“You’re invited, too, Susan. Oh, hey, you’d be the person to ask about this,” I said, glad to change the subject. I brought Oscar’s present out from a shelf under the counter. “What do you make of these?”
I tipped the manila envelope and sprinkled the labels onto the glass counter: Lilli Ann, Helga, Armani Privé, Molyneux.
Susan studied them and then lifted her expressive eyes to mine. “Fraudulent labels?”
“I think they might be originals,” I said. “Taken from authentic garments and sold over the Internet.”
“Wow, a Madame Grès!” Susan gasped. “Looks like an early one. I didn’t even know these existed! You think someone would seriously try to pass off a mass-produced dress as a 1940s-era Madame Grès?”
“There’s a sucker born every minute,” I said. “Tell me more about Madame Grès. I’ve heard of her, but can’t remember the details.”
“Gladly—usually folks try to get me to shut up about this sort of thing,” Susan said, and settled in to lecture. “Madame Grès was a French fashion designer from the 1930s. Her first love was sculpture, and she incorporated classical Greek elements in the way she draped material. She liked to construct the dresses directly on the models—celebrities such as Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo.”
“Imagine accidentally sticking Greta Garbo with a pin,” said Maya.
“I vant to be alone,” Bronwyn mimicked with a laugh.
“Sometimes she built bras and girdles into the dresses, which if you think about it is a fabulous idea,” Susan continued. “No foundation garments peeking up from the neckline, no falling bra straps, no tugging at underwear. All one piece, very glamorous.”
As often happened in Aunt Cora’s Closet, our talk had turned into an impromptu mini class on vintage fashion. Customers joined Bronwyn and Maya as they gathered around to listen to Susan.
“I saw a fabulous exhibition of her work at the Met in New York City not too long ago,” Susan continued. “They said her pleats were so carefully tailored that she could compress something like three yards of fabric into fewer than three inches of pleats. Not to disparage your wonderful store, Lily, but an original Madame Grès is extremely expensive, and her designs are found mostly in art and fashion museums, or private collections.”
“I wonder where these labels came from,” Maya said. “Why would someone rip one out of a valuable gown?”
“Sometimes they’re taken from lesser objects, such as scarves or even belts,” said Susan. “Or from ruined items. Not everyone fortunate enough to afford a Madame Grès appreciated what they had. But to sell labels like this, when their obvious purpose is to commit fraud . . .” She trailed off with a shake of her head.
“Who would do such a thing?” said one customer.
“That seems pretty sleazy,” said another.
“Where did you get them?” Susan asked.
“I, um . . . A friend of mine found them and bought them for me. A very well-meaning friend.”
Oscar glared at me, pink piggy eyes narrowed.
“When it comes to vintage clothing, it’s caveat emptor—let the buyer beware,” said Susan with another shake of her head. “Especially where expensive collectibles are concerned. Don’t spend much unless you’re sure of what you’re getting.”
Our little group examined the labels, groused and chatted a bit more, then dispersed. Susan and I were left alone at the counter while I gathered the labels and dropped them into the envelope.
“You should make those into a display,” Susan suggested. “Teach your customers about different designers and labels fraud.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’m just not sure when I’d find the time. I’m behind on laundry and steaming, I haven’t carved talismans in forever, and my garden’s in desperate need of tending. And I have to take that stupid test this Saturday.”
Susan smiled. “It’s good you’re taking it, Lily. All joking aside, I’m very proud of you. We all are. Hey, want me to take the labels and make a display?”
“Really? That would be just peachy. Thank you.”
“No problem. It’ll give me an excuse to do a little research on designer couture. Maybe I’ll write an article about it for the paper—my editor loves this sort of thing.”
“Hey, you do a lot of antiquing, don’t you?”
“Sure do. Why? You in the market for something in particular?”
“Not really. But are you familiar with Sebastian’s Antiques, off Jackson Square?”
“Sebastian’s? It doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”
“The owner of the shop . . . Sebastian Crowley . . . was found the other day, shot to death in Golden Gate Park.”
“Oh my Lord, what a terrible thing!”
Bronwyn left a trio of sisters in the communal changing room with a stack of bustiers and an armful of full peasant skirts. She came over to join us, shaking her head.
“Scary, isn’t it?” Bronwyn said. “Poor Lily found him, with Conrad.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
Even though we were discussing a tragedy, the two women were always so expressive that it made me smile. Then I recalled that I hadn’t finished looking through Sebastian’s log and wondered if it could tell me anything more. A cursory inspection had revealed mostly unintelligible symbols, but maybe if I stared at them hard enough I might recognize a name or a reference. It could happen.
The bell over the front door tinkled merrily as a customer left the store. Waving good-bye, I noticed a police cruiser—they call them “radio cars” here in San Francisco—roll to a stop in front of Aunt Cora’s Closet. I waved at the pair of uniformed officers to wait a moment, then brought them each a piece of the cake I had baked for Oscar’s birthday.
This did not please Oscar. Not only was he selfish with his baked goods; he also had an antiauthoritarian bent that made him suspicious of the police. As did several people in my orbit, now that I thought about it. Sailor, Conrad, Aidan . . . I should probably take some time to think about that soon.
I had already warned Maya and Bronwyn to be on the lookout, but I really doubted anything would happen during the day with people coming in and out. I decided I wouldn’t allow anyone to remain in the store alone, and I would ask Conrad to keep an eye out as well.
Much later, after closing Aunt Cora’s Closet, straightening the merchandise, and bidding good night and blessed be to Maya and Bronwyn, I set up a powerful protection spell at the front door. I was anxious to get upstairs and do the one thing I wanted—needed—to do: commune with that strange velvet cape.
At dusk I took a boline—the curved knife I used for gathering botanicals—hung a woven basket over my arm, and started collecting herbs from my terrace garden. Rue, agrimony, and devil’s pod for protection; juniper and wolfsbane and a bit of bleeding alder for concentration. Then I consulted my Book of Shadows. When I opened the big old red-leather-bound book, it had a musty smell that reminded me of Bart’s place. And, like his apartment—and Sebastian’s shop, for that matter—it was chock-full of what I thought of as treasures, but others might consider junk: recipes, techniques, articles, quotes, a few scratchy old photos.
As with any Book of Shadows, of course, spells and incantations filled most of the pages.
The parchment was soft with age and frequent turning. It had been my grandmother Graciela’s book for years before she gave it to me. From time to time a new spell would appear, or a quote I hadn’t remembered reading before. I could only assume that the Book of Shadows had a life of its own. If ever I had to run from fire, I imagined I would carry Oscar in one arm and this book in the other. I had many other items I would be sad to lose, of course, but only my familiar and this tome were irreplaceable. In stark contrast, my crystal ball—a stunning specimen with a gold base encrusted with jewels—I would happily consign to the flames. It was far more frustrati
ng than helpful in my unskilled hands.
Flipping through my Book of Shadows in search of anything referring to ancient curses, I happened upon a notation I didn’t remember seeing before. Written in Graciela’s spidery writing, it was suggestions for keeping a person tethered to the here and now. My grandmother always included a plant she called ongles de sorcière, or “sorcerer’s fingernails,” which Californians more commonly referred to as ice plant. In the Bay Area I had noticed it used as a drought-tolerant planting along freeways. Funny how a plant could be common landscaping material on the one hand and a powerful ingredient for brewing on the other. I should gather some next time I spotted it. In fact, if my Book of Shadows was suggesting it . . . perhaps I should plant some in my garden.
After full dark, the portals began to open more fully.
Oscar stayed close by, doing his witch’s familiar duty even while still grousing about somebody being too good for a little simple vintage fraud.
Ignoring him, I laid out a clean white cloth on the kitchen counter. On it I placed my athame, or spirit blade; a length of blessed rope; a kind of vinca known as Sorcerer’s Violet, and dried stalks of Verbascum dipped in tallow. I had already showered and washed with lemon verbena soap and wore an all-white ensemble. “Blanco o negro,” I could hear my grandmother saying in my head. “Black or white clothing. Color can disturb the energy of the spell.”
Using my ancient stone mortar and pestle, I methodically ground the herbs, blended them with the salt, and carefully drew a circle while reciting my incantations.
Finally, within the safety of the circle, and with Oscar at my side, I held the old velvet cape in my arms and felt for its vibrations.
They were there, reaching across the generations, across the centuries. Powerful, intense. Almost painful.
Finally, taking a deep breath and clearing my mind, I locked gazes with Oscar and drew the cape around my shoulders. With trembling fingers, I fastened the clasp at the neck.
Chapter 8
And just as before, I was back there. Wherever “there” was.
I tried to fight the panic that swept over me, my heart hammering and my breathing coming in harsh, labored gasps. Feeling out of breath, I was reminded of a recent, horrifying episode, when I was being “pressed” in the traditional torture for a witch. And yet another time, when I felt myself drowning in the bay.
Those moments of terror came back to me in an excruciating, steady stream, enveloping me in their twisted embrace.
I was witnessing a burning.
A woman was chanting as she stood atop the pyre, tethered tightly to a stake. Empty, black eyes. A smiling, mumbling mouth. She was strangely beautiful, but horrific. In fact, she looked a little bit like me, pale with long dark hair and strong cheekbones.
And she was staring straight at me. Deliverance . . . I could hear her in my head. Over and over, she was crying out: Deliverance.
And then the burning. I reached out toward the flames.
I felt agonizing heat on my fingers, scorching, the still-smoldering ashes being lifted and dumped into a box with symbols on it. I could see it all as though I were behind the camera. After a moment I realized it was me—I was the one collecting the ashes.
I inspected my hands. The pads of my fingers were charred and blistered. Ignoring the searing pain, I picked up the box filled with ashes and ran deep into the woods. But someone was chasing me, growing nearer. . . .
“Mistress!”
I awoke on the floor of my apartment, flat on my back, a worried gobgoyle standing over me.
“How long have I been out?”
“About half an hour,” he growled. “I started to worry, so I undid the clasp. Hope that was okay.”
As I sat up, the cloak slipped from my shoulders, pooling on the floor.
My fingertips still burned. I held them up. They were covered in ash.
“Gak!” Oscar pulled back, appalled. “What did you do? Don’t you know you should never bring anything back with you? Never. It’s very dangerous, mistress!”
“I didn’t mean to,” I said, awkwardly rising from my position on the floor without using my hands. Taking care not to touch anything with my hands, I brushed aside the line of herbs and salt with my foot to open the circle.
“Oscar, would you please fill my cauldron about a quarter full of spring water?”
He did as I asked, hauling my heavy iron cauldron onto the stove. I washed my hands carefully in the pot, watching as the ashes clouded the water and turned it a grayish white. When I pulled my hands out of the water and inspected my fingertips, I realized they weren’t actually burned. Despite bringing back ashes with me, I had merely dreamed the injuries.
Still . . . I’ve never had fingerprints. Those ridges so common to the rest of the world were missing on the pads of my fingers. When I was a girl the doctor had told my mother it was a known genetic condition called dermatopathia pigmentosa reticularis. But he also said I exhibited none of the other attributes common to that syndrome. Only the lack of fingerprints.
“That’s one heck of a cape,” said Oscar. “Where’d ya go?”
“I’m not sure. Somewhere they were burning witches. Could it have been . . . Salem, Massachusetts?”
“They hung witches in Salem, no burning.”
“True. So, I wonder what I was seeing?”
He shrugged. “Travel cloaks are like that. It’s always hard to tell where you are when you just drop in like that. That’s one reason I’ve never liked them.”
“Travel cloaks? What’s a travel cloak?”
He snickered and waved his big hand at me, as though I were making a joke.
“Seriously, Oscar. What’s a travel cloak?”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me. I thought you were textile sensitive.”
“I am. But lest we forget, I don’t know much.”
“Wow. Okay . . . here’s the deal: Travel cloaks are like, if you’re powerful, you put them on and go to a different dimension. You know, like when you crawl in a dumbwaiter.”
“In a dumbwaiter?”
He nodded.
“I’ve never crawled in a dumbwaiter,” I said.
“No? You should totally try it. There’s one at the Fairmont Hotel that’s awesome. Wanna go?”
“Maybe later. So just to clarify: You’re saying this is a magic cape of some sort. . . .”
He rolled his eyes. “Duh.”
“Bear with me for a moment, please. Will this cape take me just to one particular place, or anywhere I want to go? Is it just taking me along for the ride, or am I subconsciously directing it? How does it work?”
He cradled his head in his hands and spoke slowly and distinctly, as though to a child: “If a magical person has one made, then it’s for that person and they can use it to travel back to where they want. Only to places they’ve gone. They can’t change anything; they just witness it. But other people could put it on, and the only travel you can do is to the places the owner of the cape’s already gone. Like you have to use their ticket to ride, sorta. Unless you’re a familiar like me, of course. I got skills, so’s I can go anywhere I want.”
“And does a person actually travel? I mean, are you actually there, or is it a mental thing?”
He stared at me with his big green eyes. “Now you’re kiddin’ me, right? A person can’t, like . . .” He started to cackle. “What? Fly through the air? Like those pictures of witches on brooms? Hahahaha!”
I adore my familiar. I really do. But I was about ready to throttle him at the moment.
“I’m so glad I provide you with such amusement. Really, I am.” I decided to change the subject. “Hey, I have another question for you: Do you know anything about oak trees?”
“I’m not that big of a nature guy. I like it right here in our nice apartment, in the city.”
“I
wasn’t suggesting we live in one. I was wondering if oak trees were associated with anything, I don’t know, an evil of some kind.”
“Like the chained oak of Staffordshire?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The Earl of Shrewsbury, boy, he was a real piece o’ work. Anyway, he was mean to the wrong beggar one night, so the beggar says”—Oscar dropped his voice to be sinister and even more gravelly than usual—“‘For every branch on the old oak tree here that falls, a member of your family will die.’ And that very night, a big storm blew in, and one of the branches fell, and the earl’s brother died real suddenlike. The next day the earl ordered his servants to chain all the branches together to keep another one from falling.”
I was so entranced with Oscar’s story it took me a moment to realize that it really had nothing to do with what I was asking.
“I was thinking more along the lines of an oak that could, maybe, hold something evil within it?”
“Well, they’re famous for holding a grudge. They’re real avengers—that’s for sure—and they live a long time so they’re real patient when it comes to getting revenge. Like this one time in Somerset? Father and son weren’t respectful of the oaks and cut down a whole coppice.”
“Coppice?”
“Like a copse. A thicket o’ trees.”
I nodded and committed the word to memory. Just in case it came up on the vocabulary section of the GED.
“Anyhoo,” said Oscar, as though frustrated at my interruptions. “When the father and son went back in, after new growth had started, another tree dropped a big old branch right on ’em! When the youngest brother came to help, he could hear the trees rustling: They were talkin’ to him right then and there, warning him off.”
“And then?”
Oscar shrugged. “The youngest brother inherited the farm, and whenever he went past the great oak by the gate, he always asked permission to go into the forest, so trees never followed him or dropped branches on him and he lived happily ever after.”
“So your point is . . . ?”
“They’ve got long memories and are resentful as all get-out. Just ask the woodsfolk. ’Cept . . . on second thought, you’d better not. The Good People are . . . touchy. And if you touch their trees . . .” He shook his head and sucked in a loud, slow breath.
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 9
