by Ami McKay
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF CANADA
Copyright © 2018 Ami McKay
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2018 by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McKay, Ami, 1968—, author
Half spent was the night : a witches’ yuletide / Ami McKay.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 9780735275669
eBook ISBN 9780735275676
I. Title.
PS8625.K387H35 2018 C813′.6 C2018-901806-2
C2018-901807-0
Book design by Kelly Hill
Cover images: (paper background) © MagicDogWorkshop, (flourishes) © Vasya Kobelev, both Shutterstock.com; (holly) © CSA Images/ B&W Icon Collection, (crow) © Andrew_Howe, (mask) © cienpies, (scrolls) © Yayasya, all Getty Images; (moon) “Partial eclipse of the moon. Observed October 24, 1874.” from The Trouvelot astronomical drawings by E. L. Trouvelot. From the New York Public Library.
Endpaper image © Elena Paletskaya / Shutterstock.com
Interior images: (bread) © Sketch Master, (card) © Picsfive, (elderberry) © cuttlefish84, (owl) © Bodor Tivadar, (paper) © Tomas Jasinskis, (flowers) © Eisfrei, all Shutterstock.com; (chestnut, moth, teapot, teacup) from 3,800 Early Advertising Cuts © Dover Publications, Inc.; (fox) from Scan This Book © John Mendenhall.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1. December 29, 1881
Chapter 2. December 30
Chapter 3
Chapter 4. December 31
Chapter 5
Chapter 6. January 1, 1882
About the Author
DECEMBER 29, 1881
hristmas Day has come and gone, the New Year lies ahead. Strange things happen Between the Years, in the days outside of time. Minutes go wild, hours vanish. Idleness becomes a clever thief, stealing the names of the days of the week, muting the steady tick of watches and clocks. These are the hours when angels, ghosts, demons and meddlers ride howling wind and flickering candlelight, keen to stir unguarded hearts and restless minds.
Tonight, the three Witches of New York, swathed in dressing gowns of velvet and silk, are seated on tasseled pillows before a crackling fire.
They’ve set the business of potions, spells and consultations aside, in favour of quiet contemplation. The youngest, Beatrice, touchstone of spirits, is curious and bright-eyed. The eldest, Eleanor, keeper of spells, is watchful, regal and wise. Adelaide, seer of fate, sits between them, ever ready to speak her mind. Bellies full of honey cake and hot cider, they seek comfort, warmth, companionship and glimpses of the future.
Beatrice scores a chestnut with a small knife to prepare it for roasting. “My aunt Lydia always said a cracked nut means ‘yes,’ and one that burns without cracking means ‘no.’” The fire hisses and pops. A spark flies into the air and lands on the hearth where it pulses, then dies. After placing her chestnut in a shallow pan, she sets the pan on the fire and waits for an answer.
Eleanor watches with anticipation. So does Perdu, her raven familiar.
The bird is keen for the sweet roasted meat of the nut. Eleanor, for a morsel of truth. She knows Beatrice is keeping a secret.
A faint yessss sounds before the chestnut squeals and its shell blossoms in an attempt to turn itself inside out.
Eleanor stares at her young apprentice. Is she happy, sad or indifferent at these portents?
Tugging at her braid, Beatrice bites her lip, then smiles when she realizes how closely she’s being watched.
“Pleased?” Adelaide asks, fishing for the truth she knows Eleanor wants to uncover.
Beatrice doesn’t answer. Nor does she meet the eyes of her companions.
Distracted or determined, Eleanor wonders. Which is it?
Neither. The girl is mulling over the answer she’s received. Yes, she thinks, but when? For weeks she’s been ravenous with longing for a stranger she’s only seen in her dreams. It isn’t love, exactly. How could it be? It’s more a relentless curiosity. She would follow the Stranger anywhere. And she has, on many nights, chasing his dark figure through dimly lit corridors and graveyards bathed in moonlight. In the morning she wakes exhausted, wishing she could go back to sleep, desperate to return to the last place she saw him. Even if she could explain her state to her friends, she wouldn’t. She’s afraid that once she gives voice to her vision, the Stranger will disappear from her mind forever. Whenever she attempts to write an account of her dreams, his voice sounds in her head: Don’t break the spell. It leaves her puzzled, intrigued. Are the fay-folk Eleanor so often speaks of the source of these visions? Or do they come from someplace else? The girl has plied herself with many cups of dream tea, offered countless trinkets made of mother-of-pearl and coloured glass in order to persuade the fickle creatures to bring her answers, all to no avail. How long must I continue the chase? At least now (if the humble chestnut is to be believed), she knows she’s destined to meet the Stranger in the flesh. Even if I don’t know the how or why of it.
Picking the chestnut from the pan, she deftly peels the shell from the meat. It’s piping hot but she’s not concerned with getting burned. She’s thinking instead of the Stranger, of how soon she can go to sleep and find him in her dreams. Holding the fleshy heart of the nut in the palm of her hand until it cools, she offers it to Perdu.
“Who’s a good bird?” the raven coos before snatching the treat in his beak.
“What if yes or no isn’t enough?” Eleanor asks. She wants Beatrice to perform another divination. Maybe then she’ll be able to figure out what’s on the girl’s mind.
“If you need to choose between different situations,” Beatrice replies, “you must name each chestnut according to your choices, then kiss them for luck before putting them into the fire. The order in which they burst is either the order in which you must address the issues or the way in which things will ultimately come to pass.”
“Situations, or suitors?” Adelaide teases. She’s noticed Beatrice growing more preoccupied by the day—moving about like a sleepwalker, twirling her hair with absent-minded vigour. She’s convinced the girl is having a secret affair. She knows the blush of lust when she sees it. Good for her, she thinks. If only Eleanor would stop worrying and leave Beatrice to it.
Attempting to save the girl from further scrutiny, Adelaide takes three chestnuts from the bowl and deftly cuts an X into each one. Then touching the knife to them one by one, she proclaims, “I dub thee Rum, Brandy and Schnapps.” Her own beloved, Dr. Brody, is away until the New Year, leading a delegation from the Unknown Philosophers’ Society at a conference on psychical research. When he comes home, he’ll be expecting her answer to the weighty question he’d asked before he left. Will you marry me? Puckering her lips, Adelaide delivers a kiss to each nut before placing them in the pan. She’d much rather play with what she should drink tonight than think on yes, no or maybe.
Beatrice offers the bowl of fresh chestnuts to Eleanor. “Would you like to give it a try? It’s a silly old tradition, b
ut it’s fun.” She doesn’t expect the wise hedge witch to take her aunt’s lowly form of divination seriously, especially not when Eleanor comes from such a storied lineage of natural magic, and she herself, from none. Roasting chestnuts is certainly no match for Eleanor’s tea-leaf readings or Adelaide’s tarot cards, but the three women have made a pact to take a break from their duties and their clients during the holidays, even putting a sign in the window of their teashop, the Hermitage, that reads: CLOSED UNTIL THE NEW YEAR.
Eleanor, as usual, is having difficulty finding her way to lightheartedness. “Every superstition contains truth,” she responds. “The trick is in finding it.”
Setting the bowl on the table, Beatrice leaves the choice to her mentor. She knows better than to cajole her.
A derisive scoffing noise from behind them startles the women. None of the witches had seen Dr. Brody’s housekeeper, Mrs. Stutt, settle in a nearby chair with her knitting.
“Gesundheit, Mrs. Stutt,” Adelaide says. Then adds, sharply, “Don’t you ever take a night off?”
Stowing her knitting in a basket, the elderly woman gets up out of her chair and glares at Adelaide as she leaves the room.
“Why must you be so rude to her?” Eleanor whispers to Adelaide. The eldest witch was far more inclined to be sympathetic toward Mrs. Stutt than her sword-tongued friend.
The housekeeper had experienced quite a shock when her long-time employer, Dr. Brody, had welcomed the three witches into his home the previous year. Mrs. Stutt had tended to every scrape, bruise and nightmare he’d had as a boy and her instinct to protect him has never waned. In the past few months, she’s come to trust Eleanor and Beatrice, but warming up to Adelaide has proved more difficult, largely because the beautiful if scarred one-eyed witch has so clearly won the doctor’s heart.
“It’s not as if she’s ever been very welcoming to me,” Adelaide complains.
Eleanor shakes her head. “I wouldn’t say that. She tolerates you as well as the rest of us do.”
“Tolerates,” Adelaide says with a smirk. “I really must work harder to earn her loathing.”
Beatrice feigns a yawn, angling to excuse herself so she can go to bed and dream.
As the intoxicating scent of roasting chestnuts rises from the pan, the middle nut in the trio that represents Adelaide’s dilemma begins to hiss. Letting go a sharp squeak, it cracks and pops.
“Hello, Brandy!” Adelaide says as she rises from the floor and heads to the liquor cabinet. Taking bottle and snifter in hand, she prepares to pour. Then she pauses and asks, “Anyone care to join me?”
“Sure,” Eleanor replies. “But just a finger.”
“None for me,” Beatrice says, getting up. “I’m turning in for the night.”
Before the young witch can make her escape, Mrs. Stutt returns with an odd assortment of kitchen wares—a copper saucepan half full of water, a long-handled ladle, and a glass jar filled with lead buttons, tokens, fishing weights and buckshot. “I am to show you Bleigiessen,” she says, placing each item on the table.
“Blei-gies-sen,” Beatrice says, trying to make sense of the word.
“Does it come with sauerkraut?” Adelaide teases.
“Hush,” Eleanor scolds.
Mrs. Stutt frowns. “It is the proper way to see your fate.”
Plucking a sprig of holly from a garland draped over the mantle, she feeds it to the fire then reaches for the bellows. Elbows pumping, she brings the flames to renewed vigour. The light of the fire dances on her face, casting an eerie red glow over her hair and wrinkled cheeks. She calls to the sparks as she works, whispering to them in an ancient form of her native tongue. “Ben zi bena, bluot si bluoda…” She alone knows the meaning of her words: bone to bone, blood to blood.
Adelaide stalks toward Mrs. Stutt, clearly ready to chase her away.
Eleanor stops her with a look.
Setting the bellows aside, Mrs. Stutt turns to the witches. “It is a grave mistake to tell a god how to make up her mind. She will speak to you in the dead days before the New Year, but only through fire and shadow. Not like an organ-grinder’s monkey pointing to whichever shell hides the pea.”
Adelaide says, “Aren’t you full of surprises.”
“Youngest first,” the housekeeper says, and hands the ladle to Beatrice. Then she directs the girl to place several bits of lead into its bowl and hold the ladle over the hottest part of the fire. “Once the metal has changed to liquid, you pour it into the pot of water.”
Eleanor is enthralled; this form of divination is completely new to her.
Beatrice watches with wonder as the bits of metal dissolve into each other to form a shimmering pool of molten lead.
Placing the copper pot on the hearth, Mrs. Stutt says, “Now give it to the water without any hesitation in your heart.”
Beatrice holds her breath as she pours the lead into the pot. In an instant, the glistening liquid has frozen solid, as if seized by an invisible force. “Oh!’ she exclaims, eyes wide, afraid to touch the shiny, newborn object.
Mrs. Stutt fishes out the lump. “Here,” she says, placing it on the table for all to see.
Beatrice squints at it. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“We give it to the shadows,” Mrs. Stutt says.
With that, a knock sounds at door.
Beatrice says, “You all stay put. I’ll answer.”
Perdu hops to the floor to escort her.
Beatrice opens the door to find a messenger dressed in livery from another time—powdered wig, tricorn hat, black velvet knickers, damask vest, and a long wool coat of brilliant blue trimmed with lush embroidery. “Delivery for Miss Beatrice Dunn,” he announces, as he pulls an envelope from his coat pocket.
“I’m she,” Beatrice, says. “I mean, Miss Dunn is me.”
Hard snow slants at the young man’s back as his breath clouds in the frigid air. His cheeks are ruddy with cold, his nose dripping. Perdu watches him with a curious stare.
Adelaide joins Beatrice at the door and takes pity on the messenger. “Would you like to come inside for a moment and warm yourself by the fire?” Swirling her drink in the bowl of her snifter, she adds, “Perhaps you’d like some brandy?”
“No thank you, ma’am,” he replies with a slight bow.
Fishing a coin from her pocket, Beatrice hands it to the messenger. “Goodnight,” she says, clutching the envelope as she closes the door.
Just as she is about to break the wax seal on her missive, all the lights in the house flicker, and a second knock sounds.
“Perhaps he’s changed his mind,” Adelaide says, opening the door.
“Perhaps he wants a bigger tip,” Eleanor mutters, joining her sister witches in the foyer.
The second messenger is dressed in the same antiquated manner as the first, except his coat is yellow. “Delivery for Miss Adelaide Thom,” he announces, presenting a second envelope.
“You really should confer with your compatriot,” Adelaide says as she plucks the envelope from his hand.
Perdu tugs at Eleanor’s skirts as she steps up to hand the second messenger his tip.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, and disappears into the blustery night.
As she closes the door behind him, Adelaide says to Beatrice, “Don’t open yours just yet.” And with that, a third knock sounds. Turning to Eleanor she says, “I believe this one will be for you.”
The third messenger is dressed in deep scarlet. “Delivery for Miss Eleanor St. Clair.”
“Of course.”
Perdu chortles and flaps about as his mistress accepts the note.
When they are sure the third messenger has gone, the three witches poke their heads outside the door and peer into the night. Snow falls heavy and fast, every house, carriage and street lamp disappearing in the churning blizzard. All they can hear is the faint sound of dogs barking against the howling wind.
Beatrice smooths her invitation between her fingers, then holds it to her nos
e. It smells like cinnamon, ginger and clove. The other two witches’ invitations are the same.
“It’s awfully short notice, isn’t it?” Eleanor asks. “As far as these things go.”
Adelaide considers the fine quality of the paper, the skill of the calligrapher’s hand. “Whoever this Baroness is, she spares no expense. My guess is that she can do what she likes because she’s used to people doing whatever she asks of them.”
“Does that mean you’re going?” Beatrice asks.
“What else have I got to do?” Adelaide replies. “Besides, I’m always keen to meet a woman like that.”
Beatrice looks at Eleanor. “And you?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Well I’m going,” Beatrice says, flushed with excitement. She believes the invitation not only confirms the response she got from the chestnut, but that it will lead her to the where and when of it. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
* * *
While the witches talk of balls and baronesses, Mrs. Stutt sits forgotten in the parlour, regarding the homely lump of lead. With a candle in her other hand, she holds Beatrice’s Bleigiessen near the wall and coaxes the girl’s fate from the shadows the object casts.
What she sees frightens her beyond measure. No matter which way she turns the lump a dark figure appears before her—a demon’s face with gaping mouth and flashing eyes.
Heart racing, she pockets the lump, gathers the tools of her craft and scurries back to the kitchen. If they forgot her in the parlour, perhaps they’ll forget her misguided attempt at witchery as well. Maybe it’s a mistake, she thinks. A symptom of my age.
Her heart knows better. The girl is in danger.
DECEMBER 30
he storm subsides. The day begins. For a brief while in the early morning, the city is a perfect winter scene—church steeples and storefronts flocked and frosted, sidewalks and streets made clean and new—a snow globe at rest in Nature’s hands.
