Half Spent Was the Night

by Ami McKay

  Beatrice and Adelaide make their way to the Fifth Avenue Hotel just after breakfast, cutting through Madison Square Park as they go to deliver their replies. Every shrub, tree and lamp post shines in the dazzling sunlight. Children break free from their mothers’ hands to whirl around them, kicking up the snow. Each impish bundle of wool and laughter fills the witches’ hearts with longing. Beatrice, for a childhood barely passed. Adelaide, for the one she never had.

  Someone watches as they stroll by, along with all the other unnoticed creatures that inhabit the place. Bird, squirrel, fox, hare, spirits without home or flesh.

  Look,

    Listen,

      See.

  Hear.

      Behold,

      Beware…

  Witches!

  When they arrive at the hotel, they’re greeted by every doorman, bellhop and maid they pass. Adelaide, by the present staff, who know her well as hotel owner Marietta Stevens’ favourite fortune teller. Beatrice, by the dearly departed, who know it is the girl’s particular gift to see the dead.

  “Good morning, Miss Thom.”

  “Good day, Miss Dunn.”

  “Good to see you, Miss Thom.”

  “You’re looking well, Miss Dunn.”

  Approaching the front desk, Beatrice flashes her invitation to the concierge. “We’ve come to call on the Baroness Weisshirsch.”

  “You and half of Manhattan,” he says. “Up the stairs and to the left. You can wait in the lounge outside the Baroness’s suite, if you can find a seat.”

  Adelaide rests her elbow on the desk and leans toward the man. “I don’t suppose you could find us a way to the front of the line?”

  He likes her, always has. He fears her, too, which is an odd, yet marvellous sensation. As a person of consequence in this establishment, he’s more used to people being afraid of him. “I wish I could, but I’m not the gatekeeper when it comes to the Baroness. She’s brought her own attendants.”

  “Is Mrs. Stevens in?” Adelaide asks. Her friendship with the hotel’s owner is worth more than any bribe she can offer the man.

  “She’s in London, staying with her daughter, until the New Year.”

  “Really…” Adelaide stares at the man, making it clear she’ll not tolerate being lied to.

  “Really.”

  Beatrice gives Adelaide’s sleeve a sharp tug. She’s spotted the messenger who’d delivered her invitation headed for the stairs. “Let’s go,” she says.

  Adelaide subjects the concierge to another moment of sharp scrutiny, then turns to follow. She’ll not be left behind by anyone, least of all Beatrice.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Beatrice says, as she catches the messenger halfway up the stairs.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Remember me?” She holds the envelope up for him to see.

  He looks at it and nods. “Right this way.”

  Walking up the stairs, he leads Beatrice and Adelaide down a long corridor that ends with two facing doors. Opening the door on the left, he gestures to Adelaide. “If you’d be so kind as to wait in here.”

  The room is filled with people milling about or sitting in chairs. The noisy throng falls silent when they notice the messenger at the door. Shaking his head at the expectant crowd, he turns to Beatrice and prevents her from following Adelaide into the lounge.

  “Where shall I go?” Beatrice asks.

  “Come with me.”

  * * *

  Just as Adelaide realizes that Beatrice isn’t at her side, Judith Dashley descends upon her. As the witches’ most ardent admirer, the wealthy woman is responsible for much of their business’s success, touting their teas, elixirs and magical gifts to the inner circle of New York society.

  “My dear Adelaide!” Judith exclaims, taking her by the arm. “I was hoping I’d see you here. Isn’t it just the most exciting turn of events?”

  “Just.”

  Judith steers her to a corner next to a potted palm. “My invitation only arrived late last night. How about yours?”

  Adelaide stares in disbelief at the size of the crowd while she attempts to spot Beatrice. “The same.”

  “Near as I can tell, everyone has been invited at the last minute—to a masked ball! Have you ever heard of such a thing in all your life?”

  Scanning the room, Adelaide still can’t find her friend. “Have you seen Beatrice?”

  “How lovely!” Judith exclaims. “So our Miss Dunn has been invited too!”

  “But have you seen her?”

  “Today?” Judith cranes her neck to look around. “She isn’t with you?”

  Adelaide fakes a look behind the palm. “She was, and now she isn’t. But I’m sure she’s here somewhere.”

  Judith leans close. “They say it took five carriages and two wagons to get the Baroness and her entourage from the docks to the hotel. And that doesn’t include all the trappings for the ball, which she had shipped from her Alpine estate.”

  “Anything for the children.”

  “The children?”

  Adelaide points to her invitation.

  DONATIONS WILL BE SOLICITED ON BEHALF of the FOUNDATION FOR LOST CHILDREN.

  “Why yes, absolutely,” Judith says. “That’s precisely why I decided to attend on such short notice. Did you know the Baroness has even taken one of our own city’s dear orphans under her wing? No wonder Marietta thinks so highly of her.”

  Adelaide figures it’s more likely that the savvy hotelier thinks highly of the increased business the Baroness’s ball will bring. “Is it true she won’t be here for the big event?”

  “Sadly, yes. But she’s given the woman carte blanche to do whatever she pleases.”

  “Interesting,” Adelaide says, still finding it a bit hard to believe that Marietta would miss this. At least the concierge wasn’t lying. Concentrating on who is in the room rather than continuing to search for Beatrice, Adelaide notes a mix of politicians and socialites, old money as well as new. “How do you suppose the Baroness came up with her guest list?”

  Judith shrugs. “As far as I can tell there’s no rhyme or reason to it, unless of course you consider the number of people here, mixed in among us, who I know have something to hide or hold a grudge against the world.”

  Adelaide thinks her friend may be on to something. Charity has never been a single-minded endeavour in this town. “It’s fascinating, to say the least. Perhaps the Baroness is looking to cause a riot?”

  “It wouldn’t take much with this crowd,” Judith says with a laugh.

  Normally, Adelaide would press the chatty socialite for details (rumours and gossip come in handy for a fortune teller) but her attention is now fixed on a gentleman who has just entered the room.

  In a second her mouth is dry, her palms sweaty, her stomach in turmoil. Adelaide thinks, It can’t be. Over a decade has passed since she’d last seen the man who’d bought and then taken her innocence when she was just a child. I tried so hard to forget. This man is older and greyer than she remembers Mr. Wentworth to be, but he has the same habit of jangling the change in his pocket as he casts around the room for something to excite him. He also carries the same demeanour—arrogant, bored, judgmental, waiting to be impressed. If it’s not him, then it’s a terrifying likeness. Surely he won’t recognize me, not as I am now.

  She wonders how many others on the Baroness’s guest list have committed heinous crimes like Mr. Wentworth committed against her. Could the woman standing just a few feet away be the madam who sold her to him? Could the gentleman next to her be one of the men who bid on her and lost? Is the lady across the room with feathered hat and grating voice, the House of Refuge matron who turned her away as a little girl because she was “too dark, too foreign-looking, too smart-mouthed”?

  Not every invitee is a villain. She is sure of that. Judith is kind and good-hearted to a fault. Beatrice is the very picture of innocence and grace.

  Which side do I come down on?

 
One thing she knew: she’d decided long ago to never again be someone’s prey. It has left her a little less openhearted and a little more inclined to be cutting and brusque, but she hopes she is never intentionally cruel. I really must be kinder to Mrs. Stutt.

  Judith touches Adelaide’s arm and points to a boisterous clutch of people who’ve gathered in a nearby corner. “That tall man with the booming laugh over there is a pugilist, I think.” Gaily dressed and unconventional in every way, the lively group is far nearer to Adelaide’s “kind” than Judith’s. “The woman beside him is an actress, and quite a talented one at that. She’s been in several respectable plays.”

  Adelaide is amused by her friend’s knowledge of the demi-monde, and smiles at her as her eye travels to a little man who is standing on an ottoman in the centre of the group, waving his walking stick in the air while speaking eye-to-eye with his audience. Mr. Thaddeus Dink.

  As those around him hang on his words, Adelaide edges behind the cover of the potted palm. Unlike the man she suspects to be Mr. Wentworth, Mr. Dink will surely recognize her. This man she doesn’t wish to avoid because he wronged her, but because she’d benefited from his kindness then cast him aside once she’d gotten herself a new name and a new life. Perhaps I am a villain after all. She shivers at the thought. What kind of game is the Baroness playing at with this ball?

  * * *

  Across the hall in a private reception room, Beatrice is having tea and sweets with the Baroness. Both she and her room are magnificent sights to behold, enveloped in pale blue velvet, with trimmings of silver and gold. The Baroness’s white hair is braided in a crown atop her head and kept in place by a small tiara studded with sapphires and pearls. An ermine stole with jet eyes is draped over her left shoulder. Three large wolfhounds sit near her chair, waiting for her command. Each dog wears a jewelled collar—one blue, one yellow, one scarlet.

  “More for you?” the Baroness asks, holding a silver teapot, ready to pour.

  “I don’t know if I should,” Beatrice replies. “I’ve a friend waiting, along with all the others who wish to deliver their replies to you.” She feels sleepy and confused, as if dreaming while awake. The chair in which she sits is tufted and soft, its cushions so deep she fears they might swallow her whole.

  The Baroness fills her cup. “Adelaide will understand.”

  Had she mentioned Adelaide by name? Surely I did. “Thank you,” Beatrice says, sipping her tea. “You’re very kind.”

  “Kindness begets kindness.”

  The hound in blue lays its head at Beatrice’s feet. Reaching down, she strokes the dog’s soft fur.

  “He likes you,” the Baroness says.

  Beatrice smiles.

  “Tell me, Miss Dunn, is it true that you can hear spirits?”

  Taken aback, Beatrice wonders if Marietta Stevens told the Baroness about her ability. Perhaps that’s why she’s been invited to the ball. “Yes,” she cautiously admits.

  “What a boon,” the woman says. “You must find it quite useful.”

  “Sometimes.” Just when Beatrice thinks her host is about to inquire after her services, the Baroness slides a plate of sweets in front of her instead.

  “Gingerbread, springerle, fairy cake, or some Engelszopf?”

  As the girl reaches for a slice of almond-sprinkled sweet loaf, a chorus of strange voices and gentle noises titter around her—whispers, laughter, birdsong, rainfall, the tinkling of bells. It’s unsettling and enchanting all at once, unlike anything (human or spirit) she’s ever heard. Where is it coming from? Does the Baroness hear it?

  At a snap of the Baroness’s fingers, the voices fall silent and a young woman appears in the doorway of an adjoining room. Slight and delicate, with a halo of dark curls and striking blue eyes, she bows to her mistress and then to Beatrice.

  “Fetch Miss Dunn’s mask,” the Baroness commands.

  With a nod, the girl disappears, and returns with a box clad in silver foil and gold ribbon. She hands it to Beatrice and takes her leave.

  Tugging at the bow, Beatrice opens the package and stares at what’s inside, aware that the Baroness is watching her closely.

  “It’s beautiful,” Beatrice says as she lifts the mask from the box and admires every inch of it, inside and out. Fashioned from silk, leather, fur, feathers and gemstones, it is the perfect likeness of a fox. The dizzy confusion she’s been feeling fades as she holds the mask in front of her face and looks through the fox’s eyes at the Baroness.

  “It suits you,” the woman says. “It brings out your cunning, and cleverness.”

  Gently returning the mask to the box, Beatrice pauses once more to admire it before replacing the box’s lid. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”

  Licking a dusting of sugar from the tip of one finger, the Baroness slyly grins at her. “See that you do.”

  (angel braid)

  This traditional German sweet bread is made during the winter holiday season and most often served with coffee, tea or hot chocolate at brunch. Some say that such braided breads were first made to pay homage to the ancient custom of women offering their braids of hair to the goddess Perchta, also known as Berchta or Holle.

  1/3 cup golden raisins

  5 tablespoons of kirschwasser (cherry brandy)

  1/2 cup butter

  1/2 cup heavy cream

  1/2 cup sour cream

  1/3 cup brown sugar

  3 tablespoons honey

  2 1/4 teaspoons active dry yeast (1 package)

  1/3 cup sliced almonds

  1/3 cup candied orange peel, diced

  3 1/2–4 cups flour

  2 eggs

  Topping:

  1 egg

  2 tablespoons milk

  1/4 cup slivered almonds

  Soak raisins in brandy for 20 minutes.

  In a saucepan, melt butter on low heat, then add heavy cream, sour cream, brown sugar and honey. Gently stir until ingredients are combined, then bring to a warm temperature (but not to a boil). Remove from heat and stir in yeast. Set aside for 15 minutes (mixture should start to bubble as the yeast becomes active).

  Drain raisins and combine with 1/3 cup sliced almonds and orange peel. Toss mixture with a bit of flour. (This will keep the fruit from sticking together.) Set aside.

  In a large mixing bowl, beat two eggs. Add the cream mixture to the eggs a little at a time until fully combined. Stir one cup of flour into the mixture, followed by the fruits and nuts. Continue to add flour until the mixture is formed into a soft dough. Turn out onto a floured surface and knead until smooth. Return to a bowl and cover with a warm, moist towel. Let rise for one hour.

  Return the dough to a floured surface and knead out any air bubbles. Separate the dough into three equal pieces and roll each piece into a length about twelve inches long. Braid the three lengths together to form a loaf. Let rise in a warm, draft-free spot for 45 minutes.

  To prepare the loaf for baking, beat one egg yolk together with milk and then brush over the braided loaf. Sprinkle with sliced almonds.

  Bake in a pre-heated oven at 350°F for 30–40 minutes, or until the loaf is golden brown and makes a hollow sound when you tap it with your finger.

  delaide is alone in her room at the end of the day, staring at the box that contains her mask. Her meeting with the Baroness had been far shorter than Beatrice’s. There’d been no small talk or wonder; no cookies and tea.

  “Why do you wish to attend my ball?” the elegant woman had asked, like a queen on a throne, petting one of her loyal hounds.

  Adelaide had chosen to answer the Baroness’s question with one of her own. “Why did you invite me?” She refused to grovel for anyone’s approval.

  The Baroness had returned Adelaide’s impertinence with a laugh. “I admire a woman who speaks her mind. This world could certainly do with more honesty. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Wholeheartedly.”

  Neither woman had pressed the other any further.

  The mask the
Baroness had presented to Adelaide was that of a moth, made from peacock feathers and iridescent green satin, fitted with a glimmering glass eye on the same side as the one she herself had lost. There’d been no explanation as to how the woman had known about her disfigurement or that long ago her father had sworn that a magical pear tree had bid him to name her Moth. Adelaide had been so taken aback, she hadn’t bothered to ask for one. It was rare for her to encounter someone as well informed about the denizens of New York as the Baroness was, especially a stranger.

  Picking up the exquisite object, Adelaide now wonders if there’s something more behind the mask’s design. The longer she examines the elegant creation, the more she thinks it likely that the Baroness is sending her a message: I know who you are.

  She hopes the ball is not a trap. Seeing both Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Dink among the eager invitees had thrown her. Does the Baroness know the whole of her sordid past? Does she plan to use it against her? Based on the number of people with guilty secrets that’d been present in the room, it seemed a strong possibility. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be a New Year’s celebration, but a night for settling scores.

  She’d managed to exit the hotel without either man recognizing her, but her escape had left her feeling helpless rather than relieved. Keeping that part of her life separate from the person she’d become had seemed the right thing to do, until now. Other than Eleanor, no one in the city knows her completely, warts and all. It occurs to her that leaving the past so thoroughly behind has made her quite lonely, even in the company of the man she loves.

  What would her dear Dr. Brody say if he found out about her past? Would he still want to marry her? He knows she comes from low beginnings, but she’s told him little else, and thankfully, he hasn’t pressed. He understands she’s not a perfect rose. But to tell him she worked as a hustler in Mr. Dink’s sideshow was hard for her to contemplate. To tell him she’d sold her virtue when she was an orphan child trying to survive on the streets of New York seems impossible. He’d been wonderfully sincere and kind with her. Even his proposal had been offered with patience and care. “I ask you this, without expecting an immediate answer. I only hope that you’ll have one for me when I return.” If she puts him off when he comes home, will he ever ask again?