by Ami McKay
* * *
As the noon bells toll from the churches near Madison Square, a hush falls over the hotel. The quiet seeps out of the building to the surrounding sidewalks and across the avenue to the park. Birds stop their singing. Passersby cease their talk.
The Baroness stands from her desk and turns to her attendant. “The time has come.”
The angel-faced girl dutifully fetches the last two boxes and tucks them under her arms.
Donning a fur-lined cloak, the Baroness leads the girl out of the hotel and into the street.
Passersby whisper in wonder. The birds resume their songs.
* * *
Unsettled by the warning delivered through Mrs. Stutt, Eleanor has spent the morning casting renewed protection spells on the witches’ home and shop—reciting prayers and incantations as she blesses every room with incense and sprinkles every doorway with salt.
The housekeeper had quickly recovered from her strange episode in the kitchen but claimed she could not remember what had happened. Eleanor could not forget.
“Think what you like,” the old housekeeper had said. “But I’m sure it’s just a case of the nerves. You know how unreliable women get when they grow old. Bones talk, the mind wanders, ears grow eyes. My dear grandmother used to babble for hours about the trolls that danced in the woods behind the barn and the night they led the evil Prince Georg to be taken up by the Wild Hunt. The minute I start talking about gnomes playing ninepins in the cellar, ship me back to the Schwarzwald so they can feed me to the wild boars.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Eleanor had chided. “You’re needed here.” She only wished that whatever had moved through Mrs. Stutt (be it a case of the nerves or a godforsaken spirit) had mentioned the how, where and when of the demon’s scheming.
She’d wanted to tell Beatrice of the apparition in the shadows, to warn her at the very least, but the girl had been out the door with Adelaide before breakfast. Now, the more she thinks on things, the more she’s inclined to advise her apprentice that she shouldn’t leave the house again until further notice. That, of course, would include not going to the ball. She knows Beatrice will take it badly, but how else can she keep the girl safe?
Pulling her grimoire off the shelf, she begins to search for answers. “Dear Maman,” she whispers to the air, “show me the way.”
Before she can lift the book’s cover, Mrs. Stutt comes to interrupt her. “There’s a visitor for you. The Baroness Weisshirsch.”
Eleanor follows the housekeeper to the door and finds the imposing woman standing on the stoop with a young girl at her side. Perdu is guarding the threshold.
The Baroness is a stranger to Eleanor, but the child is quite familiar to her. She’s the waif that’d led her and Adelaide to the church where Beatrice had been held prisoner. She hadn’t seen the girl since. Why on earth are they together? Still, no matter how the pair had crossed paths, she’s glad to see the child looking so well and cared for.
“Baroness Weisshirsch,” she says, “do come in.” Smiling at the girl, she gestures for her to do the same.
“Thank you, Miss St. Clair,” the Baroness says, escorting her charge into the foyer. Perdu sidles up to the pair and chortles a soft “hello.” His behaviour startles his mistress. As a rule, her familiar doesn’t talk to strangers. (With the occasional exception for witches and ghosts.)
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Eleanor asks, somewhat impatiently. She’s anxious to head to the hotel to retrieve Beatrice sooner rather than later.
Taking the box that rests under the girl’s right arm, the Baroness presents it to Eleanor. “I’ve brought your mask for the ball.”
Eleanor takes the package and sets it on a small table against the wall. “It’s kind of you to go to the trouble, but I never accepted your invitation to the masquerade because I don’t intend on going.”
“Are you certain?” the woman asks. “I’ve a perfect record when it comes to attendance. In all my years of experience, no one has ever declined my invitation.”
“Is that so?” Eleanor says, pointing to the box that remains tucked under the orphan’s left arm.
The Baroness calmly smiles. “Mr. Palsham will be attending.”
“Mr. Gideon Palsham?” Eleanor feels a chill as she remembers Beatrice’s account of crossing paths with him in the park. The girl had suffered more nightmares from his brief touch than from the whole of the torture put upon her by Reverend Townsend.
“You know him, then?”
“He has a certain reputation.”
“He is quite the devil,” the Baroness says.
Wings flapping, chest puffed, Perdu begins to hiss and squawk.
“Hush!” Eleanor says, attempting to quiet the bird’s outrage.
Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, the Baroness pulls out a small parcel wrapped in red silk. Untying the bundle, she bends low and holds the contents out to the bird. “Come have a treat,” she coaxes. “So you’ll feel like yourself again.”
Eleanor watches in amazement as her familiar obeys the woman’s command. The bird turns quiet and docile the instant he swallows the first morsel from her hand.
“Engelszopf,” the Baroness says. “The sweetest delight in all of Germany. I’ll send you the recipe.” Straightening herself up she declares, “And now I’d best be going. I’m not one for unfinished business.”
Placing a hand on the box that contains the mask, Eleanor says, “Neither am I.”
In the corners of the world where ancient forests shelter mystical creatures, and sacred springs hold the voices of nymphs, wise women pause Between the Years to honour the one who rules them all, the Queen of Witches.
Some call her the Mistress of Yule, others call her Frau Perchta, or Holle, or Bertha, or Bright One, or the Lady of the Dead. Her name does not matter half so much as her gifts, for she alone has the power to lead the Wild Hunt.
leanor kisses the tip of her finger and touches it to her grimoire. “For luck.”
Beatrice and Adelaide do the same.
“For luck.”
“For luck.”
The three witches are standing in the cupola that sits atop Dr. Brody’s house. It was built for observing the night sky, but tonight, the witches are there to observe an ancient rite.
Leave your wheel and spindle idle. Don your cloak and cover your face. Steal to rooftop or sacred grove bearing offerings for the Mistress. Burn fires of holly and oak. Bring libations of honey and the fruits of the wood to show your faith.
With a small bowl in hand, Eleanor casts a mixture of flaxseed, oats and holly berries to the wind. “Dear Queen, we thank you for the bounty in our lives.”
Adelaide pours elderberry wine from a silver goblet onto the roof’s slate shingles. “Dear Queen, we praise you for being generous and wise.”
Striking a match against the metal railing of the cupola, Beatrice sets the contents of a brass censer on fire. A feathery nest of herbs, wood shavings and three strips of paper catch light as she feeds the flames with her breath. Each piece of paper contains a wish.
May the past be resolved.
May evil be met with justice.
May the way be made clear.
As the smoke rises, Beatrice says, “We call on you, O Queen, to come to our aid.”
She comes in the nights of Rauhnächt to cleanse the earth of secrets, sorrows, lies, and demons. Great blessings come to those who assist her with her work, but beware the consequences. Many a witch has been taken up in her riotous frenzy and has been swept away in a journey through both heaven and underworld. Petition her at your peril.
Once the three women are finished and back in the house proper, they dress for the ball and prepare for battle.
Hair is combed and pinned, corset laces tightened. Adelaide stows a sharp, thin blade in a leather sheath and buckles it to her leg. Eleanor fastens an amulet of protection around Beatrice’s neck, then dresses herself in the gown Judith had set aside for her “just in case.”<
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“You look radiant,” Adelaide tells her. “The gown suits you perfectly.”
The minute the Baroness had spoken of Mr. Palsham, Eleanor had decided to join her sister witches at the masquerade. Her desire to watch over Beatrice became all the more keen when she’d opened the box that’d contained her mask. Along with the magnificent feathered likeness of a great-horned owl, had been a note that read: J’ai vu le loup. They were the same words her mother had once sent to her from beyond the grave to warn her that Beatrice was in danger. I saw the wolf.
Eleanor was now convinced that the Baroness was far more than a woman of social consequence. At the very least, she was a witch, and quite possibly something more. If that was the case, then it followed that Mr. Palsham could well be the demon Mrs. Stutt had shown her in the shadows on the wall. The signs all pointed to something much larger than anything she’d ever encountered—to magic far beyond the physical world. She only hopes the instructions in the pages of her grimoire will deliver as promised. If all that she is thinking is true, then it will take the Queen of Witches to see them through.
“Are you certain you wish to go through with this?” she asks her friends. She’d told them all she knew of Mr. Palsham, and the possible danger in her plan, but she needs to hear them say once more they’re willing to take the risk. “I can’t promise there won’t be dire consequences.”
Beatrice reaches for Eleanor’s hand. “Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”
Taking a flask from her reticule, Adelaide unscrews the lid and takes a sip. “Schnapps,” she says, “for courage, and catching demons.”
Beatrice takes the flask in hand, lifts it in a toast. “To catching demons.”
Eleanor takes her own small sip then walks to the door to pour a splash of liquor on the stoop. One last offering can’t hurt. “To catching demons.”
* * *
The witches arrive at the hotel to find the ballroom has been transformed into an enchanting Alpine wood. Spruce, pine and holly boughs, decked with colourful lanterns, line the walls. The Baroness’s footmen stand at attention by the door with long boar spears in hand. A brook trickles down a craggy waterfall as high as the ceiling and runs through the middle of the room. A wooden footbridge arches across the stream, leading to a stone well that bears the sign: Please leave donations here. At the opposite end of the room is an enormous fireplace with a large copper cauldron suspended above it. Nearby, the punch master stands at the ready, his crystal bowl filled to the brim. Two large tables on either side of him are dressed with pine boughs and laden with sugared fruit and confections enveloped in marzipan. Lively music fills the air as the crowd of masked guests flies across the dance floor, each transformed into a woodland creature, real and imagined. Badger, mink, squirrel, bear, hawk, deer, snake, wolf, toad. Gnome, elf, boar, porcupine, beaver, dragonfly, ladybird, katydid, lark, wren, dryad. Lynx, troll, pheasant, hag, hare, cardinal, waxwing, snail, trout.
Beatrice can’t stop staring at a peculiar instrument set among the musicians in the orchestra. Nestled between accordion and fiddles, horns and hurdy-gurdy, is a series of glass bowls set on their sides in two long rows, made to spin by a treadle. A woman dressed in a long white gown is playing the instrument by running her fingers along the rims of each glass in quick succession. Every so often, she dips her fingertips in a tray of water and then resumes her performance. The sound the thing makes reminds Beatrice of the voices she’d heard in the Baroness’s suite.
“It’s a glass harmonica,” a cheerful goldfinch chirps in Beatrice’s ear. Judith Dashley has made her way to the girl. They’d broken with tradition and chosen to share their identities with each other in advance of the ball. “Alden has one of those diabolical things in the cellar of our house in Tarrytown. He sneaks downstairs and plays it in the middle of the night to put a fright in me. Good thing he’s off to Washington with Dr. Brody and the rest of his fellow philosophers or he’d be trying to buy this one for the house on Marble Row.”
Beatrice turns to Adelaide, in her glittering disguise. “Wouldn’t Dr. Brody love one?”
“Yes,” Adelaide replies. “I’m sure he would.” She spots a jaunty badger in top hat and tails across the room, and her stomach flutters. Thaddeus Dink is unmistakable, even at a masquerade. At least there’s no sign of Mr. Wentworth, she thinks, and hopes it will stay that way. Perhaps her mind had been playing tricks on her in the Baroness’s waiting lounge the other day.
“Eleanor St. Clair?” Judith asks, recognizing her own gown before she does the stately figure of the witch. “How wonderful that you changed your mind!”
Eleanor smiles and nods as she scans the room for signs of trouble.
Adelaide leans close and says, “I’ll know him if I see him.”
As the orchestra plays a seductive waltz, Judith points to a young man advancing toward Beatrice. “I see a dashing gentleman in your future.”
He is tall and stately, with a sleek feathered raven’s mask and a long black braid down his back. A small gold hoop glints in his ear. He stops a moment to smooth his lapels, straighten his tie and pick a stray piece of lint from the sleeve of his coat. His suit is so new it shines. Beatrice recognizes him in an instant. Her Stranger. With all of Eleanor’s talk of demons and goddesses, she’d almost forgotten the chestnut’s promise.
As the young man bows to her and then extends his hand, she bites her tongue for fear of saying, It’s you. Thrilled by his presence, she puts her hand in his.
“May I have this dance?” he asks. His voice is as familiar to her as her own.
Judith whispers to Adelaide, “What a perfect pair they make.”
Adelaide stares hard at the young man. He looks nothing like the trollish gent who’d accosted Beatrice last year in the park.
“Do you know him?” Eleanor whispers to Judith.
“I don’t think so. But his bearing is quite regal, don’t you think? Perhaps he’s here with the Baroness.”
Beatrice nods at the man, and he whisks her away to the dance floor. There are hundreds of questions she could ask the Stranger but, transfixed by his dark shining eyes, she stays silent as he leads her in dance after dance. If she’s dreaming, she doesn’t wish to wake.
While Beatrice falls under the Stranger’s spell, Eleanor keeps her eyes on the pair. She could swear she’s seen the young man somewhere before.
Adelaide gathers her courage and goes in search of refreshment and Mr. Dink. She’s resolved to speak to him before he recognizes her. It’s a night for exorcising demons, after all.
“Excuse me, sir,” she says, as she approaches the merry little gentleman, who is hovering near the punch bowl. Taking a deep breath she thinks, Now or never.
“No excuse required,” he replies, tipping his hat.
“Spare a minute for an old friend?” Adelaide asks.
Mr. Dink raises his mask and winks. “You don’t look so old to me, dear Moth. Then taking Adelaide’s hand in his, he warmly kisses it. “You may have chosen to forget me, but I will never forget you.”
His words move her heart in ways she hadn’t expected. She wishes to raise her own mask, so he will see the burned side of her face, the lost eye, but this is enough for now, she decides.
“Tell me, dear girl, how are you?”
“I’m well.”
“And happy?”
She blushes and stammers. “A—actually, yes.”
“Someone’s won my little Moth’s heart! How tremendous.”
“I hope so. At least I think it is.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Adelaide feels as if she’s a child again, struggling to find a safe place to land. If she’s to give Dr. Brody her heart, completely and without any secrets, she needs to know what Mr. Dink had seen in her all those years ago. If he could love her when she was at her lowest, then perhaps she wasn’t as hopeless as she thought. “Why did you take me in after I was ruined? What made you think I was worth caring for?”
Bri
nging her hand to his cheek, he regards her long and steadily, before he replies. “My life was made brighter the minute you walked into it,” he says. “I adored you from the start. I couldn’t imagine not caring for you.”
Tearful, Adelaide smiles. They are the same words she’s heard time and again from her beloved Dr. Brody. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you since my circumstances changed. I had some trouble, but it’s over now, I hope.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Dink replies. “Come see me, my lovely Moth. And you’d better bring that man of yours along so I can judge if he’s good enough for you.”
“I will. I promise.”
* * *
Eleanor checks the watch that dangles from her chatelaine. It reads quarter to twelve. Where has the time gone? Beatrice has been dancing in plain sight the entire time, and Mr. Palsham, demon or not, hasn’t come forth. Could she have misinterpreted the signs? Soon the clocks will strike midnight, the revellers will ring in the New Year, and the ball will be over. What then?
A woman dressed in rags and wearing the mask of a frightful hag appears at her side. “Where is she?” she croaks.
“Pardon?” Eleanor asks.
The woman points a crooked finger at the dance floor. “The fox is gone.”
Eleanor pushes her way through the twirling dancers, frantically searching for Beatrice.
* * *
“Wait,” Beatrice calls as she runs out the ballroom doors after the Stranger. The young man had broken free from her embrace without explanation and vanished.
As she runs down a long corridor, she sees him slip into a conservatory made of glass. Lit by a series of magnificent chandeliers, each pane in the walls and ceiling shimmers like a thousand glowing stars.
