by Ami McKay
Sitting in the front window, Eleanor kept watch for Adelaide and Beatrice and anyone who might bring her news. Pulling apart a loaf of Mr. Markowitz’s black rye, she tossed a hunk to Perdu then took a piece for herself. The chewy loaf tasted of molasses and malt, and helped to settle her churning belly. She had no doubt that Cecil Newland had ordered someone to do the dirty business with the arsenic, but had he ordered them to take Beatrice too? She didn’t think he would dare such a crime—it carried too much risk—but she needed to rule out the possibility. Running to the counter she fetched an egg from a wire basket. “Who wants a treat?” she asked Perdu.
The raven cocked his head. “Perdu,” he answered, sidling onto Eleanor’s shoulder. “Perdu, do.”
Cradling the egg in her hands, Eleanor said, “Tell me who was in the shop tonight?”
“Perdu?” the bird replied, before emitting a series of bubbling coos. Anticipating the slither of yolk down his throat made him hopeful, eager.
“Yes,” Eleanor said, with a supportive nod, “and was Beatrice here too?”
The raven shook his head.
“She wasn’t?”
“No,” he said, clucking his tongue.
“Then who else was in the shop?” Eleanor said, continuing to tempt Perdu with the egg. “I know you weren’t alone.”
Staring out the shop window, Perdu pecked at the glass. He puffed up his feathers until he was twice his normal size. “Fiend,” he said in a low, menacing whisper.
With that, Eleanor cracked the egg on the edge of a saucer and gave up her interrogation. If the bird had recognized the intruder, he would’ve said so.
As Perdu scooped runny egg into his beak, Eleanor hid the arsenic and the hibiscus tea in the broom closet. Adelaide came through the shop door just as she’d closed the cupboard. Looking at Perdu, Eleanor put her finger to her lips. The bird flew to his perch and tucked his head under a wing.
“Any luck?” Eleanor asked as a dejected Adelaide settled into the window seat.
“None,” Adelaide said.
“Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
Turning to the shelves, Eleanor chose a jar marked “sweet ease,” and went about brewing a pot to calm their nerves. As the water came to a boil, Eleanor whispered a few words over the leaves, first in French then in English. “Ne laissez aucun mal à s’abattre sur nous. Let no evil befall us.” She trusted Perdu, of course, but a few good words couldn’t hurt. She wondered how long she’d feel the need to bless every tea leaf, sugar cube and drop of honey in the place.
Settling across from Adelaide, she made sure she took her first sip of tea before Adelaide took hers. The bright notes of the herbs within—lavender, lemon balm, spearmint and passionflower—were the only tastes she sensed on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she thanked Heaven for Perdu.
Before long the shop’s bell rang, startling both women to their feet.
Adelaide rushed to the door.
Dr. Brody was there, cheeks flushed, beer on his breath. Beatrice wasn’t with him.
“How did it go?” Adelaide asked, inviting him into the shop. She wasn’t quite ready to break the bad news.
Eleanor stood close by, waiting for the penny to drop.
“It was splendid,” Dr. Brody said, teetering into the room. “Well actually, it was horrid at first. Most of the crowd left, except of course for the Philosophers and all but one of the North Orange Diviners, and several members of the Followers of the Needle. Mrs. Stevens was just glad there wasn’t a riot. After I gave a brief lecture of my findings, and Judith Dashley gave a stunning account of Beatrice’s abilities, we adjourned for the evening. I would’ve been here sooner but the Philosophers insisted we make a toast or ten to my dear father.” Squinting, Dr. Brody looked around the room. “How’s our girl? Is she faring any better?”
Adelaide guided him to a chair. “I think you’d better sit,” she said, staring helplessly at Eleanor.
Eleanor scurried behind the counter. “I’ll put on the kettle for more tea.”
Upstairs, Twitch was face down, sobbing into Beatrice’s pillow.
“Don’t worry,” Bright said trying to comfort him. “She’s a strong, resilient girl.”
“How could this have happened?” he whimpered. “We gave her the right dream. I touched all her garments with magic…”
Bright placed her hand on the small of his back. “We did all we could do. It isn’t up to us.”
When the Devil with his confederate and concomitant Spectres came unto this poor girl, it was their custom to cast her into such horrible Darkness that she imagined herself in a desolate cellar, where Day or Night could not be distinguished. Her eyes were open, moving to and fro after the Hellish Harpies that fluttered about her and she was little able to see anything else.
—from An Attempt to Cure Witchcraft: The Story of Mercy Wylde
Taken.
BEATRICE WAS HUDDLED on a straw mattress in the corner of a cold, dark cellar, head down, knees hugged to her chest. Shivering, she tried to remember how she’d gotten here but her aching head couldn’t muster the answer. Every part of her was sore, from her leaden limbs to her face, and the harder she worked to make sense of things, the more she felt her memory slipping, falling off the edge of reason. Touching the nape of her neck to explore why it hurt, she realized all that remained of her hair was a mess of choppy ends. It had been cut close to the base of her skull. She couldn’t remember the mincing of shears or how Minnie Stevens’ ball gown had been taken from her, leaving her in nothing but her thin cotton shift. Whenever she swallowed, blood seeped from a gash inside her bottom lip and there was a mass of tender, swollen skin around her mouth. There was an odd smell in her nose, a strange taste in her mouth, medicinal yet sweet.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she noticed scant traces of light from between the floorboards above her head and the narrow gap under the door. The walls were stone, the floor dirt. There was no washbasin, no mirror, no way for her to tend to her wounds. Aside from the mattress there was a wooden bucket in the corner, a few pebbles in the dirt, and a large wooden support beam standing at attention in the middle of the room. The air was damp and musty except for an occasional waft of pipe smoke that met her nose, perhaps from the rooms upstairs. Hauling herself up she went to the door, where she discovered there was no knob or latch to loose. She leaned against its wide wooden planks, but it wouldn’t budge. She was starting to wonder if she hadn’t been thrown into the Tombs. But what for? Hearing the sound of a fly buzzing, she turned her attention to the bucket on the other side of the cellar. The pail was half full of vomit. Holding her breath against the stench, she wondered if the bucket’s contents were hers, as if the ownership of such muck mattered. Trembling, she couldn’t help the tears that now streamed down her face.
“Help!” she cried.
Instantly she heard footsteps above her—heavy pacing at a steady, even gait. Occasionally a loose board would creak and complain under the weight—it had to be a man. Remembering Mr. Palsham’s determined grip on her arm, she wondered if it might be him. She was sure she’d spotted him in the lobby of the hotel. If he’d seen her the day she’d touched the obelisk, had he been following her ever since? As she strained to listen for other sounds that might tell her where she was, she heard the man speak. Although she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, his words had a cadence, like prayer or madness or song. Unlike Mr. Palsham’s raspy voice, though, this man’s had a pleasant tone and rhythm. Dare she call out again? Perhaps whoever it was would take pity on her and come to her aid.
“Help me!” she wailed. “Please, let me out!” She shouted until her throat was raw. When her voice failed she pounded on the door.
The light above her went out. The footsteps faded, but she was not alone.
Forerunner, or foretelling. Among the signs and portents that make themselves manifest in the daily world is the forerunner or foretelling. These mystical signals occur in anticipation of, or at the time of, someone’s
death. There have been many such signs recorded over the ages in various places around the world. The most prevalent include: three knocks on the door when no one’s there; a dog howling in its sleep; a bird flying into a house through an open door; a favourite picture falling off the wall; the dream of a loved one bidding goodbye; the sound of church bells ringing in the middle of the night.
—From the grimoire of Eleanor St. Clair
Church Bells and Seekers.
ADELAIDE, ELEANOR AND Dr. Brody kept vigil at the teashop through the night. On Dr. Brody’s recommendation, the three put together a plan of action for the following day: Dr. Brody would speak with the hotel detective and make the rounds among the staff; Adelaide would meet with Mrs. Stevens and the Dashleys to tell them of Beatrice’s disappearance and to enlist their help; Eleanor would visit Police headquarters to file a report at the Office of Missing Persons. As their minds grew muddled from constant worry and their bodies weary from lack of sleep, Brody suggested they take turns keeping watch so each might get some much-needed rest.
Eleanor was the last to take her turn. During her watch, she thumbed through her grimoire looking for spells that might aid them in their search. Pausing on the page that addressed forerunners she thanked Heaven that any such signs had been absent thus far. Stopping on an entry titled, “Eye of Illumination,” she remembered her mother practicing the spell whenever she’d feared someone might’ve used magic against her.
In the wake of evil, take a sharp needle and prick the shape of an eye into the palm of your left hand. While guiding that hand over any item, person or space you fear may have been touched by wickedness, close your eyes and repeat the following words: “May my blood sense what my eyes can’t see.” If dark magic has been cast upon you, the eye will glow and burn. Further steps must then be taken to protect yourself from harm.
Eleanor took a needle from her sewing kit and carefully pricked her palm. Slowly making her way around the shop she held her hand over every inch of the place as she recited the chant over and over again. Although she was certain she and Perdu had uncovered the extent of what must have been Cecil Newland’s mischief, she worried something else might be afoot. Upon completing the spell, she stood in the centre of the shop and heaved a great sigh, relieved to find that there were no traces of dark magic to be found there. She was more confused than ever as to what had happened to Beatrice.
At sunrise she took a pencil in hand and made a list of other steps she might take to help find the girl. She had a feeling it was going to take more than keen minds and good will.
1. Ask Maman.
2. Ask the bees.
3. Ask Perdu (again).
4. Ask the Dearlies.
5. Read the Leaves.
6. Look to the mirror.
7. Consult the “Book and Key”
Dr. Brody rose shortly after dawn, shrugging into his jacket and rubbing his stubbled chin.
“Tea?” Eleanor asked, setting a kettle on the stove.
“Please,” Dr. Brody replied, though what he really wanted was a cup of the coffee he’d lived on in the army: hot black sludgy fuel that could wake the dead.
“How’d you sleep?” Eleanor asked, dumping three generous spoonfuls of the strongest tea she had into the pot.
“Fitfully, and you?”
“The same.”
“No sign of her?”
“None.”
Then a flustered Adelaide came downstairs. “What’s that racket?”
“Hmm?” Eleanor said, fetching another cup.
Holding up a finger for silence, Adelaide paused to listen. “There,” she said. “There it goes again. Don’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?” Dr. Brody asked with a shrug.
“I think it’s a dog,” Adelaide answered. “It’s been yowling for the past hour.”
Eleanor bit her lip. “Howling?”
Adelaide shook her head. “No, not howling. It’s more like whining.” Getting nothing but blank stares she headed for the door. “I’m going to see if I can’t find it.”
Eleanor kept on with the tea.
Quinn looked out the window after Adelaide.
The stray dog Adelaide had fed scraps to in the park was standing on the stoop of Markowitz’s Bakery whining and scratching at the door.
The shop was closed for the day, but peering through the window, Adelaide spotted the portly baker. She knocked on the door.
“Miss Thom!” Mr. Markowitz exclaimed as he opened the door with a friendly smile. “How are you this fine morning?”
The dog cowered behind Adelaide’s skirts.
“Tired,” Adelaide grumbled. “I’m usually not up this early.”
The baker waggled his eyebrows. “Late night?”
“Yes,” Adelaide confessed, “but not nearly as much fun as I’d like it to have been.”
“So sorry to hear that,” Mr. Markowitz said looking genuinely concerned. He liked people to be happy, especially the women next door. “Would a basket of turnovers help cheer you up?”
Adelaide wasn’t one to refuse the baker’s kindness. “That would be lovely,” she said, stepping inside the shop and closing the door behind her. “If it’s not any trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I just took a batch out of the oven.”
The dog resumed its frantic bid to get inside the bakery.
“You didn’t happen to see Beatrice last evening, did you?” Adelaide asked.
“Can’t say that I did,” Mr. Markowitz replied. “But you know me…early to bed, early to rise.”
Adelaide nodded. “How about this morning then? You’re usually up before dawn?”
Flipping the turnovers one by one out from their baking tins he replied, “Yes I am, but I haven’t seen her. I can’t keep track of you young ladies. So many pretty faces running willy-nilly all over the city with rouge on their lips and minds of their own. Where I come from, all three of you dear girls would’ve been married and holding babes in your arms by now.” Turning, he caught the look on Adelaide’s face, and the smile dropped off his. “Is Miss Dunn in some sort of trouble?”
The previous night she had searched for Beatrice in the park and along the streets near the hotel, stopping to give her card to every rough, nighthawk, carriage driver and whore she encountered. “Something like that,” she said. She didn’t want to worry the man too much. “If you see her, could you feed her some turnovers and send her home?” His golden treats were enough to soften even the most stubborn heart.
“I will,” he said, handing the basket of baked goods to Adelaide. “My treat. No charge.”
“Thank you,” Adelaide said. “You’re very kind.”
As she opened the door to leave, Mr. Markowitz’s son Isaac shot from the back room and outside before her. “Cleo!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around the dog’s neck.
Mr. Markowitz raised a rolling pin in the air and bellowed, “That mangy hound’s not to set a single muddy paw inside my shop!”
“But Papa,” Isaac protested, “she’s got no home.”
Mr. Markowitz stared the boy down. “No.”
“Please,” Isaac begged.
Grumbling, the baker stomped back to his work.
“How about Cleo comes to stay with me?” Adelaide proposed, taking pity on dog and boy.
Cleo cocked her ears, wagged her tail.
“And I can come visit her at your place?” Isaac asked. His eyes were as hopeful as the dog’s.
Adelaide nodded. “Any time you like.”
“Isaac!” Mr. Markowitz shouted from the back of the shop.
“Coming, Papa!” Isaac shouted back.
Giving the boy a little wave, Adelaide hung the basket from her arm. “Come on Cleo, let’s go.”
Dog at her side, Adelaide entered the teashop and waited for Eleanor’s reaction. She was half certain she’d get the same response as Isaac had gotten from his father.
Setting a saucer of raw stew meat on the floor for Perdu, Eleanor loo
ked up at her friend and then at the dog.
Head low, tail wagging, nose catching the scent of the meat, Cleo slowly approached the raven.
Feathers ruffled, Perdu hissed and defended his breakfast.
Giving a sharp bark, Cleo ran between Dr. Brody’s legs.
“Who’s this?” Dr. Brody asked, scratching the dog behind its ears.
The dog’s tail wildly thumped on the floor.
“Cleo,” Adelaide answered, watching the pair with some astonishment. If Eleanor didn’t fold, perhaps he’d take the pup.
“Nice name,” Dr. Brody said, still scratching.
Taking another saucer from the shelf Eleanor grudgingly asked, “Is she staying?”
Adelaide smiled. “I suppose she is.”
Eleanor put several pieces of meat on the saucer and placed it on the floor. “Come on then,” she said to the dog, “eat up before Perdu decides it’s his.”
Adelaide, Eleanor and Brody stood in silence watching the dog eat, each hoping that their kindness towards the stray might somehow hasten Beatrice’s return.
She underwent a sort of plague, which I don’t remember that I ever observed in more than one or two bewitched persons besides her. Her tortures were turned into frolics, and she became as extravagant as a wildcat. Her imagination strangely disordered, she was always excessively witty in talk; never downright profane, but yet sufficiently insolent and abusive. Knowing it was not her true self she was displaying, I had no hesitation in putting a stop to it.
—from An Attempt to Cure Witchcraft: The Story of Mercy Wylde
Witch’s Mark.
THE GHOST OF Lena McLeod hovered in the cell where Beatrice slept. Although her body had been promptly fetched after she’d hung herself, the men who’d collected it couldn’t keep her spirit from returning to the parsonage.
Staring at Beatrice she laughed, she swooned, she wept. Would this girl pay attention to her? The other one hadn’t listened to a thing she’d said.
