“My hand!” Lucinda gasped. The palm had turned a deep, horrid blue where the liquid had touched it. She was shivering violently; Judah wrapped his arms around her shoulders and she leaned back into him, grateful for the warmth of his woolen shirt.
“It will fade,” he said again, reassuringly. “It tells us what I feared, however; someone has enspelled you, Lucinda.”
She twisted around so she could look up at him. “Enspelled me? But why? And for what gain?”
“Anything is possible, though I suspect it was to keep you from this chamber, from using your talent. For I saw nothing untoward in you until I came into this hut. As to why, I cannot yet tell. That will take more effort on my part and yours both, and only if you wish to know. As to who, however—stand very still.” He dipped both index fingers in the yellow liquid and touched them simultaneously to her temples.
Lucinda shut her eyes and swayed. She felt as though someone had torn a thick comforter from around her. Someone had put a spell on her, a very selective spell that had damped her magic—not only the talent itself. She had been blind to other things related to it: her illness after Richard’s death, her mother’s illness. Those last moments in Richard’s company . . . There was something unclean about all of it, something that went beyond Richard’s talk of covens and altars. She glanced swiftly at Judah and pushed that thought away from her; it made her feel fouled; he must not know of that! But for the rest, there was a blanket of magic over all of it. When had she last thought so clearly, unless it was an ordinary thing such as dinner, or what color thread to use in her sampler, or whether to buy new slippers?
Judah touched her shoulder lightly and indicated the blue smoke which still hung before her. There was movement there: tiny, distant figures. She could not tell where they were, when, who—except for one. She herself had said it so often: she would always know Elizabeth. “What does it mean? Can you see what I see also?” she asked Judah, her eyes still fixed on the smoke. She sensed rather than saw him shake his head. Suddenly, she knew what he had done, what he had used to strip Elizabeth’s spell from her; how to enhance his magic with her own. “This vision is too faint; let me.” She moved around him and began taking items from the cupboard, rapidly mixing half a dozen seeds, a tiny pinch of the yellow powder, a foul-smelling clear liquid from a small brown clay jug. “Stir it with your smallest finger.” He did; she took it to stir herself, turned her gaze back to the smoke.
It had dissipated slightly, but that merely made a larger space for what the malodorous liquid now showed them: a group of thirteen black-clad people—hooded and cloaked, all; it was impossible to make out sex, age, or any other feature. The amorphous shadow of a fourteenth in their midst cast a darkness over them all. It faded, most of the circle faded, until only two remained. Lucinda was not at all surprised when one flung back his hood to reveal Richard Coucy’s handsome, once-beloved face. Nor was she any longer surprised when his sister Elizabeth tilted her head back to look up at him, letting her own hood fall back. “Witch,” she whispered.
“I wondered,” Judah said quietly. “But I also wondered why you showed no sign of distress in her presence.”
“But why has she done this to me?” Lucinda poured the liquid into the sand; the single hair sizzled, leaving behind the smell of burned hair and rapidly fading smoke.
“To avoid detection?” Judah shrugged. “But why against John?”
“She cannot—” Lucinda stopped abruptly. It was foolish to say Elizabeth could not be plotting against John for some unknown reason. And she remembered that quarrel between Aunt Bet and Arabella: someone feeding her mother a dose. “Oh, dear God,” she whispered and bent over the table. Judah spun her around and held her close; she leaned into him for comfort and warmth. “Dear friend, how can I thank you?”
He laughed—a rather odd laugh, she thought, for there seemed to be little humor in it. “Ah, well. Friends—they need not thank each other. Lucinda, pull yourself together; someone is corning.” She shivered and squared her shoulders; Judah let his hands fall and gestured for her to precede him away from this corner of the little hut. There was movement along the path, familiar, light footsteps coming toward the herbarium, and then Elizabeth’s shadow filling the doorway.
“Here you are!” she exclaimed, and stepped gingerly into the little hut. “What a dreadfully thick smell, Lucy dear! I had thought you might accompany me to the glover’s, I want new gloves to match my gray gown for the Governor’s party, and—ah, Mr. Levy, I did not see you.” She inclined her head in a rather cool fashion. “Perhaps you would care to drive us both?”
“It would please me,” he replied. “But I came only to speak to Lucinda a moment. And to give her this.” He turned back and slipped something cool over Lucinda’s left hand. She held it to the light and caught her breath: a silver cuff bracelet, very plain except for the ropelike twisted gold wire framing it clasped her wrist. “I hope you will have it as a betrothal gift,” he added. “It belonged to my father’s mother. Of course, I must speak with your father, Lucinda. But since we have known each other so many years, it seemed only right that I give this to you beforehand, and to make certain that you were not averse.”
“Ohhhh. It is lovely, Judah.” Had he chosen such a moment deliberately? she wondered. Either to distract Bess—or perhaps to assure that she would not flatly refuse him? But that last was surely an unworthy thought. We are friends, she reminded herself. Even if I do not wish to marry anyone. . . He turned away from Elizabeth and gave Lucinda a warning look; his lips framed the words: Go with her.
“How very exciting,” Elizabeth said. She didn’t sound at all excited. “And how sudden! My husband will be at home this evening, Mr. Levy, should you care to speak with him then.” She took another step into the herbarium. “So this is Arabella’s workshop. The air is quite stuffy; it would give me a terrible headache. Of course, I prefer my distillations ready-made; the preparation is so hard on one’s hands. And there is always the chance of accident.” Her eyes slid sideways to meet her stepdaughter’s. “Don’t you agree? You must be careful indeed, Lucinda. I should hate for any accident to befall you.”
“I am always careful,” Lucinda replied, She managed a faint smile; Elizabeth’s words seemed suddenly quite ominous, full of various unpleasant meanings.
“I am so fond of you, Lucy dear, it would be terrible if you were as prone to accident as your poor brother.” She dabbed at her cheek with the back of one hand. “Or my own.”
“Oh,” Lucinda said evenly, “I am not nearly so adventurous as either of them, Bess.” She held out a hand. “Come, I’ll go with you. It is much too warm in here, and 1 am certain you will never find a decent match for your gray gown without me.” She somehow managed not to shudder as Elizabeth’s fingers closed over hers, but turned and held out her other hand to Judah. The bracelet shone warm in the afternoon sun. “I shall expect you this evening, Judah. You are certain you cannot come with us just now?”
He smiled, shook his head. “I need to discuss certain matters with Father, and that entails a ride out to his farm. I’ll lock up for you here, shall I?” She met his eyes, nodded. They understood each other, he and she: he would first remove Arabella’s book to safekeeping.
The silver cuff was heavy, but a reassuring presence against her wrist. She doubted it bore any spell—there was none she could sense at any rate. Her mind was busy as she followed Elizabeth: he must have planned this, else why carry the bracelet? Did he love her? But that was no true basis for marriage, was it? Common sense ruled Judah’s actions; common sense and practicality. Well, she was a practical person herself, these days. Herself and Judah—perhaps. They were friends. More importantly, they had worked like a well-ordered team this afternoon. It would be nice to have such a partner.
It would silence Andrew—who spoke increasingly of a desire to see his daughter wed; and it would remove her from Elizabeth’s domain.
She eyed her stepmother sidelong as they settled into the small carriage and James set the horse moving toward the shops. Why had Bess done this to her? To keep her stepdaughter from knowing she had been part of that coven? But, then, why John?
All the same, she did not like the little smile on Elizabeth’s lips, and she wondered she had never before noticed the expression in Elizabeth’s eyes. Like her brother’s, they promised mischief.
* * *
Judah came that evening; at the end of a late supper, she found herself a betrothed young woman, with a marriage to take place in early autumn, and with what seemed to her a tidy dowry indeed, a dowry that included the farmhouse she’d grown up in, with a portion of its land to adjoin the land given Judah by his father. It would help support a wife; even a full professor made very little money, and Judah was some years from such a position.
She had a few minutes alone with him that evening, between the door and the gate where he’d left his mount. “Your mother’s book is safe. I took the liberty of removing it and other of your stores to her room on the farm, since it will be yours. Remember to search your bed for anything Elizabeth may have put there. The protection I gave you this afternoon will not last long if she has put a Contagion spell on you. You are certain you do not object to marrying me?” Suddenly, he looked so uncertain, so young and worried, her heart turned over; she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
“Oh, Judah. How could I possibly mind? We have been friends for so long. How many who marry can say that?”
“If that is all—”
“It’s better than merely love,” she replied. “I know. Don’t look so downcast, Judah. Perhaps the two things together, love and liking—”
“I see,” he said quietly; he smiled and his fingers tightened on hers. “It’s something to think about, isn’t it? Remember what I said, about your bedding.” She nodded; she had already folded the rose and blue coverlet away and put it in the box-room. “We’ll speak tomorrow. Tell your father I want to take you out to see Grandfather. Father has no objections, but Grandfather is not entirely certain I should choose a bride from among the goyim.” He smiled again. “Forgetting as he does that I myself am one, by conversion. But he has always liked you, Lucinda.” She nodded again; he leaned over to kiss her forehead, and was gone.
* * *
He was late the next morning, and grave-faced when he arrived. Lucinda was waiting for him at the front gate. “Elizabeth went to the wharves with Father; she’s awaiting a box of fabric from England. I’d hoped to be gone before she returned.”
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. John’s laid up with fever. The doctor thinks it not serious.” He handed her onto the horse’s withers and climbed into the saddle.
“Fever,” Lucinda echoed. She clasped her hands about his waist as the horse started down the street.
“I think” —Judah turned to glance back at her before he urged the horse to a faster walk—”that you had better prepare those buttons right away. Grandfather is not actually expecting a visit right away. The workroom at the farm is dusty but everything is in place. I saw to that much yesterday. I hope you’ve no objection to my simply arranging these things?”
“None,” she replied as he hesitated. “You anticipated me, and I am glad for it. I shall feel much safer away from town and Bess.”
“The buttons . . .” he began. She freed a hand to delve into her pocket, and held one up in front of him. “I brought them. You said everything was at the farm, and I hoped you would mean for us to use it today.”
There wasn’t much conversation after that: Judah concentrated on riding as quickly as he dared down the narrow and rather rough-cut path that led to the old Greene and Levy farmsteads, while Lucinda concentrated on keeping her seat—no easy task, seated sideways on a rough-gaited beast, with no platform for her feet. We will need a cart, if not a carriage, she thought. At the very least, they might get a proper pillion seat for her.
* * *
The farmhouse was old, all a single room, taken up at one end by an enormous fireplace and two high-backed settles, and at the other end by a huge bed. Improvements had been made during the years when she was growing up here, however: a ladder near the bed led up to a narrow loft, windows with aging oilpaper flanked the main door; and there was a window made of two dozen tiny diamond-shaped glass panes (she’d counted them as a child) next to the bed. A door next to the fireplace went into the barn and wood storage; another in the back wall led to a scullery and, beyond it, a low-ceilinged, windowless room with a beaten dirt floor. Judah had scattered fresh-cut grass to keep down the dust, and there were two oil lanterns to illuminate the tall workbench. Boxes, bags, vials, oddly shaped containers lined the far wall. Her fingers closed about a familiar one: an eight-sided box with richly carved sides. Inside was Willow’s globe. She’d wondered when she was a child whether the sprite was contained in it, or merely drawn to it once it was opened. Her mother had given her some long and confusing reply that made no sense at all, and she still didn’t understand. She drew the box from the shelf and set it on the bench; perhaps once the real work was done, she’d open Willow’s box, and introduce the sprite to Judah. They would need to know each other.
Another bench to one side held a cupboard—the very cupboard from her mother’s city herbarium, Lucinda realized. A place had been scrubbed clean for Arabella’s book, and she warmed to Judah again for such thoughtfulness. The glassware alone was largely unfamiliar.
“Some of it is mine,” he said when she touched a wooden rack of slender glass tubes and looked a question. “And some here when I came.” He stepped back and drew up a stool. “Will you mind if I watch?”
“Please,” she said. He smiled and braced open the door between the house proper and the scullery, to provide daylight and fresh air, then seated himself at the end of the bench. She had already shed her gloves and pressed her sleeves up, one hand questing for the narrow-waisted bottle that held the main ingredient for her spell. She laid the brass buttons in the fold of the book. “Particularly if you don’t mind sharing the work with me once again.”
“I—of course.”
“Then, if you’ll make a flame for me, I’ll begin at once.”
* * *
She worked in silence for the next hour, vaguely aware of his interested gaze, of growing warmth that was partly the little oil burner that set a nasty-looking liquid to boil and partly midday sun beating down on the low roof, partly a growing inner warmth that was, she finally decided, purely pleasure in his quiet company. He made no attempt to amuse her, did nothing to distract her—he was there when she needed him. Twice, he neatly anticipated her need for things—tongs, to pull the glass tube from its metal brace and away from the burner; a cup of chilled well-water to cool it in and another for her to drink. He held the tube upright while she dropped the buttons into it, one at a time. She finally took the tube and held it up to the light coming through the doorway, sighed with relief. “They are absorbing it; good. I hadn’t been certain—but when the liquid is gone, the buttons will carry a full spell, and I’ll sew them on the waistcoat tonight. But I brought a scrap of cloth to make a small herb sleep pillow for him.”
Judah nodded approvingly. “Very sensible. He may not feel well enough to wear the waistcoat for some days.”
“What a pity,” came a sweet voice from the doorway, “that he will not receive either gift.” Lucinda nearly dropped the tube as she whirled around; only Judah’s steadying hand kept it from sloshing precious liquid. Elizabeth stood in the scullery, leaning against the open doorway and blocking the light. There was a sulfurous odor that accompanied her—faint but strong enough to overcome the liquid soaking into John’s brass buttons. “It really is a pity; I have nothing personal against John, or you. Even though I know John does not truly like me.” She sighed, rather dramatically. “But there it is. Andrew is a wealthy man, but divide that betwe
en you and John and me, and it would not be much wealth at all. I do intend to present him with children and I should truly hate to see them grow up poor.”
“Andrew’s wealth is not static,” Judah said, when it became clear Lucinda was incapable of speech. “Given a few years, he will certainly replace what he gives his daughter as a dowry, or his son to start a household. And John has no plans yet to wed.”
“You killed Mother, didn’t you?” Lucinda said suddenly. “You killed Mother, because of Richard.” She was aware of Judah staring at her but her whole attention was for her stepmother—for Bess, and to keep herself from moving. If she touched the woman in this moment, she might murder her. If she could touch her at all, of course.
Elizabeth sighed again. “Richard wanted you. Not simply for your, let us say, purity, though that initially figured in the matter. He had been ordered to perform a full Mass, and once I was fully initiated, there were no more virgins in our circle. And as he surely told you, it is difficult to know when a young lady is a virgin, and when she merely says so. Our Master does not like it at all if he is thwarted—or cheated. Richard also liked the idea of your father’s wealth, though he did well enough with his own funds, and he was an excellent gambler. He did find you attractive, if that matters to you.”
“It might have, once,” Lucinda said.
“Yes.” Elizabeth cast Judah a chill glance. “Well. Unfortunately, Arabella was a problem; she distrusted him from the first, and he was obliged to use a potion to dull her magic—you’ll know about that, of course, won’t you? And then, when she discovered it, as we knew she eventually would— Well, we underestimated her.”
The Crafters Book One Page 22
