by Nancy Warren
"Thanks, Dad. I'll tell her."
Then he rushed off to his meeting and I sat wondering whether Rafe could be right. Had the mirror been deliberately dropped at my mother's feet and somehow been enchanted so that she brought it to me? The idea was preposterous but so was the situation.
I had half an hour until I had to go down and open the shop and so, probably foolishly, I shut myself in the bedroom and retrieved the mirror. It was like a sore tooth I couldn’t leave alone, but kept poking at with my tongue. I read out the incantation once again. I reasoned that I’d already been threatened with death, how much more could be done to me?
I'd hoped that nothing would happen, like when Rafe had read out the spell. I wasn’t so lucky. As before, after I read out the incantation, the mirror began to glow blue and the same young woman appeared on the wavy surface of the mirror. She seemed surprised to see me. "You are still living. I am so glad."
Well, that would be two of us. "You have to tell me who sent you. And why am I in danger?"
She looked so sad. She said, "I was once like you. A good witch, with the power to help, but I was tricked by an evil one, and trapped here. Now, he uses my power to find others like me. I am helpless to stop him."
"But, can't you refuse?"
"I have tried. It is impossible. My only hope is escape or death. It is what I dream of, what I have dreamed of for centuries now. While I have watched strong and wonderful witches be destroyed, all over the world."
"And how would you escape?" I side-stepped the death wish, hoping she was being dramatic.
She smiled again, sadly. “You would have to break the spell. But no one has been able to break it in more than three millennia.”
And I’d been a witch for about two months. I didn’t like the odds. Still, I didn’t like to see one of my witch sisters stuck inside a mirror, forced to destroy her own kind, either. “I want to help you,” I said. “Tell me everything you can. Who were you in life?”
She looked down and then back up at me. Her large, dark eyes were solemn and I felt rather than saw the echo of fear in them. “My queen was the youngest of the pharaoh’s wives and the prettiest. She was a great favorite, but she was also ambitious and determined to be his number one wife.”
I thought the real number one wife might have had something to say about that.
“The other wives did not like or trust her. And we, her servants, had to be careful. Spies were everywhere in our household. I was her priestess and personal advisor. Naturally, I urged caution in her dealings with the pharaoh and, especially, his other wives and their households. But, she was very ambitious and very determined. She believed she could have anything she wanted as soon as she bore her husband a son.” She sighed. “I was to ensure she bore a son, by using my powers.”
That had to be a precarious position to be in. “Did she know you were a witch?”
She smiled. “We did not use that term, then, but yes, she knew.”
“And did she have a son?”
“Oh, yes. But after that she became obsessed with taking what she considered her rightful place beside her husband.”
“What happened?”
She shook her head. “I could see darkness ahead and I tried to warn her, but she did not want to listen. She went to another priest. A man who promised her everything. But he had his price.”
I had a bad feeling I already knew where this was going. “And that was?”
“His price for helping her, was me.”
Yep, pretty much what I’d guessed.
“Why? Why would he want you?”
“Because I have a special gift. I’m more sensitive than most to being able to feel my sisters. Other women with gifts. Sometimes I connect with men, but usually it is women. His power comes from darkness and evil. But he takes shapes that are pleasing or seem innocent. He wants to destroy all of us. He uses me to lead him to his next prey.”
“How did he capture you?”
“He tricked my poor queen. She believed she would get everything she wanted, but she was too eager, and paid no attention to those who perceived her danger. She was poisoned, along with most of her servants. I was put under a spell and cursed to live in this mirror, seeing the faces of others who will die, because of me.”
“But, it wasn’t your fault.”
“And yet, I am the means of killing my own kind. You have so far escaped destruction, but you must be ever vigilant.”
I promised I would try, and then she faded away, but not before I’d seen a tear slip down her cheek.
I made certain the mirror was well-hidden before I went down to open the shop that Monday morning, I was surprised to find a man standing outside, already waiting. It was still five minutes before opening time, but he looked so sorry for himself that I invited him in. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, with a round face and sorrowful eyes. He wore a yellow cardigan—not hand-knitted, but from someplace like Marks & Spencer's. Underneath the sweater I glimpsed a white dress shirt and a striped tie. He had on navy blue trousers and brown loafers that looked recently polished. He carried a leather attaché case. I suspected he was on his way to work and had popped in to buy his wife, perhaps, the wool she’d run out of as she was knitting a sweater.
I smiled at him. "Good morning. Can I help you?"
"Yes," he said. "I've come about the job."
"What job?" Was there some appointment I’d made and forgotten? Some work I was having done around the flat or shop? I tried to think of anything I’d had upcoming, but I came up blank.
To my surprise, he pointed to the notice hanging in my window.
"Oh, you mean the job here, at the shop, to be my assistant?"
He nodded. He did not look thrilled at the possibility of working as my assistant. He was far from the picture I'd had in my head of my ideal candidate, but I knew how well some of the men who came into the shop, including the male vampires, could knit. If he fit my criteria he might be perfect.
"I brought you my CV," he said, unzipping the attaché case and handing me a two-page resume. I glanced at it and saw that he’d been a career accountant. There was nothing on the two pages about retail sales, knitting, or any kind of crafts. I glanced up. "Do you knit?"
"No," he said. And then he sneezed. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and, even as I was saying ‘bless you,’ he was already sneezing again, explosively.
"Do you have any retail sales experience?" I asked.
He shook his head. His eyes had begun to water and they were becoming red around the rims.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm allergic to wool." He blew his nose. "Also cats."
I didn't quite know what to say. I glanced around at the baskets of wool, the balls and skeins in shelves lining the walls. "You'll find a lot of wool in a knitting shop."
He nodded, looking grimly satisfied. “That's what I told my wife. She said, ‘I don't care, I've got to get you out from under my feet. You apply for every job there is, and don't come back until you’ve got one.’" He sneezed again "I just retired, you see, and she's not used to having me underfoot. She says I need to get a job."
"But not here," I said, trying not to laugh as he sneezed again. "You'd be miserable."
He nodded. "Thank you for understanding." At least I thought that was what he said; he was so stuffed up by this time he sounded as though he had no nasal passages at all and his voice was reduced to a croak. "But you’ll remember my name, Ned Cruickshank, in case she comes to check?"
That poor man. What he needed wasn't a job, but marriage counseling. "Of course, Mr. Cruickshank. I hope you find what you're looking for."
He nodded, sneezed again, and scuttled out.
I watched him leave, hoping he'd feel better soon. Out on the sidewalk I heard him blowing his nose with gusto. At least his severe allergic reaction had told me that Nyx was hiding around here, somewhere.
"Nyx?" I called. Even though the shop was quite small, there were any number of places a s
mall, wily cat could hide. I found her under the cash desk. I coaxed her out, and, after playing with her by trailing a piece of wool over her until she pounced, over and over again, we managed to restore our relationship. Though it cost me a ball of wool, since she’d pretty much shredded it to pieces playing cat and mouse.
Once she’d relented towards me, she curled up in her favorite spot—a shallow pottery bowl of assorted wools in the front window. People often stopped to take her photograph as they passed the window. She was so darn cute. I wondered how many Facebook posts and Instagram updates featured my adorable cat. I’d made sure to surround her with brochures that featured my shop address, figuring I’d use her for free advertising.
Once she’d rolled around until she was comfy, I said, "That mirror freaked you out, didn't it? It's freaking me out, too."
I would need to consult my family grimoire and see if there was some kind of spell that could release the girl in the mirror. I’d slept poorly as I kept seeing her face. She’d looked so sad. I imagined being trapped for millennia and forced to do evil and decided it must have been hell.
Still, I was only a baby witch, I should probably work on protecting myself before trying to save another witch from some very powerful evil. Even as I tried to convince myself I was only going to save myself, I knew I'd at least attempt to rescue that poor girl.
I was still preparing the shop for the day, and hadn't yet had a single customer, when a young guy walked in. He glanced around the shelves, looking slightly confused, as though he’d intended to walk into a mountaineering or outdoor store and accidentally stumbled into a quaint knitting shop.
He was tall and rugged, with sun-streaked shaggy blond hair, and reddish stubble covering his cheeks and chin. His warm hazel eyes twinkled and the skin around them was prematurely wrinkled, presumably from staring into the sun. He was wearing faded jeans and a cream denim shirt open to reveal a muscular chest. He was young, gorgeous, and did not look as though he had any business in my shop. Once more, I said, "Can I help you?"
"Too right, I've come about the job," he said in a strong Australian accent.
Was Mrs. Winters playing some kind of trick on me? I couldn't imagine who else would keep sending these entirely improbable candidates my way. Still, there were strict laws about discrimination in hiring practices that meant I couldn't turn this serious hottie away simply because he didn't look like my idea of a knitting shop assistant. Besides, the idea of spending a few minutes with him wasn't entirely unpalatable. I said, "Do you knit?"
When he grinned, his teeth were big and white. If he took a bite of something he'd mean it. "I can knit up an open wound, a good skill to have in the desert."
"Yes," I agreed. "But not the most important quality when working in a knitting shop."
He looked at me as though I was the crazy one. Then, he glanced around and seemed to appreciate that he actually was inside a knitting shop. "Have we got our wires crossed?"
"I think that's the least of what's been crossed."
He scratched his head and pulled out his phone. "I'm sure this is the right address. To apply for going on the dig? In Egypt?"
The penny dropped. My parents! "Could I see that?"
"Sure." He handed me his phone and, sure enough, there was a notice on one of the university Internet forums describing the dig and asking interested graduate students to come to this address. I explained that it was my parents he wanted, not me, and that he should come back after five when my shop was closed and my parents would likely be here to interview him. I suggested that if he knew anyone else who was thinking about applying, they should also come after five o'clock.
"No worries," he said. “It’s a nice shop, though. If I were the knitting sort—” Then he glanced around again at the walls crammed with colored wools, the knitting patterns and magazines, the wall of notions and shook his head. “Naah. Could never stand to be cooped up. It’s the open air for me.” With a cheerful wave, he opened the door to leave. Then, he stood back and held it open for an older woman who was just entering.
"I'll be with you in just a moment," I said, rapidly texting both my mom and my dad that they needed to specify in their advertisement that anyone wishing to join the dig should come by after five o'clock tonight and please to make sure they were here to interview the perspective archaeology students themselves.
While I was doing this, the woman was walking around, looking at my various wares. It was nice to see someone in my knitting shop this morning who actually looked as though they could knit. She was probably in her mid-to-late-sixties, with gray hair that was turning to white. It curled softly around her face. She wore a pink cardigan that was clearly hand-knit, featuring a complicated pattern of flowers around the border. With that she wore a mauve woollen skirt, what looked like support hose, and black, orthopaedic shoes. She carried a capacious handbag and, when she paused to look at my shelves, she rested her hands atop her belly.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm very much hoping I can help you," she said, with a sweet smile. "I saw your advertisement for an assistant and I'm here to apply for the job."
"Really?" I must've sounded as delighted as I felt. It was so nice to find someone applying for the job who looked, in fact, exactly like the assistant I’d pictured in my mind.
"You haven't filled the position?"
I didn't want to appear too anxious, so I said, "I’ve had a couple of applicants already this morning, but I haven't made any decisions yet. I have to ask you the most important question, though. Do you knit?"
She chuckled at that. "My dear, I've been knitting for fifty years. I've knit sweaters for myself, my mother and father, and my brothers, and then later baby clothes and blankets and layettes of all sorts. I also crochet, do needlepoint, and cross stitch, weave on my own loom, and I can card, dye, and spin my own yarn."
I, who owned Cardinal Woolsey’s, could barely tell a knit from a purl. "Well, that's certainly impressive. Did you knit the sweater you have on?"
She glanced down, as though uncertain what she was wearing. "Oh yes. I designed it, too."
Inside my head, a tiny me was fist bumping and yelling, Yes! "Do you have any retail experience?"
"I ran my own knitting and crafts store in Cornwall. I did that for about twenty years, but I got tired of running the business. I moved here when my third grandchild was born. I wanted to be close to my daughter and her family. But, now, the youngest has started school and, frankly, I'm a little bored. When I saw your ad, I was quite pleased, because this is exactly the kind of thing I like to do."
She was so perfect my feet wanted to tap. I had to hold them still. "I don't suppose you've ever taught knitting classes, have you?"
"Oh yes. I taught through my own shop and then I taught young girls through an after school program. I still hear from some of them, little dears."
My only fear was that the money would be too little for her and I said as much, telling her the salary I could pay her in an apologetic tone. But, to my surprise, she said that would be fine. "I've plenty of money from my late husband's life insurance. Rest his soul. I need to fill my time more than I need the money."
I felt churlish even asking for references, but given Mrs. Winters’ opinion that I hired poorly, I decided to ask for them, assuring Mrs. Percival—Eileen—that it was purely routine.
She opened her bag. "I understand perfectly, my dear. Here's a CV and on the bottom are the names of two people who would be happy to vouch for me. You have a beautiful shop here, and I think we could be very happy working together."
So did I. I took her resume and, with a ‘thank you very much for stopping by’ said I would let her know the next day.
After she left, and I didn't think she could see me through the window anymore, I picked Nyx up and said, "We did it! We found the perfect person!" And then I proceeded to dance the cat around the room until we were both a little dizzy.
Chapter 5
When the vampire knitting club met t
hat night, we didn’t hold it in my shop, as usual, since my parents were upstairs. We moved it to the underground apartment complex that housed Gran and many of the local vamps. Some, like Rafe, had their own homes, in his case an ancient manor house, but they congregated here, under my shop. This was their clubhouse.
It was comfortable in the deep, plush chairs and couches, but it wasn’t the same, somehow, as being upstairs in the shop. Possibly because of the location change, there was a smaller group than usual. Gran was there, with her best friend and maker, Sylvia. Rafe was there, with Alfred, and Christopher Weaver. Silence Buggins, looking like she’d stepped out of a Victorian novel, sat primly, her corset holding her stiffly upright. Clara, a lovely older woman who didn’t say much was present, but her friend Mabel was visiting friends in Scotland. Hester, the eternal, moody teenager was present, yawning in the corner. Theodore, the former police officer, had gone to Budapest. He’d gone into business tracking down lost treasures and seemed to be enjoying the challenge.
Gran couldn’t settle. She kept changing her seat, complaining the light wasn’t right. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on her knitting. I glanced at Sylvia to see if she knew what was wrong and she motioned me to follow her. We went under a Gothic stone archway into a hallway that led, I assumed, to bedrooms. I’d never been all the way down these hallways.
She pushed her sweep of silver hair behind her ears, where I noticed she was wearing a stunning pair of art deco diamond earrings. Sylvia was the most glamorous vampire I’d ever met. Tonight she wore a midnight-blue silk pant suit.
“Your grandmother’s very upset. She wants to see her daughter, but Rafe’s forbidden it.”
“I should think so,” I whispered back. I was shocked. Even I knew that, now Gran was a vampire, she couldn’t show herself to anyone. I only knew about her, because I’d stumbled on the information. She was still part of my life, and I was grateful every day to have her, but Mom wasn’t like me. She was a scientist, a woman who believed only in the rational, the provable. If she saw Gran, she’d freak out. And not in a good way.
