by Ami McKay
Lena’s laughter filled the room as a single rafter gave way and sealed the Reverend’s fate.
Beatrice fled for the stairs. As she flew through the door, it slammed shut behind her, and the bolt clanged to. The stairwell was filled with smoke. She could barely see or breathe.
“Beatrice,” her mother called from the top of the stairs. “Come to me.”
Looking up, she saw the silhouette of a woman on the landing, her hand outstretched. Unsure whether she was making her way to safety or Heaven, Beatrice climbed the stairs. Either way, she was going to be free.
Dr. Brody sat at his father’s desk and stared at the dying coals of an evening fire he’d built in his study, debating whether or not to go to the teashop. He’d said he would stop by at the end of the day, but there didn’t seem to be much sense in disturbing Eleanor and Adelaide at this hour. He had nothing new to offer, no information, no solutions that might lead to finding Beatrice.
He hadn’t really expected to find Beatrice at the asylum, but he’d hoped he might. He certainly hadn’t expected to stumble across the perpetrator of the acid attack on Adelaide. He supposed he could’ve guessed at some of the particulars that had led to the loss of her eye, but to read it on the page was a sobering thing. She’d never volunteered what had happened to her and he hadn’t asked. He’d figured she’d tell that story, if and when she was ready.
But he wished he’d told her how beautiful she was the night they’d kissed at the hotel, that he’d professed his love for her then and there. Knowing Adelaide, perhaps she already knew how he felt. But how could he pursue happiness while Beatrice was still lost? All he could do was show his support, take the proper actions and hope that Adelaide could see that everything he did was from the heart.
He ran his finger around the dial of the spiritoscope, which he’d fetched from the hotel, thinking it was better to have it home than sitting in some broom closet. Oh how he longed for a ghost to direct his path! Where were Mr. Dickens’ spirits of past, present and future? Was it just wishful thinking to hope they might appear? No. What Beatrice Dunn had shown him had been real. It couldn’t be denied. “Father,” he said, looking to the heavens, “send me a sign.”
With a gentle clacking, the spiritoscope’s dial began to turn. One by one it pointed out the letters, V-I-V-I-T.
She lives.
The little girl led the two witches to the parsonage with Cleo at their heels. As they drew closer, church bells began a slow, mournful toll. Eleanor stopped short, a chill up her spine. “Someone will die tonight,” she whispered.
A team of horses pulling a fire wagon galloped past, spittle and sweat flying every which way in the cold night air. A half-dozen men clung to the ladders strapped to the truck’s sides. A young boy, perched on top, clanged a leather hammer against a tinny gong, sounding the alarm. Adelaide smelled the smoke before she saw the fire. “Over there,” she said, pointing to the parsonage as they rounded the corner. The building was falling in on itself, engulfed in a mass of flames.
“That’s it!” the girl shouted, her eyes lit with glee. “That’s the place.” Then she danced away down the street, thankful that her wish had come true.
Eleanor slipped her hand in Adelaide’s and made a silent wish that Beatrice had survived.
Cleo circled around them and began to bark.
“Look,” Adelaide said, tugging on Eleanor. “I think it’s her.”
Beatrice, backlit by the fire, walked towards them, dirty and in a tattered shift, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Running to her, Eleanor and Adelaide embraced her as one, and held her tight.
By the time Brody got to the teashop, Beatrice had been fed and washed and was tucked safe in her bed with Eleanor and Adelaide taking turns watching over her. Perdu was perched on the headboard, and Cleo was curled at her feet. Twitch and Bright were snuggled up together on the windowsill contemplating her next dream.
When a knock came at the door, Eleanor went to answer it, wondering who might be calling so late. She and Adelaide had decided to keep the news of Beatrice’s return to themselves until morning. What the girl needed tonight was rest.
“I’m sorry to impose,” Dr. Brody said as Eleanor opened the door. Shyly stepping inside the shop he said, “I’ve news. A message from my father.”
It was clear to Eleanor that it had taken the doctor a fair bit of resolve to say such a thing. “I see,” she said, and smiled at him.
Stammering, he said, “I know it may sound foolish, but I’m sure of what I saw. Long story short, my father let me know that Beatrice is alive.”
“She is,” Eleanor said, taking his hand in hers. “Come see for yourself.” It was all she could do not to laugh at the shock and wonder on Brody’s face as she led him up the stairs.
At the door of Beatrice’s room, he let out a small gasp, shocked by the sight of her ragged hair, her sunken eyes, the wounds and bruises that encircled her wrists.
Propped on her pillows, Beatrice called to him, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, Dr. Brody,” she said. “I let you down.”
“Dear girl,” he said, his voice shaking a little, “you could never do that.” Looking at Eleanor and then at Adelaide he said, “None of you could.”
What wonderful beings they were, these women he’d come to care for, these women who’d helped him chase his dreams, these women he needed so much more than they needed him—these marvellous, glorious, Witches of New York.
THE MORNING SUN Tuesday, October 12, 1880
RESPECTED PREACHER DIES IN TRAGIC FIRE
Last evening at approximately ten o’clock, fire broke out in the parsonage of the Church of the Good Shepherd on Twenty-Third Street. A passerby sounded an alarm after smelling smoke and seeing flames shooting out the first-storey windows of the dwelling. Personnel from the Fire Department responded promptly, but by the time they arrived on the scene the wooden structure was fully engulfed.
The speed and aggressiveness of the fire has been attributed to the house’s age and style of construction, which date back to the early 1800s. The building and its contents could not be saved.
As of this morning it has been confirmed that Reverend Francis Townsend, beloved leader of the church’s congregation, perished in the fire. His badly burned remains were identified by one of his parishioners, a Mrs. Penelope Piddock. “He was a true soldier of God,” she tearfully testified. “May the angels protect him, and Heaven accept him.”
Funeral services for the late Reverend Townsend will be held this Friday at two o’clock in the Sanctuary of the Church of the Good Shepherd.
Miraculously, the church, a stone meeting house that dates from the same period as the parsonage, was spared the fire’s wrath.
A collection for the poor will be taken in the Reverend’s memory this Sunday during regular services.
Mr. Palsham.
THE COLLECTORS ENTERED Mr. Palsham’s office unannounced. Hands folded at their waists, the pair stood impassively in front of his desk waiting to be addressed.
As was his habit, Mr. Palsham took his time. After sifting through the many papers, plans, schematics and blueprints that littered his blotter, he picked up a silver trowel from a velvet-lined presentation box that sat to one side of his desk. It was a gift from the Masons for his part in bringing the obelisk to New York. Holding the trowel’s tip to his finger, he mindlessly spun it around by its wooden handle. Its blade glinted each time it passed through the sunlight streaming through the window, casting a flickering beam on his face. Beneath his bushy beard sat a constellation of scars. If he were ever to allow a barber to shave him clean, his mouth would bear the comical look of a carnival knock-down doll with a smile that had come unstitched. Leaning back in his chair he finally asked, “What brings you here?”
“Reverend Townsend is dead, sir,” the first Collector said.
The second Collector gave a nod of confirmation.
“I am aware of it,” Mr. Palsham replied. “He was weak. There are
others who’ll take his place.”
The first Collector stared straight ahead. “And the girl is gone as well.”
Mr. Palsham winced. The thought of Beatrice Dunn made him uneasy. She was different, special, almost frightening in her naïveté when it came to her power. Her glamour was brighter than any witch he’d ever seen (and he’d seen plenty). He’d made a mistake in thinking that bumbling preacher could do her in. “Perhaps it’s for the best.”
“You no longer wish to pursue her?” the second Collector asked.
“Only from a distance,” Mr. Palsham explained. “It’s not her time yet.”
“And what of the others?” the first Collector inquired.
Mr. Palsham tapped the trowel on his forehead, thinking. “Leave them be, for now. They’re worth more together than apart.”
“Very well, sir.”
“As you wish.”
Setting the tool aside, Mr. Palsham asked, “Did you recover anything from the fire?”
“Only this,” the first Collector said, placing Reverend Townsend’s pipe on the desk.
“And this,” the second replied, placing a blackened oyster shell next to it.
Picking up the shell, Mr. Palsham held it to his nose and sniffed, then ran his finger along its sharp edge. He could feel the magic lingering from where the girl had touched it with her will. In his long existence he’d brought about the demise of many witches merely by encouraging man’s hate, man’s greed, man’s hubris, man’s intolerance. These new witches would require careful consideration and planning. A small part of him was glad for the challenge. The hunts in Europe had gone so smoothly. Salem had been far too easy a task. These women were another matter altogether. There was time yet, though, to observe them, maybe even turn them to his ways. Time was the greatest advantage a demon had.
Waving the Collectors away he said, “You’re dismissed.”
Home.
IN THE DAYS after Beatrice’s return, everyone did their part to heal her wounds.
Among her first visitors was Georgina Davis, who’d dropped by the shop to see if anything had come from the notices she’d made. Much to her delight she’d found the girl was no longer lost. “I’ll have her name struck from the missing persons list at once.”
“Thank you for everything,” Eleanor had said with a soft smile. “You’ve been a tremendous help.”
“It’s a rare thing to have a happy ending,” Georgina had replied. “It’s been a pleasure. I do hope we’ll remain friends.”
Eleanor’s cheeks had turned bright pink, much to the surprise of everyone in the room.
Judith Dashley brought bouquets of fresh flowers nearly every day—chrysanthemums, roses, daisies, lilies. “To brighten your room and lift your spirits.” Holding Beatrice’s hand she’d admitted, “I missed not having you to confide in. You’re one of the few people in this world who doesn’t look on me with pity. All these years after Billy’s death and I still feel the loss wash over me. People mean well, I suppose, but pity is such a dangerous pastime, prone to stir gentle madness in the head and poison the heart. Steer clear of it if you can, my dear. I promise, for my part, I’ll never place such a burden on you.”
“Thank you, Judith,” Beatrice had said. “I couldn’t ask for a better gift.”
Dr. Brody had come bearing a small trunk filled with books from his father’s library—titles covering such subjects as spiritism, psychical research and occult sciences. He’d hoped the girl might find them informative as well as entertaining. “I’ll be anxious to hear your thoughts on them when you’re up to it,” he’d said. “How thoughtful of you,” Beatrice had replied, already poring over one of the books.
Taking Brody aside, Adelaide had whispered in his ear, “And I’d like to hear your thoughts on animal magnetism, if you’re feeling up to it.” She’d made up her mind to not only entertain the notion of love, but to pursue it. This time it was Brody’s turn to blush.
For their part, the Dearlies had delivered a handful of lovely dreams to Beatrice to aid in her recovery—visions of hidden rooms filled with gilded books, fairy circles lit with foxfire, secret spells that magically appeared in Eleanor’s grimoire. When Bright announced that they needed to give the girl a nightmare, Twitch had protested, saying he refused to participate.
“It has to be done,” Bright had insisted. “She needs to remember, not forget.”
Curling one of the short strands of what was left of Beatrice’s hair around his finger, he’d asked, “Isn’t that terrible mark he left on her skin enough of a reminder?”
“It’s not him we need her to remember,” Bright had explained.
Giving in, Twitch had summoned Cleo to the end of Beatrice’s bed so the dog would be there to comfort her when the dream took hold. “All right,” he’d said. “Just this once.”
Not keen to put the girl through it, either, Bright said, “Hopefully once will be enough.”
Beatrice had tossed and turned the whole way through as her dream-self had tried to escape the clutches of Mr. Palsham. Unlike the time he’d caught her by the arm in the park, no one came to her rescue. His hands turned to clawed talons, his face into a ghoulish, horned fright. Fanged teeth glistening, hoarse voice growling he’d said, “Beware the demon’s bite.” She’d let out a terrible scream, bringing both Adelaide and Eleanor running.
“It’s only a dream,” Adelaide had said, stroking her arm. “All will be well. You’ll be fine.”
Taking Madame St. Clair’s brass key from around her neck, Eleanor had placed it in Beatrice’s hand. “A demon will never outsmart a witch,” she’d said. “Remember the princess.” Beatrice had worn the key next to her heart every day since.
Eleanor had seen to the girl’s care around the clock, bringing her rosehip tea for strength and healing, and dressing her burns and bruises with a salve made from honey, chamomile, lavender and cobwebs. Beatrice had dutifully written down the recipes for each remedy. Eleanor had taken it as a sign Beatrice meant to carry on with them at the shop. “You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like,” she’d told the girl. “Although, come November, I can’t say for certain where that might be.”
Judith had offered countless times to put them up at the hotel, but both Eleanor and Adelaide had turned down her invitations. As October had dwindled away, no solution had been found for their lodging or their business. Cecil Newland’s eviction notice had seemingly secured his revenge.
Adelaide had given Beatrice hour after hour of companionship. Knowing what it was like to be bedridden, she’d sat nearby, reading her cards and her palm, and telling tall tales of the days she’d spent in a circus sideshow. Once Beatrice was up and around, they took a stroll every afternoon in the park. It was there that they, along with Dr. Brody, had hatched a plan for what to do next.
“What about my house?” Dr. Brody had said with a hopeful smile. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. There’s plenty of room and you can stay as long as you wish.”
To Beatrice’s surprise, Adelaide hadn’t dismissed the idea, only teased, “What will Mrs. Stutt say? Won’t she be scandalized?”
“A little scandal might be good for her,” Dr. Brody responded. “I’ll move into the carriage house out back to keep her from putting up too much of a fuss.”
“We can’t put you out of your own house,” Beatrice had said, though inside she’d been giddy at the thought of having access to Mr. Brody’s library at all hours. If it were up to her, she’d live, eat and sleep there for the rest of her life.
“Nonsense. The coach house is perfect for an old bachelor like me. Consider it done.”
Slipping her arm through his, Adelaide had said, “But you’ll come visit us from time to time, for suppers and entertainments and such?”
Leaning his head to hers he’d whispered, “You could not keep me away.”
When they’d put the plan to Eleanor, both Adelaide and Beatrice had done their best to sweeten their proposal with various enticemen
ts. “The kitchen is enormous,” Adelaide had pointed out. “So well equipped.”
“And there’s plenty of room out back for beehives and a garden,” Beatrice had said.
But it hadn’t taken much to convince Eleanor. Time was growing short, and she’d grown quite fond of Dr. Brody. His was a kindness that never felt forced or insincere.
—
They’d wasted no time, moving Perdu and their personal effects first, and then the contents of the teashop. Adelaide had wanted to find a new space for their business at once, but Eleanor had said she preferred they take their time. If she was going to enter into such a venture again, the place would have to be absolutely right. “I’ll know it when I see it,” she’d said. She had a picture in her mind of what it should be—more like her mother’s cottage than not—and she wasn’t sure such a place even existed in New York. Packing her jars, tins, cups and pots in boxes, she’d moved them into a back room at Dr. Brody’s.
Mrs. Stutt had adapted to the situation quite well, quickly acquiring a deep affection for Beatrice and a great respect for Eleanor’s skills in the kitchen. Adelaide, she learned to tolerate.
—
When the last day of the month arrived, all that was left in the shop were the bells that hung over the door and Eleanor’s hickory broom. After Beatrice fetched the bells from their perch, Adelaide tied them to Cleo’s collar.
Eleanor, as witches’ tradition dictated, swept the floors back to front, one last time.
As she made her way down the stoop, chasing the dust from each step, she saw Isaac Markowitz staring gloomily in her direction. “Isaac,” she called, “come give Cleo a proper send-off.”
The boy scurried to the dog’s side and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t forget me,” he said in her ear.
“You can visit her any time, you know,” Adelaide said. “It’s only a few blocks.”
“That’s a world away!”
