“The next two rings are composed of traitors to community and guests respectively,” she went on. “The fourth and final ring is reserved for traitors to benefactors. These poor souls are entirely encased in ice, their bodies twisted into inconceivable positions.”
Satisfied that Joseph’s thoughts wouldn’t be leaving her again any time soon, Abigail turned and strolled from his side. “Satan himself resides at the very center of these rings, frozen up to his waist where the lake of ice is at its thickest.”
Just then, the shrill ring of a chime somewhere beyond the classroom door signaled the end of the school day. Abigail wished her students a good evening as they filed from the room. While their gleeful echoes receded down the corridor, she was straightening the contents of her desktop when she became aware of a presence at her door. She looked over to find Robert Tunstall leaning against the doorframe.
“Dante’s poetry would seem to be a rather unusual study for boys their age, would it not?” the headmaster remarked. Dressed in clean, fall-front breeches and his usual cutaway coat, Tunstall looked far more composed than when Abigail had left him caring for his traumatized wife just three nights prior.
“On the contrary,” Abigail returned. “One is never too young to begin a study of classics such as Inferno. One never knows when such knowledge might prove useful. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Tunstall?”
Tunstall took her meaning immediately. “Ah, yes. Regarding our, ah... incident the other night. Mrs. Tunstall and I would appreciate your absolute discretion with regard to the details of what actually transpired.”
“Naturally. And I would expect the same from you. In my experience, people would be more likely to deem you insane than accept the truth of your story. It would be a shame to have the fine reputation of St. George’s Academy sullied with such an unfortunate matter as your commitment to a sanatorium.”
Tunstall gave a nod. “I believe we have an understanding.” He paused a moment to cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. Satisfied that they were alone, he lowered his voice. “Ms. Jacobs, might I enquire how exactly you came to be such an expert in your rather, shall we say... unique field?”
“You may not.”
“But... but you’re a schoolteacher, for God’s sake!”
“A schoolteacher only by day, as you’ve come to discover.” Abigail gave him an icy look as she pulled on her overcoat. “Will that be all, Mr. Tunstall? If so, I would like to be on my way. I’ve a recipe for a harvest chowder that I’ve been eager to try.”
“Actually Ms. Jacobs, there is one more thing. You have a visitor waiting to see you in my office.”
“A visitor?” Abigail’s spirits sank. The last thing she wanted was an impromptu meeting with one of her students’ overbearing fathers. At twenty-seven, Abigail was remarkably beautiful. Her face was the shape of a heart, with fine cheeks that stood high above a narrow chin. Her complexion was soft as morning snow and her eyes were as large and blue and luminous as stained glass. She had full lips that seemed perpetually pursed and her tiny nose dipped slightly downward like the petal of a daisy. She wore her honey-blond hair tied back in an elegant chignon, exposing her long and slender neck. Abigail’s beauty wasn’t lost on her and she often wondered if it wasn’t what inspired the frequent visits of her students’ fathers.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“She says her name is Emily Emmons.”
Abigail started at the name. “Emily?”
“She is an acquaintance of yours?”
Without answering, Abigail brushed past Tunstall and marched down the corridor to the headmaster’s small office. Throwing the door open, she found a slender brunette about her own age rising from a worn leather chair in front of Tunstall’s desk.
Emily Emmons gave Abigail a warm smile. “Hello, sister.”
Abigail stepped into the office and shut the door in Tunstall’s face as he appeared behind her. “Emily, what are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry for such an unexpected visit, but it couldn’t be helped. I fear something terrible has happened.”
“What is it?” Abigail asked with a prick of alarm. “Is it one of the boys?”
“No. It’s about Duncan.”
Chapter 3
Emily Emmons stood admiring the curious collection of books and paintings that Abigail kept on display in her parlor. It had been a short walk from St. George’s Academy in Boston’s wealthy West End to Abigail’s snug row house in nearby Beacon Hill. On any other evening, Emily might have savored the changing colors of the leaves, the earthy scents of autumn, the crisp touch of the evening air rolling off the Charles River. But her purpose in Boston had tied her stomach into knots. Despite the urgency of her business, she had spent most of the walk avoiding the subject, speaking instead of her two young sons who she had left in the care of their grandfather while she made the journey from Salem to Boston.
Now, the last pink and purple hues of a spectacular autumn sunset were giving the sky over to the shadows of dusk. Abigail had laid a fire and the dry wood crackled with a heartening glow as Emily glanced over Abigail’s collection. Astonished by the lifelike rendering of a snowy owl that hung above a bookcase, she took a closer look at the artist’s signature. Despite the rare quality of the work, it was by some unknown artist named John J. Audubon.
“Many of those items are gifts from past clients,” Abigail said as she laid a pewter tray laden with apple tarts next to a matching teapot on her parlor table. “I’m often willing to forego my usual fee in favor of an unusual piece that strikes my fancy.” Taking a seat in a plush chair across the room, she gazed intently at her sister. “Now... perhaps you had better start from the beginning.”
“I suppose I don’t really know where the beginning is anymore,” said Emily. “You and I have hardly spoken since you left Salem.” Plucking a book from a shelf, she examined the title: Sense and Sensibility. She wasn’t surprised that she had never heard of it; the author was simply A Lady. Beyond the cover, there was an inscription: Dearest Abigail, With eternal gratitude. Jane.
“Start with what has happened since I saw you last.”
“Eight years ago?” Emily returned the book to the shelf and took her seat while Abigail poured her tea.
“Has it really been so long?” Abigail wondered aloud. “Yes, I suppose it has.”
Emily sipped her tea, an exotic blend that mingled sweet hints of vanilla with an infusion of cinnamon and some unusual spices that she couldn’t quite identify. “Well, you will recall that map-making has always been one of Duncan’s passions.”
“Of course. Along with geology, astronomy, entomology and any other number of scholastic pursuits. Your husband was precocious even when we were children.” Instead of pouring a tea for herself, Abigail went to a sideboard and poured herself two fingers of whiskey from a crystal decanter. “Go on.”
Emily tried not to stare at the glass in Abigail’s hand as she returned to her seat. “A little over a year ago, Duncan made the decision to pursue an earnest study of cartography. Nine months later, he was hired by the Witherbee & Rand Logging Company to survey the areas surrounding Tahawus, the company’s largest lumber camp in the mountains of northern New York. ‘Tis a dreadful land; remote and wild and infested with savages. But the timber is plentiful and they are compensating Duncan well for his work.” A tremor crept into Emily’s voice. “But I fear something terrible is going on out there, Abby.”
“What is it?”
For a moment, Emily couldn’t answer. She just sat, staring into her tea while her slender thumb plucked nervously at the delicate cup handle.
“Emily?” Abigail pressed. “What has happened?”
At last, Emily looked up. “Over the past month, three men have committed suicide.”
“Three in one month?”
Emily gave a somber nod. “Each ventured into the forest alone and took his own life for no apparent reason.” She shook her head. “Something evil is at work in those woods.”
Abigail’s expression grew skeptical. “Emily, we mustn’t jump to conclusions. The paranatural must always be our last assumption when all other natural possibilities have been eliminated. As dreadful as these deaths may be, there could be any number of rational explanations. You described it as a harsh and inhospitable land; ‘tis entirely possible these men simply couldn’t withstand the strain of their isolation.”
“No, there’s more to it,” Emily insisted. “There was something horrible about the way each man died, some circumstances that don’t even seem possible.”
“Such as?”
Emily frowned and sighed. “Duncan spared me the details in his letters. But I am convinced this is a matter for someone with your, ah... expertise.”
“You mean a witch?”
“No!” Emily nearly spilled her tea. “Abby! That isn’t really what you call yourself, is it?”
Abigail shrugged as she drained the last of her whiskey and rose to pour herself another. “If we are being precise, I am a necromancer. I engage in arcane rituals to conjure and commune with the dead. Four hundred years ago, I would have been tortured and burned alive. Little more than a century ago, our own countrymen would have hanged me. You may call me a paranaturalist if it makes you more comfortable, but the ancient art of witchcraft is at the heart of all that I do.”
Emily struggled to hide her discomfort. “At any rate, I’m worried about Duncan. At first, he was thrilled at the opportunity he’d been afforded. Duncan has always had a longing for grand adventures. But lately, his letters have become brooding and melancholy. There are times when he even seems frightened—and it’s not like him to be afraid, not after what happened to the three of us as children.” Draining the last of her tea, Emily laid her empty cup on the table. “I know Duncan would never ask for your help personally, not after...” She left her thought hanging in the air.
“After what?”
“We both know how he felt about you, Abby.”
Abigail stiffened. “Emily, I—”
“’Tis quite alright, Abby. We needn’t speak more of it. What matters now is that our family needs your help. Something is driving good men to kill themselves in those mountains and my husband is up there with them. You’re the only one who can help him.”
“Forgive me, Emily, but I don’t see how.”
“By doing what you’ve been doing all these many years: hunting down this evil and putting an end to it!”
There was a long silence while Abigail appeared to think it over. The shadows were growing longer in the failing twilight and the fire needed tending, but she made no effort to see to it.
“I’m truly sorry, Emily, but it is quite impossible,” she said at last. “I’ve my classes at St. George’s to attend to and there are more than enough hauntings here in Boston to keep me occupied. All Hallows’ Eve is approaching and—”
“And you would rather risk your life saving strangers than help your own family? You’ve risked your life countless times for far less! For something as trivial as a drawing or a book of poetry!” Emily waved a hand around the parlor. “Why then, are you resisting now? Is it because of Duncan? I’ve made my peace with what happened between you both years ago. Haven’t you?”
Again, Abigail fell silent and her face remained unreadable.
Emily’s eyes drifted over the fresh apple tarts sitting on the tray and she realized she had lost her appetite. Finally, she broke the silence. “Abby, ever since Father took you in as a child, I have never seen you as anything but my sister. Not my adopted sister but my true sister. After what happened to us that All Hallows’ Eve...” Her words trailed away and a moment passed before she found them again. “I’ve never held it against you that you hardly respond to my letters, or that you didn’t come home to pay your respects to Father when Aunt Clara died, or that you’ve never even met your own nephews. I don’t know what it was that made you leave us behind, but ever since we were children, I’ve asked for nothing from you but your love. I’m asking you now for your help, Abby—I’m begging you for it. Please, we’re all the family you have. Don’t turn your back on us.”
Emily felt tears springing to her eyes and she wished Abigail would comfort her.
But Abigail didn’t.
“There’s something evil about those woods. I can feel it.” Emily’s whisper cracked. “You must believe that I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely certain that Duncan’s life was in danger. I’m so very afraid of losing him, Abby. I’m so very, very afraid...”
As Emily gave way to sobs, Abigail’s heart finally seemed to soften. “Alright, Emily. I will help you. But there is one thing we must do first.”
Chapter 4
The old house at the end of the lane echoed with the sound of children’s laughter. Abigail stood by the kitchen window and watched as her two young nephews chased each other across the yellow meadow behind the barn. Their gleeful shrieks floated on the warm autumn breezes. Emily had brought a chair outside from the kitchen to enjoy the mellow September sunshine. Watching her with her sons, Abigail was forced to admit there was part of her that envied her step-sister. Late at night, when her muscles ached and her flesh was bruised and her mind was numb from the strain of holding the lives of others in her hands, Abigail sometimes dreamt of nothing more than a life of safety and comfort; a life spent with a husband and children of her own.
But of course, none of that was possible now. How could she involve a man in a life such as hers? How would she tell her children that she spent her nights fighting monsters while they slept?
“’Tis a lonely life you’ve chosen for yourself, isn’t it?”
As if reading her thoughts, a deep voice behind her gave Abigail a start. She turned to find Jonas Hobbes watching her from the kitchen door. For a moment, she had the strangest sensation of being transported back eight years. She was nineteen again and her adoptive father had stood in that very spot on the day she had announced she was leaving Salem for Boston.
She hadn’t seen him since.
The years in between had been good to Jonas. His breeches were stretched a little tighter around his waist, but otherwise he was still the same tall and brawny man who had come to Abigail’s rescue on that terrible All Hallows’ Eve twenty years ago. He had let his beard grow long since she had last seen him. It was now full and dark except for some gray streaks at his chin and temples. Despite the appearance of a widow’s peak above the deepening lines of his forehead, he still kept his hair long and tied in a ponytail behind his neck. There were crows-feet around his eyes now, but otherwise they were just as dark and languid as Abigail remembered.
She gave him a thin smile before returning to the window. “I didn’t choose this life,” she murmured, skillfully deflecting his question. “It was thrust upon me when my parents were taken from me.”
And yet, part of Abigail knew there was some truth to Jonas’ remark. She had to admit her life was lonely, sometimes unbearably so. Given the path she had chosen as a ghost-hunting witch, relationships were cumbersome. She had long ago found a way to cope with the loneliness, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell Jonas of the taverns by the docks she often frequented or of the sailors she sometimes met there. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her promiscuity, only that she knew the revelation would break the kind man’s heart.
“And this is how you honor your parents?” Jonas moved across the kitchen to fill a kettle and stoke the fire in the stove. “Risking your life at every turn?”
“I don’t require your approval for the life I lead,” Abigail shot back with a rising edge in her voice. “And I needn’t be reminded that my mother sacrificed herself so that I might live to become what I am today. She died saving me and that is exactly how I have chosen to honor her memory: by saving others.”
“’Tis an insult to her memory, is what it is,” Jonas muttered.
Another angry retort sprang to Abigail’s tongue but she bit it back before it could escape. “I didn’t come h
ere for an argument, Jonas.”
Jonas flinched imperceptibly at the pronouncement of his name and Abigail knew she had stung him. Ever since he had taken her in as a seven-year old, he had never expected her to call him Father. She had been old enough to remember her own father when he died. But after all these years, after all he had done for her, it still smarted to know she hadn’t warmed to him enough to see him as anything more than Jonas.
“Then what did you come here for?” he grumbled.
Abigail’s eyes wandered back out the window to the boys playing outside. “I decided it was time that I met my nephews.”
“Why now? After all these years?”
“Because I am fully aware that I may not return from this journey. If that should be the case, I wanted to finally meet them and...”
“And what?”
“And to say goodbye to you.”
“Oh, now don’t talk like that, Abby.” Jonas’ tone softened. “What is it that has you so spooked? Why go at all, for that matter? ‘Tis an awfully long journey just to set your sister’s mind at ease.”
“Because if I do nothing, those two boys out there could be left without a father. If there is even the slightest chance that Duncan’s life is in danger...” Abigail shook her head. “This family has seen enough loss and I may be the only one who can stop it from happening again.”
“That’s ‘naught but nonsense and you know it,” Jonas huffed. “If Emily is so afraid for Duncan’s safety, then he should come home and be with his wife where he belongs.”
“Oh? Is that what you would have done?” Abigail heard the words escape her lips and instantly regretted them. Twenty years ago, Jonas’ own ambitions had nearly cost Emily her life. He had been living a life of atonement ever since, giving up his career as the first mate on a prosperous merchant ship for a menial job in a chandlery shop so that he would never be away from his daughter again.
The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2) Page 2
