But I will sing of thy power; yea, I will sing aloud of thy mercy in the morning: for thou hast been my defence and refuge in the day of my trouble.
Unto thee, O my strength, will I sing: for God is my defence and the God of my mercy. Psalm 59: 16–17
While the Reverend was singing, Beatrice was sleeping.
It’d taken all her strength to keep her wits about her through his questions, his accusations, his manic declarations of victory. By the time he’d left her, she was as certain of his madness as he was of her new faith. Hoping that things might turn her way, she’d taken up the thread she’d hidden in her bed and woven a single hair around it to complete the witch’s ladder and its spell. “Freedom” was what she’d wished for, the final word she’d spoken before she’d tied the last knot. One could hope, one could pray, one could wish.
The Reverend had promised to bring her food when he came back tonight and perhaps fresh clothes and a warm bed tomorrow, if all continued to go “according to plan.” She didn’t know what his plan was, and she’d been too weak, too exhausted, too afraid to ask. She’d thought if she could eat something to get her strength up and then just make it through the night, then maybe she could come up with an escape plan of her own. She’d tried her best to stay awake, but once she lay down, her eyes had soon closed.
—
“Wake up,” Lena called to Beatrice. “He’s coming soon!”
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Beatrice looked about the gloomy cellar and was met with a sight that made her think she was still dreaming. A great circle had been dug into the dirt in the middle of the floor, with a five-pointed star scratched inside it. A string of strange words was etched across the stone wall in black: Titan gan eire ort.
Lena whispered in Beatrice’s ear, “ ‘May you fall without rising.’ It’s a curse!”
“Why did you do this?” Beatrice hissed, fearing how Reverend Townsend would react.
“You cast your spell,” Lena said. “I cast mine.”
Hearing heavy footsteps on the stairs, she scrambled on hands and knees to wipe the circle and the star from the dirt.
The Reverend came through the door singing, carrying a tray of food. As soon as he caught sight of the wall, the floor and Beatrice, he threw the tray—plates clattering, oysters tumbling into the muck. The pitcher broke where it landed, spidery fingers of milk streaming forth, filling the points of the star. “You foul creature!” he shouted at Beatrice. “How dare you deceive me!”
Beatrice crept forward to grab the edge of his coat. “I swear I didn’t do this. I woke to find it here. I was trying to get rid of it.”
The preacher knocked her sprawling. “All I see is the Devil’s work and a girl with the heart of a harlot.”
Beatrice backed out of his reach, afraid he’d strike her again. “This isn’t what it seems, and you don’t know my heart.”
He came at her, forcing her against the wall.
“Please,” she begged. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Seething, he kicked her shins. Then, as she crumpled to the floor, the small of her back, her gut.
“Mercy…” she whimpered, hugging herself. “Have mercy on me.”
He began pacing as if he was the one who was trapped, muttering to himself and his Maker. “I thought she was the one. I thought she’d seen the light. Guide me, oh Lord, in what you would have me do…”
Beatrice shut her eyes, trying to keep from sobbing.
Kicking the tray across the room, Townsend stalked out of the cellar and bolted the door behind him.
Lena flew to Beatrice’s side. “He means to kill you! He’s gone to get the knife.”
“Leave me alone,” Beatrice said, crawling to the broken pitcher to upend what little milk was left into her mouth. She hurt everywhere, and yet she was so hungry. Spotting a single, intact oyster, she brought it to her lips and sucked out the meat.
“That shell’s sharp, you know,” Lena said. “Sharp enough to cut a man’s throat.”
Running her finger along its edge, Beatrice tried to picture herself attacking the Reverend. “I could never manage it,” she admitted to herself as much as Lena, and it was then that she gave way to tears.
“Slit your own, then,” Lena urged, “before he can do it. We’d be together, you and me…two ghosts against him.”
The preacher’s voice wafted down from the room above, angrily mumbling, likely praying, making it even harder for Beatrice to think. Among the spoiled food and shards of china sat Reverend Townsend’s clay pipe, its bowl full of tobacco still gently glowing. Picking it up, Beatrice looked for a place to hide it. No matter what happened, at least she would’ve taken something from him.
The Fires of Saint Clarus. Each year, come summer, the people of La Haye-de-Routot, a small village in Normandy, celebrate the famed Saint Clarus by building a great bonfire in his honour. This spectacle takes place among a scattering of ancient yew trees very near where Saint Clarus was beheaded, and where Rollo, the Viking king, chose to abandon his pagan religion for Christianity. The villagers, who consider the rite sacred, gather en masse after dark, some setting chairs here and there around the fire for the comfort of the deceased who wish to attend. The most faithful of the followers have been known to approach the fire to collect glowing embers from its flames. Cradling the embers inside spent oyster shells they carry them home, believing that having a small part of the fire in their possession will bless their lives for the year to come.
—T D. Pratchett, A Compendium of Miracles
Careful What You Wish For.
AS A CHILD, poring over Mr. Pratchett’s collection of miracles, Beatrice had often imagined herself next to the crackling bonfire trying to pick out the ghosts from the villagers. As she picked up the oyster shells scattered on the cellar floor, it occurred to her that she might be able to make a fire of her own.
Setting the largest shell on the floor, she pulled a scant handful of straw from her mattress and made a little nest of it in the bottom of the shell. Then she collected whatever bits of coal she could find (most of the lump she’d hidden had gone to Lena’s curse), and dropped them in. Lastly, she took Reverend Townsend’s pipe and tapped what remained of the smouldering tobacco from its bowl into the shell. With soft, steady breaths, she fed the embers until the straw sparked and burned, and the coal cinders began to glow. Then she gently placed a second shell over the first to protect her treasure, leaving just enough space between them so the fire wouldn’t go out.
“What’ve you got there?” Lena asked, circling around her. “What are you doing?”
Head bowed, eyes closed, all Beatrice would say was, “I’m going home.”
Eleanor sat across from Adelaide at the centre table in the teashop. Five objects lay before them—Eleanor’s grimoire, a porcelain teacup, a white feather quill, a small sheet of parchment and the bone-handled dagger that had once belonged to Madame St. Clair. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Eleanor asked, looking at Adelaide for signs of disbelief, or fear. “If you’ve any misgivings, then it’s better I perform the spell alone. My hope is to use the charm to conjure a guide to take us to Beatrice. I can’t say what form the guide might take or if it will lead us into peril.”
“No misgivings,” Adelaide said, staring at the dagger. “I want to help.”
“Good,” Eleanor said. “Two witches at the table makes the spell twice as able. Would you like to read it through one last time?”
Adelaide nodded. She desperately wanted the spell to work. She wanted to get it right.
The ESAUE Square.
Magicians, witches and mystics have long understood the power of placing numbers, letters or symbols in sacred combinations within a magic square. This square, described below, holds the potential to grant a heart’s desire. This charm should only be used with utmost care and caution, for once its magic has been set in motion it cannot be reversed. Never draw the square in its completed form unless you wish to cast the spell.
&nb
sp; At the time of the waxing moon, wound the thumb of your left hand with the blade of a consecrated knife. Draw enough blood to write the spell on a piece of parchment with a quill made from the feather of a white goose. Without speaking, spell out E-S-A-U-E in four directions to make the square. Then place the paper between the palms of your hands as if you are praying, and declare what you desire. To enhance the power of this spell, perform it with another who shares the same wish. Once the spell has come to fruition, destroy the charm by burning it.
“I’m ready,” Adelaide said, giving the grimoire a shy, friendly pat.
Perdu perched on the back of an empty chair to act as witness. Bright hid beneath his wing. And Cleo, so far as they all knew only a dog, was sleeping at Adelaide’s feet with Twitch tucked in the fold of her ear.
Eleanor reached for Adelaide’s hand. This spell felt like something of a last resort. She’d seen her mother use it to great effect, only once having it yield less than ideal results. In that instance, a woman had come to l’Hermitage wanting Madame St. Clair to find her lost husband. The man had indeed been found, but to his wife’s dismay, in another woman’s bed. “Let that be a lesson to you,” her mother had said wagging her finger at her daughter. “Those who use magic to find what they seek, may not always like what they find.” Picking up her mother’s dagger, Eleanor began the ritual by drawing its blade across the fleshy tip of her thumb. The first drop of her blood welled up in the wound, then shone like a ruby as it dropped to the bottom of the cup. Handing the knife to Adelaide, she bid her to do the same.
Adelaide made her cut quick and deep, then pressed with her forefinger to hasten the flow of her blood. It only took a few moments to collect what they needed for the spell.
Putting her finger to her lips, Eleanor reminded Adelaide that the next step was to be taken in silence. Dipping the quill in the cup, she stirred their blood three times clockwise before putting the tip to the parchment. They took turns writing the sacred word, penning the letters one by one—across, down, reversed, up.
As Adelaide set the quill aside after the last iteration, Eleanor picked up the parchment and blew the blood dry. Laying it on the palm of her right hand, she waited for Adelaide’s palm to meet hers, and then they threaded their fingers together, the charm sandwiched between their hands. Closing their eyes in unison, they chanted the verse:
In this square our wish resides
Please send a soul to be our guide.
The next one through the door to come,
Will lead the way to Beatrice Dunn.
Twitch flew to Perdu’s side and burrowed between the raven’s feathers. Tapping Bright on the shoulder he asked, “What happens now?”
Bright sighed, then whispered, “We wait.”
A little girl stood near the fountain in Madison Square Park—the girl who’d told Adelaide’s fortune, the girl Reverend Townsend had taken, the girl who’d survived him, the girl Adelaide’s mother had mistaken for her daughter, the girl Eleanor had gifted the last coins from her pocket. She was debating whether or not she should wade into the shallow pool to steal a shiny dime that sparkled in the water. That was what the money was for, wasn’t it? The small wooden sign that hung on the fountain’s iron railing said so. MAKE A WISH, FEED THE POOR.
When the Bird Lady settled on a nearby bench, the girl chose to leave the dime for the ladies who collected the coins for the charity kitchen. For her it’d been a fairly good day, since her belly was fairly full. Fiddling in her pocket, she discovered the last of the pennies the woman from the teashop had given her that morning. Heaven knew she should probably save it, but for once she thought she’d like to make a wish.
A warm bed? A new family? All the bread she could eat? No, no and no. What she wanted more than anything was to not feel afraid. Ever since the Reverend had tricked her, taken her, beaten her and left her for dead, she’d felt his presence around every corner, heard his breathing whenever she closed her eyes. He’d called her a witch. She hoped he was right. She had a faint memory of someone telling her (had it been her mother? her grandmother? a stranger?) that she had witchery in her blood. Pinching the penny between her fingers, she kissed it, then tossed it into the water. “I wish he was dead.”
No sooner had the penny splashed, than the ghost of Adelaide’s mother rose up from inside the fountain, called by the girl’s voice. It’d been weeks since anyone, including Adelaide, had thought of her, so her place among the living was quickly being lost. Was this strange watery grave to be her home forever? That damn fairy had proved more powerful than she’d imagined. Desperate to be noticed, she came towards the little girl, kicking up a whirlwind of wet leaves as she moved.
Thinking the shadowy figure might be the preacher, the little girl panicked and ran. As she flew past the bench where the Bird Lady sat, the old woman called out to her, “Careful what you wish for!”
The Reverend was still pacing the floor above Beatrice. The sound made her more anxious than ever. She had tied the witch’s ladder around her ankle, and was cradling the pair of oyster shells that held her little fire, waiting for the preacher to come down the stairs and step into her plan.
“Here he comes,” Lena hissed. “It’s time!”
As soon as she heard his foot touch the creaky top stair, Beatrice opened her tiny fire to the air, then tucked it into the hollowed-out corner of her mattress. Feeding it with straw and breath, she willed the fire to catch. With any luck the flames would leap up and distract the preacher before he could kill her, and she could escape. His footsteps stopped midway on the stairs, then turned and retreated, just as the fire took hold in a flash, flames reaching for the rafters.
There was nothing Beatrice could do to stop it.
The frightened little girl ran out of the park and up the street to hide in the window well of Markowitz’s bakery. Seeing lights in the teashop, she scrambled up the stoop and pounded on the door. The teashop woman had been good to her that morning, and might take pity on her now. “Please,” she cried. “Please let me in!”
With a start, Eleanor let Adelaide’s hand go and rushed to the door. No sooner had she flung it open than the girl ran into the shop to hide under the table.
“Mercy!” Perdu squawked when he saw her. “Mercy!”
The Dearlies flew from beneath his wings and took shelter inside a teapot.
Ducking her head beneath the table, Adelaide stared at the girl. “Don’t I know you?”
Eleanor crouched down, then sat on the floor. “What’s wrong, my dear?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
The girl’s eyes were panicked. “He’s after me again!”
Cleo circled around the child and lay in front of her, keeping close watch on the door.
“Who?” Adelaide asked.
“Mercy!” Perdu cried.
Frantic, the girl stammered, “The awful man who always walks with the church-going ladies through the park. They say he’s their preacher but I say he’s the Devil. He locked me in his cellar with a ghost! I know he meant to kill me. He said I was a witch.”
Eleanor looked at Adelaide as if to say, This is it. “But you got away from him?”
“He thought I was dead, but I swear he’s after me again.”
Adelaide put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Can you take us to the place he kept you?”
The girl buried her face in Cleo’s fur. Her only response was the trembling of her body.
“The dog can come with us,” Eleanor offered. “She won’t let anything happen to you.”
Lifting her eyes to meet Eleanor’s, the girl bit her lip, uncertain.
“And neither will I,” Adelaide said, and as the girl turned to her, she pointed to the sheath on her boot where she kept her knife.
Beatrice pounded on the door as smoke filled the cellar. “Fire!” she shouted. “Please help! Let me out!” The smoke caused her eyes to sting, her throat to burn. Her skin was turning red from the heat, her blood felt as if it was about to boil. Surely, she th
ought, the Reverend could see the smoke seeping between the planks of his floor. Had he fled the house and left her here to die?
Suddenly she heard his boots thudding down the stairs. Arm over her nose and mouth, she stepped back from the door, desperate to escape.
No sooner did he come through the door than he lunged at her and seized her by the throat. Grim with anger in the fire’s flickering light, he flashed a knife before her eyes. “You will not die by your own hand. That privilege will be mine.”
With a swift knee to his groin, Beatrice managed to hurt him enough he let go. She stumbled back, and fell, and before she could get to her feet, he came at her again, this time grabbing her wrist, his fingers digging into the sore, tender flesh rubbed raw by the ropes he’d used to bind her.
Pain shot through her. Tears streamed down her face.
“I’ve got you now, you witch,” the Reverend said attempting to haul her up.
Despite the pain, Beatrice resisted—her lungs tight with the effort, stealing her breath. As she struggled for air, Lena’s voice sounded in her ear: “Remember my curse.”
Flames flashed behind the Reverend and the rafters began to creak. Focused on handing Beatrice her punishment, he ignored the fire raging at his back.
“Once he falls,” Lena cried, “he’ll not rise again.”
Beatrice fought him, shouting, “You’ll not get this witch!” The scabs from her wounds broke open as he pulled, and she started to bleed.
Then, as he raised his knife, clearly meaning to end her, her wrist, wet with blood, slipped out of his grip. He toppled backwards, howling and flailing as his hair and clothes caught fire.