“Lily, what a lovely surprise. And Oscar, too!” she said as Oscar and I got out of the car. Even though Calypso knew Oscar was a magical creature, he didn’t show her his true form but adopted his porcine guise. “Welcome. Have you heard anything from your grandmother’s coven?”
“Not recently. But I don’t think they’ll be here for another day or two. In fact, that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Of course. Please come in and we’ll have tea and talk.”
Oscar trotted out toward the woods.
“He loves the redwoods,” I said.
“Don’t we all.”
Calypso’s huge kitchen was warm and welcoming. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with the heady aroma of sage, rosemary, and oregano. Rustic shelves held old crockery and widemouthed mason jars full of spices and powders. A variety of kitchen utensils hung from pegs on the beadboard wainscoting; there were a number of mortars and pestles, electric grinders, and drying racks on shelves. Some of these might have been used for cooking, but most were for the processing of herbs. Calypso ran a profitable business selling herbs, fruit, and vegetables to Bay Area restaurants that were able to boast they used only “organic, locally sourced” ingredients.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something scamper by. It was too big for a mouse, and didn’t have the shape of a cat. But it moved too fast for me to get a good look at it.
Calypso put a huge copper kettle on to boil, and I took a seat at the big pine farmhouse table. Leafy green plants hung in baskets in the sunny bay window, and African violets crowded the windowsill.
“Calypso, what are silverfish used for?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are they an ingredient in anything?”
“Silverfish? The insects?” She made a face. “They weren’t in that suspected Tiberius Caesar spell you were asking me about, were they?”
“No. At least, I certainly hope not. They’re a little creepy.”
“A lot creepy. The only insects I really like are the roly-polies. Remember them?”
“I do. We had fireflies back home. I loved those.”
“Butterflies are amazing, of course, and moths, too. And bees, and ladybugs. But I don’t enjoy a lot of the crawlers.”
“I agree. So you don’t know of any use for silverfish? Could they be symbolic of something, maybe?”
She shook her head. “I can’t think of anything. But . . . Selena has silver magic, doesn’t she?”
“She does. That had never occurred to me. Do you think it’s connected?”
“I have no idea, Lily,” she replied. “You haven’t given me any context, or told me what’s going on.”
“Sorry. You’re right, of course. If only I knew what was going on.”
I gave her the story in brief: about Sailor being in jail and Tristan’s death and the contents of the shoe box. About the grandmas making a sign with their wandering travels, and Sailor’s doppelgänger.
“Aidan says doppelgängers can be a harbinger of imminent death,” I said, a catch in my voice. I hadn’t realized how upset I was, how close to breaking down. Calypso wasn’t motherly, exactly, but I had been yearning for the opportunity to speak to a wise woman.
“I’ve always heard that as well,” Calypso said in a steady voice. I noticed that a couple of tendrils from the plants behind her seemed to edge closer to her, as though reaching out. This was how plants responded to Calypso. “But you really don’t know that this look-alike is a doppelgänger, after all. That’s not the only possibility.”
“True.” I knew she was right. But I had been feeling negative lately. I sneezed.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I think I’m coming down with a cold.” For some reason I didn’t want her to know I might have fallen victim to Renee’s spell. It made me feel foolish. I also held back from asking her if she thought I’d offended my guiding spirit, the Ashen Witch. I trusted her . . . but perhaps not entirely. When it came right down to it, I didn’t know Calypso that well.
“I’m sure that’s unusual for you.”
“It is. How could you tell?”
She simply smiled. Her smile was knowing, reassuring . . . and yet a teensy bit annoying. I wished I knew what she was thinking, how she knew the things she knew. Was she psychic, or simply wise and intuitive?
Calypso got up, turned to a bookshelf stuffed with books, old and new, and files with clippings. She searched for a moment, then brought down a thick tome whose leather binding was so old it was slightly crumbly. She set it on the table and I read the title: Royal Entomological Society: A Treatise on Taxonomic Specifications.
“I used this long ago to develop my natural pest-control system in the garden. I’m sure you know I shy away from pesticides. Let’s see. . . . ‘The silverfish is small and wingless; largely harmless, it does not sting or bite. The common name is derived from the insect’s blue-gray color and sinewy ways of moving. The scientific name, L. saccharina, indicates the silverfish’s exclusive diet of sugars and starches.’”
“Ah, that explains something,” I said. “I thought saccharina referred to the sugar substitute. But . . . could it be used as an ingredient in something?”
“That kind of information won’t be in here. Let’s see what else I’ve got. . . .” She trailed off as she searched the bookshelves. She pulled out one volume, then another, shook her head, and put them back. “I don’t see any symbology associated with it or any recipes. I take it you’ve already checked your Book of Shadows?”
I nodded, joining her at the bookcase and studying the spines. Her collection was almost as fascinating and arcane as Aidan’s. “It didn’t say anything at all.”
“Perhaps we’re thinking too specifically. Maybe it’s simply indicative of an insect.”
“But there are silverfish in the shoe box.”
“Only in the box?”
“I’ve never seen them elsewhere. They appear to be contained.”
She met my eyes and our gaze held for so long I became hyperaware of the sound of the ticking clock. I heard a soft cat’s meow, a bird’s faraway call. I noticed the African violets turning their faces toward her. Finally, she nodded.
“I’m not psychic, Lily. I have my magical moments, but they have to do with plants, nothing more.”
“But it was more before, wasn’t it? Aidan told me that you used to be in charge around here.”
She shrugged it off. “‘In charge’ makes it sound much more official than it actually was. You’ve been in San Francisco long enough to know there are a lot of disparate personalities, and yet sometimes the community needs to band together. Especially when going up against outside threats.”
“What kind of threat were you facing when Aidan arrived?”
A profound sadness came into her eyes. She crossed the room to stand near the plants, checking their soil for moisture, snipping off a few dead leaves. “It was . . . it was difficult. A challenger came under the influence of the wrong elements. She called on a demon to act as her coincidentia oppositorum.”
“That sounds like a really bad idea.”
“It was. It made her witchcraft incredibly potent, but she was willing to do just about anything to gain power.”
“What happened to her?”
“She departed, to the spirit world.”
“How?”
“Aidan killed her.”
Chapter 25
“Aidan did what?”
“He did it to save my life. I begged him not to, to let her live. I never wanted to be saddled with the guilt of anyone’s death, to trade my life for another. But Aidan said he did it for everyone’s good, that more than just my life was at stake.”
I sat silent, stunned by what she had said.
“I never wanted that legacy,
” she continued, angry now. “Aidan wouldn’t listen; as usual he did what he thought best. He’s ruthless. Not uncaring, but ruthless.”
“But if he loved you, of course he did what was necessary to save your life.”
“Who said he loved me?”
I remembered seeing a photo of the two of them on her mantel. It had been taken many years ago; Calypso looked much younger in the photo than she did now, while Aidan looked exactly the same. But what had struck me was the expression on his face: open and guileless, an easy smile. In all the time I’d known him, I had never seen him smile like that, or seem so relaxed and natural.
“I know you two were once together, so I assumed . . .”
“People can be together without being in love,” she said, her tone bitter and dismissive. The tabby seemed to sense her discomfort and leapt into her lap. She caressed him, and calmed. “Anyway, I’d rather not talk about this anymore.”
“Could I just ask you—how does the coincidentia oppositorum work, exactly? I thought it involved a man and a woman, but you say a demon could be the other half . . . ?”
“It’s all about balance. Traditionally it was a man and a woman, but as you know, gender is fluid. As are so many other things. People interpret the world differently these days.”
“Interesting. I . . . Well, Aidan says my relationship to Sailor makes me vulnerable.”
Calypso didn’t answer immediately. Her hands slowly stroked the cat in her lap. He purred so loudly I could hear him from where I sat.
Finally, she let out a sigh. “In a sense, any relationship makes us vulnerable, don’t you think? I’ve always thought that was at the core of our strength as magical women, to allow ourselves vulnerability. It certainly does make things more complicated, however. If Aidan feels he must stand alone, that is his choice. It doesn’t have to be yours.”
Something skittered past again. Low to the floor, but not a cat.
“What was that?” I asked. “Did you see something run by?”
“That’s Finnall,” said Calypso.
“What’s a Finnall?”
She gave a soft, low laugh. “That’s his name. He’s my mandragora. Aidan made him for me.”
I opened my mouth to inform her that I had made it, but decided against it.
“Do you know mandragoras?” Calypso continued. “They’re a kind of household imp. They can be very useful in sussing out poisons, rotten fruit, that sort of thing. Finnall is priceless in my produce business. And he keeps me company.”
“Where did he go?”
“He’s sitting on the shelf,” she whispered, gesturing with her head. “He’s shy.”
I glanced at the bookshelf and there he sat, legs entwined primly. He looked like a little carved doll. No one would assume he was anything more.
I was happy to think Finnall kept Calypso company, but was suspicious enough of Aidan to wonder if he had an ulterior motive in giving Calypso the mandragora, especially since he had claimed to have made it himself. Could Finnall be acting as a spy of some kind, as I had long suspected Oscar of doing?
“Now that I think about it,” said Calypso, “Finnall might be of help with this. I don’t suppose you brought one of the silverfish from the box?”
“I happen to have one right here,” I said as I extracted the small jam jar from my backpack. “Do you think it’s safe?”
“Safe? That’s a tough one. I’m not overly worried, though. Also, we’ll need an image of Sailor, or some item of his,” Calypso continued as she gathered, then began grinding dried leaves and seeds in a massive marble mortar and pestle.
“Why do we need something of Sailor’s?”
“Isn’t he what all this fuss is about, at the end of the day?”
I took the small photo of Sailor out of my wallet and set it on the counter.
Calypso continued mashing herbs and pods together, then added club moss from the redwood forest.
“I didn’t know you brewed,” I said as I watched, fascinated. Most practitioners weren’t so transparent about their methods.
“I don’t brew, per se,” said Calypso. “But I do mix.”
I didn’t see the mandragora move, but suddenly he was sitting near the mortar and pestle, the photo of Sailor in his lap.
In one smooth motion she opened the jar, scooped up the silverfish, and tossed it into the mortar and started to smash it with the stone pestle.
Sparks flew, as though the creature were actually made of silver. Apparently, this particular silverfish wasn’t easy to kill. Then Calypso showed a side of herself I hadn’t seen before: She attacked the silverfish with a fierce expression on her face, her hair escaping her braid and flying wild around her, all the plants and flowers in the room turning their faces toward the action. She reminded me of the medieval woodcuts that showed wild-eyed women, hair unbound, brewing or dancing or calling to the devil.
“Do you smell that?” Calypso asked, grimacing.
I tried to inhale. “I can’t really smell much lately.”
“Smells like something burning.”
Again, I saw something scamper just out of my field of vision. I turned just in time to see a man run out of the room.
It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over me. I stood in shock, paralyzed over what I had just seen.
Sailor’s doppelgänger?
Finally I regained the use of my limbs and ran after the man.
By the time I turned the corner into the next room, it was empty. All I saw was the mandragora sitting on the floor.
Oscar came barreling in the room from outside in his fierce, natural guise. “Mistress! Are you okay? I got the strangest feeling.”
“Thanks, Oscar. I’m fine.”
He looked at the mandragora and grimaced. “Oh, hey, I remember that guy. I don’t like him.”
“His name’s Finnall. He belongs to Calypso now.”
Oscar poked at Finnall with his muzzle. “Why’s he just sitting there? What, is he playing dead?”
“I think he’s shy.”
I picked him up and brought him back into the other room, where Calypso waited. Oscar transformed into his pig form, and followed me.
“What’s going on here?” I demanded.
“Did you see Sailor?” Calypso asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s the silverfish. I heard of this charm, long ago. It didn’t occur to me before because it doesn’t require silverfish per se, but will work with any insect or sea creature with an exoskeleton. Something about their outer shells . . . They can be enchanted, and then used to throw powerful glamours.”
“Like the one Aidan maintains?”
She nodded.
“So I have a shoe box full of magical silverfish,” I said. “Will wonders never cease?”
“Unassuming creatures—like household pests—are perfect hosts for this sort of glamour charm.”
I remembered Aidan mentioning that Tristan Dupree’s mother was gifted at glamour charms. And Silber was German for silver; maybe when Tristan’s spirit spoke through Hervé in the hotel room, he was mentioning his silverfish. So I had “stolen” not only my lachrymatory from him but also a box full of his mother’s silverfish glamour charms. I may have suppressed the memories of that time, but I felt a little thrill of pride. Apparently I’d been quite the resourceful teenager.
“I’ve never thrown glamours,” I told Calypso. “I mean, I’ve done minor masking brews, things like that, to make others less likely to notice something like a pimple. But not full-on glamours like your mandragora just did: making myself look like someone else entirely. How does that work?”
“If one has the skills, the possibilities are endless.”
“It would be difficult to maintain a glamour for long, wouldn’t it? How does Aidan do it?”
“It takes an
enormous amount of strength to maintain a glamour as Aidan does, day in, day out. But in the case of this fake Sailor, one would only need to maintain the guise for a few minutes at a time. Walking through the hotel lobby, or at the bottom of the stairwell. Wouldn’t take that much, especially when the onlookers are scared. When people are afraid, they tend not to notice details.”
“And it’s helpful to have an object belonging to the person you are trying to look like?” I asked. “That makes sense.”
“As you know, our possessions sometimes carry traces of our energy. Especially something that means a lot to us.”
I thought of how it felt to see my engagement ring on Patience’s finger. I hoped I could trust her. As with Calypso, I thought I could. But I wasn’t entirely sure. The story of my life.
“You know who has a surprising expertise in glamours?” asked Calypso as she cleaned her mortar and pestle, rubbing it with salts and olive oil.
“Who?”
“Your friend Wind Spirit.”
“You mean, the witch who used to be called Amy? From the Welcome coven?”
“Yes. She came to talk to me a couple of weeks ago, and she noticed the moss and mentioned using it in glamour spells.”
“How did you meet her?”
“Bronwyn gave her my name and suggested she speak to me directly. Wind Spirit’s been interested in developing a small agricultural business, but doesn’t have any garden space. She said her landlord agreed to let her use the basement, which is mostly dirt.”
“What can she grow in a basement?”
“Not much,” Calypso said with a laugh. “But the girl’s quite determined.”
“I’ve heard white asparagus is grown in the dark.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but that’s not what she cultivated.”
“What was she growing?”
“Mushrooms.”
* * *
• • •
My car was alone on Highway 1 as we headed down the twisty route back to San Francisco, so Oscar sat in his natural form in the passenger seat, gazing out at the view. It was bucolic and spectacular: redwood and fern-filled glens, deer and wild turkeys.
A Magical Match Page 24
