In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

  “And this is one you might like: It’s called witch’s dust.” It was a kind of club moss. “Its oily yellow spores explode when ignited, casting a miniature fireworks. Sometimes stage magicians—or witches for hire—use it for effect.”

  “Cool! Can we try some?”

  “Some other time.”

  Weeds disposed of, plants trimmed and pruned, the greens put into my composter, I proceeded to feed the plants not only with the typical compost for the soil, but with sips of alcohol, sprinklings of powders, and dabs of enchanted oils, as I did my medicine bag.

  I whispered to them of my hopes, my dreams, my fears.

  Finally, feeling centered and confident, I turned my attention to my deadly, poisonous Hyoscyamus niger.

  Otherwise known as henbane, or devil’s eye.

  Chapter 13

  Henbane is a medicinal plant, but like most medicines, a tiny amount might help, while too much can hurt or kill. The “bane” refers to an Old English word for death. Apparently the plant did a real number on poultry.

  I studied the pale tube-shaped flowers. By themselves, a few of these in a corsage could not have made Miriam so ill. But if they were enchanted, or their intent mixed with the curse indicated by the needles I had seen… that would be a different story.

  “Henbane was Circe’s plant,” I said absently to Oscar. “She enchanted it and used a tiny bit in wine to change Ulysses and his men into swine.”

  “Heh. I like that one,” Oscar said.

  “Yes, I thought you might,” I said with a smile, stripping off my gloves and hanging my gardening apron by my little potting table. Wiping my hands, I held the door for Oscar, and we went inside.

  I pulled a thick Witch’s Guide to Poisons off a bookshelf crowded with sourcebooks and the classic novels I was plowing through, one by one, according to the reading list Maya had given me.

  Setting the book on the kitchen table, I brewed myself a cup of peppermint tea, sweetened it with clover honey, and started reading about henbane.

  Circe’s tale wasn’t the only one associated with the powerful plant. According to legend, the dead are crowned with henbane in hell. Its poison was poured in the ghost’s ear in Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Henbane was also used in Germany in medieval times—in minute amounts, I would wager—to enhance the inebriating qualities of beer. “Bilsen” is German for henbane, as in Pilsen. The ancient Greeks believed that people who ingested it became prophetic, and the priestesses of the Oracle of Delphi are said to have inhaled the smoke from smoldering henbane.

  According to the book, the active ingredient in henbane, scopolamine, is used in modern medicines to cure motion sickness and a long list of other complaints. I read: Scopolamine is a tropane alkaloid of the same group as those in jimsonweed and belladonna. Symptoms of overexposure include dry mouth, dry skin, fever, blurred vision, dilated pupils, rapid heartbeat, excitement, dizziness, delirium, confusion, headache… and death.

  I put the book down, feeling at a loss. Yes, henbane can be deadly and, yes, someone used it deliberately to harm Miriam. But nothing in this book was going to tell me the important parts of the mystery: who and why.

  I brought my Book of Shadows off the shelf and flipped through recipes that called for henbane. There were quite a few. But the one that caught my eye was called “The Curse of Briar Rose.” In it, henbane was combined with ointments and an evil charm to create memory loss and confusion; but if it wasn’t carefully calibrated, it could lead to stupor and coma, or even death. It was a complex ritual, requiring sacrifice and a good deal of power.

  Witch’s curses weren’t simply a matter of the right ingredients or combination of words; instead, they required the focus and conduits that some of us were born with and were then trained to control, while others strived to achieve them through study and practice.

  All of which led me to believe I was either looking for a natural-born amateur witch, or a highly trained, experienced practitioner.

  I wondered whether Aidan had found out what happened to Miriam. He was so much better connected than I, familiar with the local magical community—could he have discovered who cast the spell? The night of the ball he had promised me he would look into it. But, then, I had promised to stay out of it, and I guess I hadn’t quite kept that pledge, either. Still, I wanted to talk with him.

  With a jolt, I realized I had forgotten one very important task out in the garden.

  Once again I donned my apron and gloves. Kneeling and digging with care, I unearthed a mud-encrusted cigar box from beneath the potted lemon tree.

  Some time ago I had carved, bathed, and buried a section of mandrake root. Once the final steps were complete, it would be a mandragora, a kind of house elf. I didn’t understand why Aidan wanted one so badly—he never seemed to be in need of a companion beyond his cat. But I had promised to make one for him in exchange for his help in another supernatural matter, what seemed like years ago.

  I brought the nascent mandragora into the kitchen, unwrapped him, and set him on a clean cookie sheet I reserved exclusively for spells. Then I warmed him in the oven, surrounded by sprigs of lemon verbena.

  “I don’t like him,” Oscar growled as he followed me around.

  “No surprise there.”

  “I keep tellin’ ya, you don’t need more than one familiar. I’m your familiar. The one and only Oscar.”

  “I know that, little guy.” I smiled and squeezed his scaly shoulder. “This is for Aidan, remember? I promised it to him some time ago. If you get in touch with him and let him know his mandragora is ready, this little fellow won’t be with us long.”

  Once he was thoroughly warmed, I removed him from the oven, tucked the newborn little imp into his cigar box bed wrapped in black silk, and went to sleep secure in the knowledge that Aidan would be calling soon.

  * * *

  The next morning, I hung around Aunt Cora’s Closet, taking Maya up on her offer to run to Coffee to the People. I had shared leftover jambalaya with Conrad and Oscar for breakfast and made a smoothie for Conrad. I wasn’t ready to see Wendy yet, had no idea what to say to her.

  She might have overreacted last night, but at core she was right: I had misled the Unspoken coven. I had done the wrong thing.

  After Maya returned with our hot drinks, Bronwyn asked me: “Do you still want to go over to the hospital this morning?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” I said, embarrassed I had forgotten. I prided myself on an excellent memory, but I was running around so much lately I really should get myself an agenda. An old-fashioned one, made of paper. Somehow I couldn’t imagine me and a smartphone getting along.

  “Maya, can you handle the place on your own? We shouldn’t be gone long.”

  “I think I can manage the madding crowds,” she said, as we looked out onto a shop floor empty save for one woman quietly flipping through a collection of embroidered housecoats. “But don’t forget my mom’s coming in a little while to do the patternmaking deal.”

  Maya’s mother, Lucille, was a gifted seamstress who did repairs and alterations on the clothes that came in to Aunt Cora’s Closet. What she could accomplish with a needle and thread bordered on the miraculous. Not long ago, on a whim, Lucille used some leftover fabric to upsize a simple sheath to a size twelve, then added antique lace she had salvaged from a ruined garment. Before we could even hang it on the display rack, a customer pounced on it. Since then, Lucille had started deconstructing vintage garments that were falling apart, making patterns from them, and sizing them up.

  Today she was coming over to demonstrate her technique and to teach patternmaking. I had put up a few flyers inviting customers to come and learn. There was so much interest we had to limit the number of RSVPs to twenty-five.

  “I haven’t forgotten—I’m looking forward to it. I even made extra lemon bars to offer to folks.” Unless Oscar had scarfed them all down by now; I should probably check on that. “We’ll be back in time.”

  * * *

  We fo
und Duke much as we had last time, holding a fussy Luna to his chest and looking down at his comatose daughter with haunted, sad eyes.

  “Look, I’m sorry I sort of… At first I think I was sort of unfriendly when you mentioned you might be… that you believed in otherworldly things. I’ve never really been exposed to that kind of thing, except when Miriam told me she was studying witchcraft. Kind of freaked me out, to tell you the truth. But…” He trailed off with a shrug as he gazed at Miriam, still as death. Luna pushed at his chest and started to cry. “I’m willing to try anything at this point. It’s been only a couple of days, but the doctors are at a total loss. They’ve tried everything they can think of… . Nothing has helped. I’ll try anything. I can pay you.”

  “That’s not necessary, Duke,” I said. “I don’t work that way. If I can help, I will.”

  I laid another newly charged talisman on her bedside and said a quick protective chant.

  Bronwyn took Luna from Duke. The child’s cries ratcheted down to a whimper as Bronwyn jostled her, doing that little bouncy sway people tended to do when they held babies.

  The last time I was at San Francisco Medical Center was when Sandra Schmidt was laid low by a curse. And now I was here to see Miriam, also suffering from a hex.

  How did Sandra know Greta, the owner of Vintage Chic? I wondered. My rival shopkeeper’s reaction to Sandra seemed odd, but then everything about Greta seemed strange. Could she somehow be connected to all of this? I blew out a frustrated breath. At this point it seemed I was grasping at straws.

  “Miriam’s mother and I waited so long for a child, but she was never able to carry to term. We finally adopted a beautiful little girl, called her Miriam Rose. We couldn’t believe she’d be so lovely, so sweet. Such a good child.”

  Luna started to cry again, pushing away from Bronwyn.

  “You want to give it a go?” she asked me.

  “Um… sure.”

  Luna whimpered and reached out for me, so I took her in my arms. I breathed in her fresh baby scent. She was beautiful, her blond curly hair and blue eyes on a delicate face made her look like a Renaissance-era cherub. I looked down at her and she scowled up at me, but as long as she wasn’t crying we all breathed a sigh of relief. Amazing how a baby’s cry could jangle the calmest nerves.

  Luna had several Band-Aids on her chubby legs and arms, and I noticed a small bandage on the tip of Miriam’s finger as well. “What’s with all the Band-Aids?”

  “Luna’s are from the blood tests at the doctor’s office. Poor kid. And Miriam… It was just a splinter of some kind. I saw it when I was holding her hand—it looked a little inflamed, so I asked the nurse to dress it.”

  “Duke, does ‘pill mob’ mean anything to you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did Miriam speak any other languages?”

  “A little Spanish. Why?”

  “I thought I heard her speaking another language, something not English or Spanish.”

  He shook his head. Duke stood with hands on hips, a picture of exhaustion and frustration. His eyes were rimmed in red, his gray hair was tousled, his chambray shirt buttoned wrong.

  “What about the things you brought to Summit Medical Center, when Miriam was there?” I asked. “There was a comb and some homemade items?”

  “I took them home—they’re at her apartment. I’ve been staying there, since the baby knows it as home and all her stuff is there.”

  “Duke, I know this is going to sound strange,” I said, placing a hand on his arm. “But I really think I might be able to help if I could take a look at her things. Do you think we could go to Miriam’s place? Would you allow me to look around, see if I can find anything?”

  He looked at me, assessing, as though deciding whether he could believe me. I concentrated on sending out comforting vibrations.

  “You said you were willing to try anything,” I said. “I can help. I know I can. But you’ll have to trust me.”

  After another moment, he gave a curt nod.

  * * *

  Miriam’s apartment was on a quiet street in Noe Valley. She and Luna lived in the attic apartment of a graceful old Victorian that had been painted in shades of purple, lilac, and gold.

  Duke led us up two steep flights of stairs.

  “Well, at least she gets her cardio every day,” Bronwyn said as we arrived, winded, at Miriam’s door.

  The apartment was charming, sunny, and bright. The ceiling followed the crooked lines of the roof; there were window seats, flourishing potted plants, and a small fireplace. The walls were painted a soft pinky-white, and multicolored cushions adorned an old green velour sofa. Brightly colored paintings, goddess symbols, and pentacles adorned the walls.

  “Since the baby was born, I offered to have her move back in with me, but Miriam’s always been independent. We—” Duke cut himself off, shaking his head as he placed Luna on a blanket on the floor of the small living room. Upon being set down, the baby immediately started to wail. “I’m sorry to say that Miriam and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Her mother used to say we were too alike; that’s why we fought.”

  “Being a parent is never easy,” said Bronwyn. “But what counts is that you love her, and you’re there for her when she needs you.”

  “I hope it’s not too personal,” I began, “but where is Luna’s father? Is he part of her life?”

  Luna cried louder, sounding heartbroken. Duke seemed determined to ignore it.

  “He’s gone. He was bad news, took off before the baby was born. Miriam didn’t bother going after him… . Instead, she made a commitment to turn her life around. Started her own business, got serious. And then she met Jonathan, and he seemed like a good guy. He adored Luna. But…” He shrugged. “I dunno. I butted in, made things worse, I think.”

  “What did Miriam do for a living?” I asked, spying a paper-strewn desk with a computer set up with two screens.

  “She had her own graphic design business, was doing pretty good. Her teenage years were tough, but lately she’d really pulled herself together. Her mom passed when she was a sophomore, and I wasn’t always the best father—I might have been too strict. Maybe she rebelled.”

  Giving in to the inevitable, I picked up Luna. She tucked her head under my chin, snuggling in and quieting down, save for a long, shaky sigh and a hiccup.

  “She looks so much like Miriam did at that age,” said Duke, eyes on the baby. “The pediatrician couldn’t find a thing. They ran so many tests, took so many blood samples… . Poor kid’s like a pincushion. But, then, they couldn’t find anything with Miriam either, and look what happened… .”

  I wondered whether Grandpa Duke here, pragmatic man that he was, would allow me to perform my less than scientific diagnostic tests on the child.

  But for now I wanted to look around the apartment to be sure there wasn’t something obvious tucked somewhere… something like a curse.

  “Would you mind if I looked around?” I asked him.

  “Be my guest. Oh, could I offer you anything? I don’t have much here, but juice maybe? Tea?”

  “Tea would be lovely,” Bronwyn said. “But let me get it. You sit right down and keep me company.” Winking at me, she started opening cupboards to see what was available.

  The apartment was full of signs of pagan worship: pentagrams, lots of crystals, bundles of herbs hung upside down to dry. Rosemary, lavender. Simple stuff, nothing dangerous.

  One-handed, with Luna on my hip, I looked over the food in the refrigerator: butter, jam, leftover mac and cheese, expired milk, and organic yogurt. Nothing felt strange, no odd vibrations. Then I examined the cupboards—nothing there struck me as peculiar either.

  “Have you thrown out any food items since Miriam’s collapse?”

  “Nothing,” Duke said with a shake of his head. “I was thinking I should go through the fridge before garbage day, but hadn’t gotten to it yet.”

  I proceeded down a short hall.

  The apartment had onl
y one bedroom, but the baby’s crib was set up in an alcove off the bedroom. A mobile hung from the ceiling, and the walls had been decorated with cutout clouds and angels. I imagined Miriam cutting those out, applying them to the wall, humming a lullaby while she did so.

  I placed my free hand on Miriam’s neatly made bed and felt the vibrations I had sensed from her: vacant, scattered.

  I spotted the plastic bag from the hospital. Though the dress had been removed and hung up, her small purse remained. I pulled out her cell phone.

  And stared at it. Me and technology… we’re not exactly a match. If only little Luna here were a year or two older, she could probably show me how it’s done. I tucked it in my pocket—to get any clues from it, I was going to have to bring in a tech expert, like someone who owned a cell phone.

  That reminded me… . I didn’t have time to run back over to Oakland. And I wanted to hear what Jonathan Penn had to say about the corsage.

  I sat on Miriam’s bed and used the phone on the nightstand to call MJ’s Games.

  “Nah, man, I don’t know the first thing about flowers, or even which colors look good together,” said Jonathan. There was a lot of noise in the background, several young male voices. “Jonquil suggested I send something to make amends, so I just asked Anise to put something pretty together.”

  “You didn’t text her with a special request?”

  “No. I lost my phone that day.”

  “You didn’t ask for Hyoscyamus?”

  “Dude, what? I don’t even know what that is. I don’t know anything about flowers.”

  “Could someone have stolen your phone and used it?”

  “I guess…” I heard him saying something about the latest X-Men comic book to someone in the shop.

  “Jonathan? When’s the last time you remember seeing your phone?”

  “What? Oh, at drumming circle the night before. I really gotta go. The movies just got out and we’re swamped here.”

  I hung up and sat for a moment, thinking. Luna frowned up at me, and I smiled at her.