* * *
She sat quietly a while, suddenly glad to be done with ships and open ocean. Glad to be home once more, glad to see familiar buildings, stone and brick and wood, familiar shops; to feel the well-remembered jostle of the stone-paved roads, the ruts and dust of the unpaved streets, and to smell odors that had been somehow different in London—fish from the harbor, hot metal and smoke from a smithy, flowers in someone’s garden. The sound of American voices once again—Who would have thought there should be so much difference in accent and cadence, even the very words? After all, were they not all English?
The wagon moved slowly, particularly at first, for there was a good deal of foot and horse traffic, many other carts and wagons down near the water. Small carts, more people afoot—mostly women on the broad streets where the markets were held, where the shops were. Even away from the hub, though, there was more traffic than she remembered: there were paving stones on streets once thick with dust or mud, streets where there had been meadow or woods, and for one horrid moment, she thought herself completely lost, for nothing at all was familiar. Judah must have noticed; he touched her hand and nodded his head to the right and a little ahead of them. “There is the Dancey house, do you remember them?”
She stared at it as they went by. “Not possible! They were at the very edge of town—!”
“On the road itself,” he agreed and smiled faintly. “You’ll need a guide when you venture out.”
“Are you volunteering yourself?” John demanded.
Judah shrugged. “It wasn’t my meaning. But—well, yes. Why not?”
“Why not?” Lucinda echoed. For one awful moment, her heart sank; Richard had made just such an offer, her first days in London. But then she smiled back. Judah was a friend, a boy she’d known since they were children together. It was not at all the same thing, was it? The awkwardness which had come between them at the wharves vanished as if it had never been. “I’ll accept that offer,” she said. “I’ve Father’s talent for riding a seagoing vessel but none of his gift with charts.”
“I shall speak to him, then,” Judah said. “And ask his permission.” She opened her mouth to protest. Permission? But, then, they weren’t children any longer, and even though his offer was the kind of friend’s gesture she’d expect from Judah Levy, the rules had changed.
John pulled the wagon around a corner and drew up with a flourish. “And here we are,” he said.
The house seemed smaller, darker and rougher, but she’d missed it, and welcomed everything, from the familiar odors of Mary’s kitchen to the board just inside the doorway that creaked at the lightest step—even Elizabeth’s, she noticed with amusement. To the way the light shone on Mary’s table, and Mary herself brushing meal from her hands and apron to welcome them in.
Hours later, she found herself alone in the tiny loft room that was hers, next to the box-room, across the staircase from her parents’ large room. She was tired, full for the first time in years, of food that tasted just right. Judah Levy, John, and James had carried in bags and trunks and boxes, and Judah had obtained Andrew Greene’s rather amused permission to escort Lucinda about town when his studies allowed. Now she wanted nothing but sleep, hours of it, as much as she could fit between now and the early hours when the household would bestir itself. First though: she moved between various bags and parcels until she found the heavy wooden box done up with thick rope that concerned her most, just now. The knots were stiff but finally yielded to a softening spell. Bess’s gift-quilt needed airing but there were no stains on the fabric, no snag in the thread. Lucinda drew a sigh of relief and suspended the rose and blue coverlet across the end of her bedposts. In the morning she’d spread it out over the lavender hedge down in the garden. Beneath it in the box, the sheets and other cloth items were only a little musty, and the glass pieces they’d held were unbroken.
At the very bottom, her fingers encountered the thick leather cover, hand-bound on the left side: her mother’s book, copied from her own mother’s. Unless John chose to accept his heritage, there would be no need to copy the book until Lucinda’s children needed it—but no, she would never wed or have children. She sat on the edge of her bed and gazed at the cover for some moments, finally shook her head and laid it back in the box. The glassware went in, loose, atop it. Perhaps she’d have James take it down to the little hut at the bottom of the herb garden tomorrow. Then again—perhaps she’d wait. She gave the rose and blue coverlet an affectionate pat and began unpinning her hair for the night.
Her dreams were unsettling: an enormous, black-clad figure in a foggy place spoke to her in riddles—or so they seemed when she finally woke. I know you are there, Arabella’s daughter. But I can barely touch you and only in your sleep. Something stands between us; someone blocks me. Find and destroy the barrier before it destroys you! And then a swirl of white across black-covered shoulders, pale eyes fixed on her accusingly. Something very bright owned those eyes—Willow, she realized with a pang. Willow, the will o’-the-wisp who had served Grandfather Amer, and eventually her own mother. Where is my Arabella? a small voice demanded. Why can I not see her, and why can I not touch you? She could see more, then: the workshop that had been her mother’s on the family farm, south and west of Boston. She had played there with John, and with Judah, whose father’s land adjoined theirs.
There might have been more to the dream, but she woke, chilled, and could not remember. She pulled Bess’s comforter over her shoulders and slept soundly. The dream, and memory of it, faded.
* * *
Somehow, time slipped away from her: two days, then three—a full week, two. The glass retorts and beakers remained in their case, the case wedged between wall and the chest that held her sheets and towels.
There had been callers, a few very quiet parties, services on the Sabbath, where Elizabeth had been much stared at. There had been visits to old friends, shopping trips to the market, to the wharves, others with Elizabeth. Judah, true to his word, had come calling twice—and taken her around the City, until she again felt at home.
Once or twice, she again woke from unsettling dreams, but she could not recall them.
Other times she would waken and remember very clearly:
Willow should be able to bespeak her now, I should search the book to see if it tells a reason why I cannot—or ask my uncle; he might know. I have new equipment to set up in the herbarium, old equipment to polish; surely Mary did not bother with that place. Chemicals to account; many must have lost potency, or dried out, in so long a time. Why did she only see this late at night? During the day, she never thought of the sturdy little building at the foot of the garden, hard against the herb beds. Or if she did; the very thought made her so very tired that she let it go. It was too much to deal with, and somehow, it was so hard to concentrate on these things, though she was certainly not unwell. She had plenty of energy for other things.
Later. There would always be time—That is what Arabella thought, Willow’s late night voice told her accusingly.
Unease finally sent her into the herbarium, nearly five weeks after her return home. Not the nagging in her dreams, however: John was worrying her.
He had always been impatient and headstrong so he had suffered his share and more of childhood hurts. Even now, his knees and shins were constantly bruised because he moved too quickly about his rooms or simply did not watch where he walked. But though he’d been accident-prone, he was not clumsy, and he had always ridden as though he were part of his horse. In the space of three days, he had twice fallen down stairs on his way to class—falls that might easily have killed him, had he landed wrong or struck his head. And his favorite mare had thrown him.
Lucinda worked the stiff lock and pulled the heavy bar aside. “Perhaps he has become clumsy; he cannot ride as often as he did. He might have misjudged the mare or the crossing,” she told herself, but she wasn’t at all reassured. She flung the door wi
de, wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the herbarium: the chamber was overly warm and stuffy, the air thick with sage. She stifled a sneeze, picked up the heavy black case, and carried it inside. The door could remain open while she cleaned and arranged shelves; it was only when she actually began work that she must use extreme care.
A cool little breeze slid across the low ceiling, setting hanging bundles of very dry plants to rustling and clattering. The worktable was against the black wall—regular herb preparation on the near side, the more esoteric workings behind, nearly invisible behind the kettles, boxes, cloth bags, and wooden bowls. The smell of itch salve was very strong here.
The table was not as dusty as she might have expected; perhaps Mary had cared for the herbarium as well as the house? Lucinda wondered for the first time whether the indentured servants knew about Arabella’s alchemic and sorcerous pursuits, or how they might feel about them. No one had ever said anything about it—but then, the subject certainly wasn’t an open one. She pushed stray hair from her brow, tucked it into the clean white kerchief, and pressed her sleeves to the elbow.
All at once, she wanted nothing more than to sleep.
She stifled a yawn, blinked to clear blurring vision. Not surprising, really; she’d worried about John much of the previous night. Tired—she felt so sluggish; it suddenly seemed such an effort to set things up. Her mother’s book felt so, so heavy. Somehow, she hoisted it onto the table. John, she reminded herself firmly. “John,” she said aloud. The name seemed to clear her mind, a little. “You worked it out last night, what to do. Do it now.”
It was one of three things, she had decided: truly accident, threat from a personal enemy of John’s, threat from an enemy of the family. Their grandfather Amer had made enemies aplenty, in particular that Salem coven. A protective spell would take care of any of those threats, but John might very well refuse one. Well, he would never need to know she had created one for him. Not if she’d worked it out right.
Lucinda reached into the pocket hanging from her chatelaine, fingered the fine brass buttons, and smiled. She had bought them for John in London; they were the latest mode and fastidious; fashion-mad John would adore them. She’d bought the silk for the waistcoat, too; it was nearly completed. The buttons would simply undergo a little ceremony—a protective baptism, as it were—before they went on. Buttons protected would protect the waistcoat, and thereby the wearer. The wearer, once so protected, would remain protected. Thank Heaven for Grandfather Amer’s dedication to knowledge, she thought fervently. And that my refusal to use that knowledge for so long did not preclude my using it forever!
An hour later, she dropped heavily onto the stool at the table’s end and let her head fall into her hands. It was impossible! She could not think, she could not concentrate! “This is no great problem, it is all set out step by step in Mother’s book and still I cannot do it! What is wrong with me?” she mumbled into her palms. There was of course no answer.
A tap at the outer, still open door finally roused her; she let her hands fall and pushed to her feet, half expecting Elizabeth had come in search of a shopping companion, or that Mary had come to summon her to eat. The figure silhouetted against the sunlit garden was much taller than either, and crisply curling hair gave him away. “Judah,” she exclaimed. “I had not expected you.”
“May I?” he asked, and at her gesture stepped inside.
He clasped his hands behind his back, as though fearing to touch anything, and gazed about with interest. “So this is your mother’s famous distillery. My grandfather always swore by her green liquid for bad stomach. Are you thinking of making it again? I know he at least will buy.”
“I—I’m not certain,” she stammered. He nodded thoughtfully. There was a silence, a rather pleasant one, while he looked around the small chamber. To her surprise, Lucinda did not worry about what he might see, or resent his presence, even when he leaned across the table to study the various objects there.
“I came to ask if you would like to go for a ride,” he said finally. “I see you are busy, however, and so we can postpone that. I also wished to ask—well, that also can wait. I am worried about John.”
“Oh?”
“Truly worried,” he said. “I know him; he does not like upsetting folk, and so I doubt he’s told you about certain distressing events—”
“Two unpleasant falls,” Lucinda said as he paused and looked at her inquiringly. “And Milady threw him into the stream. He might not have mentioned them, but the bruises were quite visible and he had to explain the limp.”
“He’s not told you everything,” Judah said quietly.
“Though I’d not heard of his horse. He was ill last week; they said bad shellfish, though no one else went sick of it. That, and—enough other unpleasantries that one begins to wonder what person or force John has offended of late.” He paused again; she shook her head and gestured to him to go on. “He would not appreciate my telling you; you know he thinks himself invulnerable and you both younger and female and so doubly useless. But, I thought—” He stopped speaking abruptly and Lucinda thought he was blushing; it was difficult to tell for his dark skin and the poor lighting. Oddly, she understood what he was trying to say.
“It’s all right. We’ve been friends for so long, Judah. You know about Mother’s—gift, don’t you?”
“Crafter blood,” Judah replied softly, and she heard the relief in his voice—relief, she thought, that he would not have to continue to toss heavy hints in her direction. “I was not certain if she used this place also. I knew of the workshop on your farm.”
“I didn’t know she’d told you.”
His color went a shade deeper. “About John,” he said finally, and very firmly.
“John,” Lucinda agreed, and found she was also relieved to get back to the subject, though she did wonder what Judah knew about Arabella’s previous workshop—and how he’d come by the knowledge. Snooping, likely. Children did, after all. She fumbled a button out of the pocket and explained what she had in mind. “If I can work the spell properly, he’ll be safe from anything short of a full coven’s joint displeasure, wearing the waistcoat or not. Though I do wish he weren’t so hidebound about such things,” she added angrily. “It would be much simpler to just protect John, without using a Contagion spell.” She ran a hand across her forehead, partly dislodging the no-longer-white kerchief, and sighed. “I must be too long out of practice, Judah my good friend, for I cannot even seem to find the concentration to complete preparations. I cannot concentrate on any of this at all, and indeed I cannot recall the last time I could.”
He turned to look at her, and for the first time unclasped his hands from behind his back. One touched her shoulder lightly, the other came to rest against her forehead. He leaned forward to peer at her rather anxiously. “How odd,” he said softly. “Until a moment ago, until you said that, I would not have thought you different at all. There is something wrong. Have you been ill?” She shook her head. “But that is wrong, for there was nothing like this when we last talked together.” He dug into his pockets, coming up with a much-folded piece of paper and a stub of charcoal which he rubbed to a point against one of the iron herb kettles. “Give me, please,” he said crisply, charcoal poised, “the date of your birth, your father’s and his new wife’s if you know them. John’s I have.”
She did. He set them down in an impossibly small hand given the medium he had for writing. Lucinda found herself suddenly sharply aware of him—the rather pleasant, warm smell of his skin, his intense eyes, the taut set of his shoulders. Somehow, it lent her an intensity of her own. Help him, she thought, and went in search of the box that contained powdered ink, horn, and several sharpened quill pens. She mixed ink powder with water from one of her new glass vials and pushed the horn of black liquid and a pen under his nose. He dropped the charcoal without looking up, mumbled an absent “thank you,” and continued to scribble. Numb
ers, more numbers, odd symbols filled the sheet; he waved it in the air to dry it, turned it over and continued to work until the back was covered with more symbols, numbers.
Gooseflesh crawled over her arms; she nearly exclaimed aloud. Cabala! Judah was working a numeric spell. Someone had spoken of it in her hearing just once, years before: it was a Jewish thing, a purely learned sorcery—unlike hers which was learned and inherent both. Or like Richard’s, requiring a pact with the Devil—How can you think of Richard at a time like this? she asked herself angrily.
He had stopped writing somewhere in the past moments and had gone around the long bench. He hesitated, long fingers clasping a squat, narrow-mouthed retort. “May I?” She nodded blankly, and came around to watch closely what he did. With the glassware in his hands, he suddenly became authoritative. “A hair, please.” He held out a hand. “From the root, if you will.” She separated one from under her kerchief, just above her ear, and laid it across his palm. He nodded, set it in a box of white, dry sand, and turned his attention to the boxes and bottles ranged in a shelved box behind him. She looked down at it in sudden dread, and wondered for one brief, wild moment if she could simply tell him to leave it alone. What is it I fear he will find?
“Have you rearranged these, or renamed them?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good. I believe I remember your mother’s system of organization, since it’s similar enough to my own.” He pulled a cloth bag from the bottom shelf, sniffed gingerly at the pinch of yellow powder he brought forth, nodded and dropped it in a beaker, adding an even darker yellow liquid from the bottle next to it. He handed it to her. “Place your palm over it, please, and shake it vigorously. Excellent. Pour it down the length of the hair now—” She drew a steadying breath and did as he told her. She cried out in surprise then, and nearly dropped the beaker: The sand under the hair was smoking; a thick curl of blue smoke rose and hung in the air above it. Judah took her hand in his, took the beaker away from her, and set it back on the bench. “Don’t be startled; the color will fade.”
The Crafters Book One Page 21
