged at his tie to loosen it. “Never better,” he said with a tired smile. Leaning close he added, “I’m glad I’ve run into you. I’m in need of your professional opinion.”

  Brody shook his head. “If it’s medical advice you’re after, you might be better served by a full-time practitioner. My work these days centres more on the mind and less on physical ailments.”

  “And that’s exactly why you’re the right man for the job,” Andersen insisted. “I need a doc who’s well-versed in the business of examining brains.”

  “Yours?” Brody asked, thinking the stress of the war might’ve finally proved too much after all these years.

  “No,” Andersen replied. “There’s a girl I’ve come to fancy out on Blackwell’s Island.”

  “At the asylum?” Brody asked.

  “She’s one in a million,” Andersen boasted. “A diamond in the rough. As lovely and witty as any woman I’ve ever known. And far saner compared to most. For the life of me I can’t figure why she’s not been let out.”

  “There must be some reason she’s there,” Brody said, hoping to bring Andersen to his senses. Still he knew all too well that it was possible (and regrettably easy) for a perfectly sane woman to get put away against her will.

  With a laugh Andersen said, “Would you believe she got locked up for witchcraft? Some scuttlebutt about practicing it…or was it believing in it? Either way it’s a bunch of nonsense.”

  “I see,” Brody said, torn between wanting to learn more and wishing he hadn’t asked.

  “Come out with me tonight and meet her for yourself,” Andersen suggested. “No doubt you’ll come to the same conclusion as I have, that it was all a big mistake.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Brody replied. “I have another engagement.”

  “Right,” Andersen said, looking dejected. “Maybe another time, then? Perhaps you could talk some sense into the staff there. Put in a good word as to the strength of my character. The opinion of a doctor such as yourself, a respectable society gent, could go a long way towards springing my girl from that hellhole.”

  Brody knew the asylum, like many public madhouses, was overcrowded and poorly maintained. He also knew that if someone of note had been the one to send the girl there, the chances of her getting out were slim. Without studying the woman’s case at length, he wasn’t sure he could make an informed plea. But clearly Andersen was desperate. “I’ll consider it,” he said at last.

  “Thank you,” Andersen said. “Do you think you could make it sometime soon? Else I might just have to break her out by other means.”

  Brody could see he wasn’t joking. The spell the girl had cast on him was strong and fast. “We’ll talk soon,” he said, excusing himself from the table. “Be well, Andersen.”

  “Take care, St. Nick.”

  —

  Brody found a quiet corner and read over his notes for the evening lecture. It was still hours before he and Beatrice would take the stage, but he wanted to be sure his thoughts were in order. He’d left the minor details of the evening’s presentation to Adelaide. Her eagerness to engage in spectacle went far beyond his practical nature, but he could see that it was all in an effort to show how much she respected his work. She had faith in his methods (and, dare he think it, in him), which was something he’d never felt before from a woman. As much as he’d loved his wife, she’d never shown
any interest in his profession. He’d been a medical student, on his way to becoming a surgeon, and she’d forbidden him to mention anything related to medicine in her presence. He’d respected her squeamishness, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t felt let down by her lack of interest. Adelaide, despite her bold, impulsive nature, was a welcome companion and a true equal. If the night turned out to be a success, he planned to express exactly those sentiments to her, put his cards on the table, as it were.

  He also planned to suggest they resume their research in his study rather than carry on at the hotel. He hoped to coax his father’s ghost into a longer conversation so he might ask him a few pressing questions.

  What are your surroundings like on the other side?

  What of time? Is it measured? If so, how do you keep track of it?

  What of the senses that your body used in life? Do you see, hear, smell, touch?

  What is your relationship to the physical world? Why do some spirits move objects, while others do not?

  How do you travel from one place to another? Is distance of no consequence?

  What, if anything, is beyond where you are now?

  He thought if he could gain the answers he sought, he might publish them in a short book. It would, no doubt, be a risky endeavour, but wasn’t that the sort of risk that every scientist had to be willing to take? To profess truth despite the looming spectre of ridicule.

  And there was another subject he’d like to explore in the privacy of his study. Hearing Andersen speak of his girl and her plight, he’d remembered the card Adelaide had given him the day they’d met. “Miss Adelaide Thom. Mind Reader. Seeress. Witch.” She’d mentioned the word a few times since, seemingly in jest, and once, he’d heard Beatrice speak it with shy seriousness. Witchcraft. Could their abilities be attributed to some greater mystical force or were they just bandying the word about for effect? Incredible as it seemed, it would explain much of what he’d witnessed while in their presence. There’d been talk of witchcraft at the Salpêtrière—some inmates claiming they were born into it, others threatening to use it to curse the place—but Charcot had dismissed it, saying their claims of sorcery were merely archaic explanations for hysteria. He had been incredibly dismissive, and the procedures he’d used to prove his theories, to document and cure hysteria, had been damaging and dangerous—no better than the trials put to women during the witch hunts of old. The women were treated as if they were criminals and kept like animals in cages. Spirits broken, they’d spent their days crying for mercy and freedom.

  If Adelaide, Beatrice and Eleanor (who he suspected was of the same magical persuasion) wished to confess their practices to him, he would surely listen. If they were good enough to allow him into their world, he’d do whatever he could to protect them.

  Much like Dr. Brody, Eleanor had decided not to interfere with Adelaide’s plans. She’d chosen instead to stand patiently on guard until she was needed. Beatrice was bright and observant and determined, and that would go a long way towards keeping her from falling too far under Adelaide’s spell.

  “She seems so strong, so unafraid,” Beatrice had said once to Eleanor in private. “Has she always been that confident?”

  Eleanor had tried to set the record straight. “Adelaide isn’t strong because she’s confident. She’s strong because she’s always afraid.”

  The sooner Beatrice realized that Adelaide had weaknesses, the better. She didn’t want the girl to be too eager to follow her every whim. Dr. Brody seemed to have already fallen into that trap, but she figured a man who’d lost an arm in battle could probably take care of himself.

  She didn’t blame Beatrice for being enthralled with Adelaide or even for wanting to be like her. She’d suffered from that same cycle of admiration-envy-infatuation when she’d cared for Adelaide after the attack. It’s what had led her to agree to go into business with her and to suspect that Adelaide had powers that were yet to be made manifest. But it wasn’t Adelaide’s charm that’d led Eleanor to become her friend. It was discovering the parts of Adelaide that Beatrice had yet to see—her vulnerability, her tender heart, her fear of love. She hoped that Adelaide might reveal those things to Beatrice sooner rather than later, for all their sakes. Who knew what wondrous things might occur when that took place? Adelaide had said it herself, and she’d claimed she’d seen it in Beatrice’s cards: “We’re better for knowing each other, we’re stronger together.”

  The words her mother had spoken at the dumb supper still lingered in Eleanor’s mind, and she’d been struggling to see any signs that might guide her in instructing Beatrice. Everyday rituals that’d been foolproof when she’d lived on the river now felt cumbersome and meaningless. The rhythms of the city intruded on her senses as if they had messages of their own to give, but more often than not, she felt caught between two places, belonging to neither.

  Since the rock crashed through the window, she hadn’t seen any more signs of trouble. But that didn’t mean the person who’d thrown it wasn’t lurking about, waiting to strike. She’d been checking her tea leaves, observing the bees, waiting for a dream to be delivered…If a sign had been given to point the way, she’d missed it. Beatrice’s powers were increasing each day. Was she losing hers in the inverse proportion? Surely her mother would’ve mentioned that, if it was to be her fate.

  Perdu waddled to Eleanor’s teacup and tapped his beak on its rim.

  Eleanor looked at the cup and discovered a tiny stalk stuck to the edge of the bowl. A single stalk means a message is on its way. Press it to your palm, and clap your hands together. If the stalk stays put, the message will be fair. If it switches hands, it will be fickle. If it falls to the floor, it will be foul.

  Pinching the stalk between her fingers, Eleanor placed it on the palm of her right hand. She clapped her hands once then looked to see where the stalk had landed. It clung to her left palm for a moment before floating to the floor.

  The bells on the shop door jangled and a young man came into the store. “Telegram for Miss St. Clair,” he announced, handing an envelope to Eleanor.

  “Thank you,” she said, motioning for Perdu to give the lad a tip.

  Perdu dipped his beak into the change jar and fished out a dime.

  The boy laughed as he shoved the coin in his pocket. “Thanks much,” he said, tipping his cap.

  TO: MISS ELEANOR ST. CLAIR

  FROM: MRS. CECIL NEWLAND

  I REQUEST YOUR COMPANY AT MY HOME TONIGHT.

  7 O’CLOCK.

  URGENT.

  I have seen wonderful Snares laid for Curious People, by the Mouths of Damsels possessed with a Spirit of Divination.

  —REV. COTTON MATHER

  Parade.

  THE WEATHER THAT afternoon was terrifically inviting. A cloudless blue sky and a high yellow sun made every bit of brass, copper, silver and gold (from buttons to buckles, from medals to sword hilts) shine that much brighter. Scores of Masons rushed here and there decked in their regalia—stewards, deacons, wardens, knights, sword bearers, worshipful masters—greeting one another with secret handshakes and sacred phrases, their sashes pressed flat, their feathered chapeaux set straight, their fringed aprons flapping.

  Two gentlemen, decidedly ignoring the proceedings, played checkers under a poplar tree in Madison Square Park. They knew the place would soon fill with noisy parade goers, that Fifth Avenue would turn into a bustling boulevard of pomp and brass bands and horseshit, but they didn’t feel the need to concern themselves with any of it. They’d come there every Saturday for the past thirty years, since before the Fifth Avenue Hotel was even thought of, and they weren’t about to let a rowdy gathering of nine thousand Freemasons in their ridiculous garb ruin their long-standing tradition.

  “Nice weather we’re having,” one of the gents said, scratching his head beneath his cap. His checkers were black.

  “Indeed,” his friend replied. His checkers were white. Moving one of his pieces to the end of the board, he crowned it king. “Warm for Octob
er, wouldn’t you say?”

  Mr. Black turned his head sideways, as if changing his perspective would change the game. “I suppose,” he replied, hesitating over his turn.

  “What’s there to suppose about?” Mr. White asked. “It’s positively balmy. I was tempted to fling my coat over my shoulder and walk in my shirt sleeves all the way here.” Pointing to one of his pieces he said, “There’s your move—you have to take it.”

  “Humpf,” Mr. Black snorted, seeing he’d fallen into a trap. “This weather’s nothing out of the ordinary, you know. There’s been a warm spell in Manhattan every October since 1792.”

  After Mr. Black made the move he’d been waiting for, Mr. White took three of his friend’s checkers and crowned one of his own, king. “You don’t say.”

  “It likely started long before that, though the records of the Old Farmer’s Almanac only go back so far.” Making the only move he could, Mr. Black saw he was going to lose the game. At least he’d been right about the weather.

  “Funny how folks forget,” Mr. White observed, taking the last of Mr. Black’s pieces off the board.

  Tossing a nickel into the old tin cup they used for a kitty, Mr. Black nodded and said, “Good game.” There was plenty of daylight ahead, plenty of time to plot and scheme. They wouldn’t play their final round until sunset, winner take all.

  Mr. White set his pieces on the board one by one. No need to ask if Mr. Black wanted another go. “Then why do you suppose we’re so quick to say, ‘How warm! How strange!’ when it’s not unusual at all?”