The bee buzzed lazily past me again. I held my hand out, and it landed.
“A little unusual to see a bee at night, isn’t it?” asked Sailor. He was already moving toward the dormer window to see if he could get it open. It was stiff, but with effort he managed to lift the sash a few inches.
I held my hand out through the opening, and the bee tapped a little on my palm, then flew off.
“I’ve heard bees communicate through dance,” Sailor said, his voice thoughtful. “Is she trying to tell you something?”
“I think it’s possible,” I said, realization dawning. Selena had mentioned bees the other day as well, when she gave Loretta a bee charm for her collar. “I wonder . . . Apparently the name of the woman who owned this trousseau, the woman who died because of the curse, was nicknamed Bee.”
“And what do you think she’s trying to tell you?”
“I have no idea. But . . . this reminds me of something I meant to ask you about: I had a vision that included a thread being pulled through a pearl, and a crown of parsley, a cup of snakes, and a phrase: coincidentia oppositorum. Any idea what that all means?”
“Since when did you start having visions?”
“I don’t normally. But I was in Aidan’s vision chamber and they came surprisingly easily.”
“What were you doing in Aidan’s vision chamber?”
“Waiting for the mayor.”
Sailor looked at me for so long I started to feel defensive and was about to assert my right to be in Aidan’s office whenever I darned well wanted to when he nodded.
“Okay. The thing about visions, in my experience, is that they can mean different things to different people—the symbols are incredibly personal. To some, a rose is about beauty, or love; to others, the thorns indicate danger.”
“That makes sense. But I can’t think what a pearl being threaded might mean.”
“The pearl can be the world, the globe. The thread is the energy that runs through its axis, the special energy that your kind tap into.”
“My kind?”
He nodded. “A crown of parsley is female, the cup of snakes male. The coincidentia oppositorum is all about the primordial forces of male and female coming together, the All-Mother and All-Father.”
“Seriously?”
“As I said, it’s usually a personal interpretation. But that phrase was pretty specific.”
“True. So . . . what does it all mean?”
He shrugged. “Beats me.”
I chuckled. “Okay, back to the bee, or the young woman named Bee: Isn’t this your area? Why isn’t she talking to you, if she’s hanging around?”
“These things don’t work according to the rules you and I live by, as you know,” said Sailor. “She might be sending you a sign because she knows you’re the most likely to be able to help her. Or it might not be her at all, but something altogether different.”
“Like what?”
“Your guiding spirit, letting you know you’re on the right path.” He shrugged. “Or knowing you, you could be manifesting it, somehow, because you have bees on the brain. There are a few things we could try, next time a bee comes by, to see if we can communicate. But for now, let’s head back to the coven.”
I started down the stairs, with Sailor following close behind.
“That’s a disturbing thought,” I said. “If I start manifesting everything on my brain—”
A man stood on the landing, glowering at us.
Chapter 23
I screamed. Just a little. More like an undignified squeak, really.
Then I realized it was Clyde, the caretaker. His hair stuck out from the side of his head slightly, as though we had gotten him out of bed.
“The attics are off-limits,” he groused. “Don’t make me send you and your friends home.”
“Sorry,” I said. “It didn’t explicitly say so, and there was no velvet rope . . .”
He swore under his breath. “This is what I told the higher-ups when they came up with this harebrained scheme: that we needed to test it out. You never know what tourists will come up with. Listen here: The attics and basements and outbuildings are all off-limits, you got that? You kids have one hundred and sixty rooms in the regular house to look through, and you go up into the attic?”
“We apologize,” I said.
Sailor just held the man’s gaze until Clyde looked away.
“How did you know we were here?” I asked.
“You tripped an alarm.”
“I really am sorry we got you out of bed. The truth is,” I ventured, considering the respect the caretaker had shown for witchcraft and spiritualism, “Sailor is a talented psychic. He was feeling for spirits.”
His rheumy eyes lit up. “Really?”
Sailor gave a slight inclination of his head.
“Huh. You feel stuff here? Like . . .” His eyes rolled upward. “Up in the attic?”
“Maybe,” said Sailor. Mr. Cooperative.
“Could I ask you something?” I ventured. “There’s a steamer trunk up there that looks like it used to have something in it. Was it recently emptied out?”
If possible, Clyde looked even more disgruntled.
“Yes. It’s a shame, a real shame. People have no respect for this place. The only consolation is that what goes around, comes around. They won’t be sleeping well at night, I’m sure about that.”
“What happened?”
“There was a volunteer workday; that’s all we can think of. That’s the last time that section of the attic was opened as far as anyone knows. But we still haven’t figured out how they managed to get all the stuff out of the house without being noticed.”
“What kinds of things were in the trunk, do you know?”
“It was a trousseau. A cursed trousseau.”
* * *
When I informed him that I might well know where the stolen trousseau had ended up, Clyde invited us to one of the kitchens still in use by the staff.
“The trousseau was acquired by the Widow Rodchester not long before her death, in the late 1920s,” explained Clyde. “She purchased it in a lot, along with some other items, from a spiritualist dealer she knew in San Francisco.”
He set steaming mugs of tea in front of us, then joined us at the large farmer’s table.
“According to legend, the trousseau was never put to use because the young fiancée died on the eve of her wedding. Her intended always believed he had been cursed by a shoeshine man. Here’s an interesting factoid: He included his lacrimatory in the trousseau. Some say that’s why there was so much power there, though I don’t know if that’s true.”
“A lacrimatory? I just learned what that was the other day,” I said.
Clyde nodded. “Sort of an interesting mourning ritual, don’t you think?”
“Very. And you have no idea how the trousseau was taken from the attic?” I asked. “You think it was one of the volunteers?”
He shrugged. “A lot of people go in and out on volunteer workdays. Those volunteers are good people, usually architecture students, that sort of thing. And it took a while to figure it out, even. It wasn’t until we were moving things around up there and we realized it wasn’t heavy enough. We opened it and saw the clothes had been taken. It was always chock-full of ball gowns and lingerie and linens, back when.”
“Do you happen to know if a woman named Renee Baker was here on that day? She makes cupcakes . . . ?”
“Oh, I do remember some wonderful cupcakes! But I don’t know who brought them.”
“How about a young woman, named Scarlet?”
“I really don’t recall names. Like I said, the administration didn’t want to file a police report. They’re very careful about what kind of press Rodchester House gets. Hauntings, creepy things like that? No problem. But any real-world issues,
like backed-up plumbing or stolen items, they’d prefer to keep it on the down low.”
“Was there a list of volunteers? Would it be possible for us to check for their names?”
“I don’t know . . . I suppose I could look them up, if you’d like. A Renee Baker, you said?”
“And Scarlet Funk.”
He grumbled about what he did for the guests of Rodchester House. Not that I didn’t see his point; he had probably worked all day, it was now after midnight, and some stranger was asking him to look something up on the computer. But to my surprise, he agreed.
“We use an old pantry as the office. It’s just around the corner—be right back.”
“Thank you so much. And again, sorry we trespassed.”
“S’okay,” he said as he shuffled out. “Be right back.”
I took another sip of my tea.
Moments later, we heard the sound of a body crashing to the floor.
* * *
We rushed out to find Clyde sprawled on the floor in the corridor.
I knelt beside him—there was blood on the back of his head, but he was conscious and swearing a blue streak.
Sailor ran down the hall and disappeared around the corner.
“Clyde, what happened? Are you all right? Don’t move; I’ll call 911.”
“No! No, please don’t call anyone. Remember what I was just saying about the administration? They hate this sort of press. I could lose my job.”
“But you’re hurt,” I began.
“I’ve had much worse, believe you me. I’m an old farm boy; I know what a concussion feels like. This was just a little knock; I’d have gone after him myself except I lost my footing, twisted my bum ankle, went down like a sack of potatoes.”
“At least let me take you to the hospital,” I suggested. “We’ll say it was an accident.”
“You should go follow after your friend, see if he needs help. Don’t bother about me.”
I was worried about Sailor, but I felt torn.
“Didn’t you say there were cameras? Is security watching?”
He made a disgusted noise. “You’re looking at ‘security.’ And the cameras are there, but they’re not turned on. Too expensive. They’re just there to make people think they’re being watched.”
That was no help.
“Go on, then,” Clyde urged. “Honestly, girlie, I’m fine. Go help your friend.”
I heard a far-off banging and thumping, and a muffled noise that sounded like a shout. I ran down the hall in the direction Sailor had gone, stroking my medicine bag and mumbling a charm under my breath.
The hallway ended in a T. Which direction should I go?
I felt, rather than saw, a spirit beckoning me left. Maybe it was my imagination, but I followed my intuition. I ran down around the corner and thought I heard another noise, closer now. I felt cold puffs of air, hints of someone nearby, watching.
I ran through a solarium, a parlor, a library. Endless hallways.
Rounding a corner, I found an exterior door standing wide-open. There was another shout. Outside, I found Sailor crumpled on the gravel drive.
Oscar was chasing someone across the dark yard. The shadowy figure jumped onto a motorcycle and raced away seconds before Oscar caught up. He continued to run after it, but the machine zipped out of reach.
By the time I reached Sailor, he was already sitting up, swearing, holding a hand over his eye.
“What happened?”
“Why is it I always wind up wounded when I’m near you?”
“Are you okay?” I couldn’t see well in the dark of night. The moonlight gave everything a silvery, monochromatic quality.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, sounding angry. “Feel like an ass, though. He jumped me, knocked me good, then managed to lay me low long enough to get away. I’m lucky Oscar showed up, after all.”
I looked around, but my familiar was nowhere to be seen. I wondered whether he was still chasing after the motorcycle.
I helped Sailor stand, and he put one arm around my shoulders as we walked back toward the house. He winced and held his side, as though his ribs hurt.
Just as we were approaching, the Welcome coven poured out of the door like so many bees from a hive. With them was Clyde, who was limping but was being helped by Winona.
They were all talking at once.
“Oh, my goddess!” exclaimed Bronwyn. “What in the world? We saw you fighting from the ballroom windows, but it took us forever to find the right door to come out and help!”
“Who was that?” asked Starr.
“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
“Wow, I guess we really did need a bodyguard,” said Wendy. “Are you all right? Hey, Kendall’s a nurse; let her take a look at you.”
“Should we call the police?”
“Hey, Sailor, if you’re psychic, how come you didn’t see this happening?”
“He and Lily did say they had a bad feeling about tonight, to be fair. . . .”
“I think I saw the house demon again! Such a spooky, ugly little thing!”
“How about I invite the whole coven back to my place, and we get ourselves settled down?” Clyde asked. “I’ve got a first-aid kit, the whole shebang.”
“I tell you what, Bronwyn,” I said once we were all sitting in Clyde’s comfortable sitting room in the caretaker’s cottage. Kendall was attending to the men’s wounds, and Wendy passed around a flask. I took a good swig. “You throw a heck of a birthday party.”
* * *
“It could have been Scarlet,” I said around a yawn as I drove us home the next day. By the time we bid farewell to Clyde, we’d managed to get only a few hours of sleep before morning. “Maybe she’s not sick at all. Maybe that’s just a cover-up, and she came down here on Brad’s motorcycle and attacked us.”
“Attacked me.”
“You and Clyde. I meant ‘us’ in the sense of the royal ‘we.’”
He reached out and tugged my ponytail. “Princess Witch?”
“How are you feeling?” I asked. I knew he had a headache and his eye throbbed, but so far he had refused to take anything for it. I was pretty sure it was because he wanted to stay sharp, just in case something else happened in the Rodchester House of Spirits.
He shrugged. “I’ll survive. My ego’s taken something of a beating, though.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the one who put you in harm’s way, after all. And you went running after that assailant like you were Superman.”
“Anyway, there is no way Scarlet was the one who attacked me. Whoever I was fighting was a man,” said Sailor.
“Did he have a beard?”
“No. But with all due respect to some truly amazing women I’ve known in my life, it would have taken a heck of a woman to fight like that. I thought you said Scarlet was small.”
“True.”
“A petite woman with enough martial arts training could take me down, but we were grappling old-fashioned-style. Also, in that kind of situation I would have felt if it had been a woman.”
“Psychically, women feel different?”
“Well, yes, but in this case I was referring to feeling other things. Girlie things.”
I had to smile. “Girlie things?”
“I’m telling you, we were rolling around on the ground together.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
“Even if not, I’d hate to think I couldn’t smell the difference. You women have a certain scent about you.”
“I doubt ne’er-do-wells put on perfume when they go for a brawl.”
“I’m not talking perfume.”
“Oh. Back to the point: When Scarlet first served me with papers, there was someone waiting for her on the bike.”
“Are you thinking boyfriend Brad?” said Sailor.
> “I guess. But why would Brad come all the way to the Rodchester House of Spirits to attack us? And how would he even know we would be here?”
“You mentioned it when we met with him.”
“I did?”
He nodded.
“Huh. Okay. My bad. But clearly Brad’s not the only person who rides a motorcycle. And what reason would he have to attack us?”
“Maybe he didn’t want us to discover Scarlet had stolen the trousseau.”
“I suppose. Speaking of which, I wonder how she managed that trick.”
“Or,” said Sailor, “it could be someone who was hired to harass us. Or most likely, someone completely unrelated. Brad’s not the only person who rides a motorcycle, after all. Lots of people do, for the same reason as me.”
“Because you look hot in your motorcycle gear?”
“Because of great gas mileage, easy parking, and lane splitting. As Clyde said, kids break in from time to time and dare each other to go into Rodchester House. It could have been some kid hopped up on something, then just trying to get away.”
“Possibly. I’m still suspicious of Brad, though. And you thought he was lying, remember?”
“Tell you what. When we get back to the city I’ll go have a little chat with Brad. I got in a few good hits so he should have some bruises, and I’ll use a little Vulcan mind control on him.”
I stared at him.
“Sorry—forgot you wouldn’t get the reference. I’ll see if I can read anything from him, get a sense from him, at least.”
A head popped up in my rearview mirror.
I shrieked and swerved, and a bag of leftover cookies went flying.
“Oscar! Hell’s bells, you scared me!”
Sailor chuckled. “Sorry. I saw him when I put the bags in the back. I thought you knew he was there. You owe me ten bucks, by the way.”
“How would I know he was there?” I asked, my voice still strident.
Oscar didn’t make a peep but crawled back into the footwell so passersby wouldn’t see him.
“Hey, thanks again for your help last night, Oscar,” Sailor said.
A Toxic Trousseau Page 23
