The Witches of New York

  “You underestimate the impression that earned beauty can make.”

  “Whether or not, I’m thrilled to be in your company. Alden returned two weeks ago, so I was stuck playing whist with a tiresome circle of Tarrytown hens. The cottage was starting to feel more like a barnyard than a retreat.”

  “You must be glad to be back on Marble Row.”

  “I’m back, yes, but not exactly at home. The house is being refurbished and won’t be finished until the New Year. Alden and I are staying in a suite at the Fifth Avenue Hotel for the duration. Some say the hotel’s decor is passé, but I don’t mind it one bit. Call me old-fashioned, but I feel it fits the history of the place.” Lowering her voice she gleefully added, “You know, they say it’s haunted…”

  “Do they really?” Adelaide replied, knowing full well the hotel’s reputation for ghosts.

  “That they do.”

  “Care to sit?” Adelaide suggested.

  “Oh, yes please,” Judith replied.

  Leading Judith to her secluded corner in the back of the room, Adelaide said, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll fetch the tea. I can’t wait to hear about the socialites and spectres you’ve encountered at the hotel so far.”

  Aside from liking Judith’s money, Adelaide had grown quite fond of the woman herself. They’d met at a psychic demonstration featuring a medium who called herself Mrs. Saunders and her spirit guide, Little Moon. As Mrs. Saunders had prattled on, eyes rolling back in her head (supposedly possessed by her guide), Adelaide had noticed that the woman seated next to her in the darkened theatre was holding back tears. In an attempt to comfort her, Adelaide had leaned close and whispered, “None of this is real.”

  The stricken woman had whispered back, “Don’t you believe?”

  “In ghosts, yes. In this dog-and-pony show, no.”

  “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

  “Possibly, yes. Have you?”

  “Once, I think. It was the spirit of my dear son, Billy, staring up at me from the bottom of a silver fruit bowl. He died when he was only seven.”

  Placing her hand on the woman’s arm, Adelaide had said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Have you lost someone too? Is that why you’re here?”

  “My mother, when I was just a girl.”

  “Oh, heavens, that’s awful,” the woman had remarked, putting her hand to her mouth.

  Adelaide hadn’t been sure if the woman was reacting to her loss or the scars on her face. Still, she’d handed the woman her calling card and said, “Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”

  The next morning Judith Dashley had come to the teashop and requested a meeting with Adelaide. “I think I need a little respite from chasing the dead,” she’d said. “I’d like to turn my attention to the business of living. Can you give me any advice on how to do that?”

  “What shall it be today?” Adelaide asked as she poured tea into Judith’s cup. “Your usual consultation?”

  Judith stirred in a splash of milk. “Actually,” she said, biting her lip, “I’m here to give you some news.”

  “Colour me curious.”

  Leaning forward, Judith said, “I’ve someone who wishes to meet you.”

  “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Tell her to come to the shop and to mention your name. I’ll be sure to put her at the top of my list.”

  Lowering her eyes, Judith shook her head and said, “I can’t.”

  “Whyever not?” Adelaide asked.

  Blushing, Judith answered, “Because it’s not a she, but a he.”

  Now it all made sense. Judith’s hemming and hawing, her schoolgirl blush. Whoever he was, Judith Dashley was smitten with him. Had she been unfaithful to her husband? No, not yet. She showed no signs of that—none of the excuse-laden talk that accompanies guilt, or the all-too-upright posture of infidelity. With a teasing laugh Adelaide asked, “He’s quite handsome, yes?”

  Eyes darting to the side, Judith measured the memory of him from shoes to hat. “Oh, yes.”

  “And tall, too,” Adelaide pressed, “and not of your family.”

  “Why do I bother thinking anything could come as a surprise to you!” Judith exclaimed. “What a gift you have. I wish I could do that.”

  “Careful what you wish,” Adelaide said with a smile. “Now why don’t you tell me why this mystery man wishes to meet me, or do I have to guess that as well? You know I don’t suffer salesmen, preachers or politicians, so if he’s one of those, you needn’t bother.”

  “He’s a doctor,” Judith said, “and highly regarded.”

  Resisting the urge to touch her scars, Adelaide asked, “What kind of doctor?” Handsome or not, she’d been poked and prodded and examined enough.

  “He’s an ‘alienist,’ ” Judith explained, “a doctor of the mind. He’s keenly interested in studying the way women think and something he calls ‘intuitive inclination.’ Alden’s been a long-time acquaintance of his father’s, but I only met him when we dined together last night. He’s been away in Paris, furthering his studies, but he recently came back to the city to settle his father’s estate. Alden’s asked him to speak at the annual conference of the Fraternal Order of the Unknown Philosophers. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Just,” Adelaide said.

  “When I told him of your gifts, he begged me to arrange a meeting as soon as possible. He’s such a charming fellow, I simply couldn’t say no. Will you meet with him?”

  “Only if you tell me his name,” Adelaide replied.

  “Oh yes, I suppose I should do that. It’s Dr. Quinn Brody.”

  “Shall we try for tomorrow morning, then, say half past ten, at the hotel?”

  “Half past ten it is,” Judith replied with a smile. Raising her teacup she added, “Here’s to intuitive inclination.”

  Shortly after Judith’s departure, the three ladies in the window seat also took their leave. As Eleanor cleared their table, she discovered that each of them had tucked a calling card, on which they’d written a note, beneath their saucers.

  Mrs. Orange Pekoe’s card read, “More of the same, please, sent to this address.”

  Madame Darjeeling’s card simply said, “Success!”

  Lady Hibiscus’s note was more pressing. “I must speak with you soon, in private.”

  Eleanor upended her former lover’s cup on its saucer and turned it three times. Righting it, she peered into the bowl to inspect the leaves. Her mother would never have done such a thing without the tea drinker’s consent, but in light of their past and the urgent tone of the young woman’s note, Eleanor felt she was in the right. Eyes half closed, she gazed at the shape of the leaves until they formed a series of images in her mind. First an apple, then a snake, then a broken quill. An affair of the heart gone wrong. A couple divided. Running out the door, Eleanor stared down the street in the direction Lady Hibiscus had turned, hoping the woman might still be nearby. Sadly, she was out of sight.

  As she turned to go back inside, she saw that a long line of young women had formed outside the shop.

  The girl at the head of the line stepped forward and asked, “Excuse me, ma’am, is it time?”

  “Time for what?” Eleanor replied.

  “For considerin’ a new girl to work in your shop?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea? You must have the wrong address.”

  Pointing to the sign above the door the girl asked, “Ain’t this St. Clair and Thom’s teashop?”

  “It is, but we’re not looking to hire anyone.”

  The girl stepped forward to press a square of newsprint into Eleanor’s hand. “The paper said you is…”

  Without even a look at the paper, Eleanor said, “I’m sorry, but it’s a mistake.” Staring pointedly at the ever-growing queue, she gave the girl a curt nod and said, “Pass it on.”

  Back inside the shop, Eleanor locked the door and turned the sign in the window to Closed. “Adelaide,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, “what was it
you wanted to tell me?”

  As Adelaide came towards her, struggling to find the right words, Perdu threw back his feathered head and squawked, “Top off the pot! Top off the pot!”

  Adelaide laughed.

  Eleanor did not.

  Adelaide looked out the window in time to see the last of the prospective shop girls disperse. Hand on the doorknob, she thought she might chase after them so the day wouldn’t be a complete bust.

  “Don’t,” Eleanor said, eyes narrowed.

  Adelaide threw up her hands. “I was only trying to help.”

  “You were only thinking of yourself.”

  “How is hiring an assistant for you, thinking of myself?”

  Eleanor was tired, fragile, fed up, and worried about what she’d seen in the cup. “You act on every whim that pops into your head without thinking of the consequences. Did it ever occur to you that I might like a say in the matter?”

  Adelaide bit her lip. She couldn’t recall ever seeing her friend react quite like this.

  Eleanor pressed on. “I’m sure it didn’t because it never does.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just look around this place,” Eleanor said, gesturing towards Adelaide’s corner. As of late her taste in decor had begun to spill over into the rest of the shop—a gilded mirror here, a pair of velvet curtains there. “It’s starting to look more like a bordello than a teashop.”

  The remark stung, but Adelaide didn’t take the bait. She sensed that Eleanor’s words, though pointed and somewhat true, were hiding a deeper anger, she hoped meant for someone else. Arguing with her would only make matters worse. Shrugging into a wrap, she announced, “I’m going out.”

  “Of course you are,” Eleanor muttered, fetching her gripsack from behind the counter. Then, as Adelaide went through the door, she said, “I hope you have your key, because I’m going out as well. I can’t say when I’ll be back.”

  The two witches went their separate ways—Adelaide storming off towards the park, Eleanor marching, with gripsack in hand, to search for Lady Hibiscus.

  Knocks and Rappings.

  BEATRICE ARRIVED AT Tea and Sympathy to find the shades drawn and the door locked. Twisting the bell, she waited for someone to answer. When no one came, she gave three loud raps on the window. She was late, she knew, but it was only two o’clock. Why was the shop closed? Had the owners already found their girl and called it a day? Just as she was about to walk away, she heard a sound on the other side of the door. “Hello?” she called. “Is anyone there?”

  When no one responded, she began to wonder if perhaps she’d been hearing things. The spill she’d taken at the dockyard had left her terribly unsettled, and she hadn’t felt right since. A small, aching bump had formed where she’d hit her head and she could only recall bits and pieces of how she’d gotten back to the train. Had Joseph led her safely across the tracks or had he scooped her up and carried her? In any event, he’d been incredibly kind, arranging the burlap bags in a comfortable nest, offering her a drink from a flask he’d squirrelled away in his knapsack. Of course he’d forgotten to tell her that the flask contained whiskey, and she’d wound up spitting half the stuff out. Still, the shock of the alcohol burning down her throat had caused her to sit upright and see straight, so in that sense it’d done the trick.

  As soon as they’d arrived at the station, Joseph had placed a pile of silver coins in the hand of a carriage driver and instructed the man to deliver Beatrice to her destination. Helping her inside the carriage he’d asked, “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” she’d lied. “I’m perfectly fine, I swear it. Thanks for all your help, and best of luck with your russets.”

  Now her head was throbbing as she stood outside the shop. The sounds of the city seemed to echo around her—voices crowding in her ears from all directions, strangely more within than without. She felt as if she’d been run over by a train rather than riding on one. She’d so wanted to make a good first impression, and now she was late, and so unwell. Not ready to give up just yet, she rang the bell again.

  A loud thump sounded on the other side of the door, followed by silence.

  Leaning to peer through the keyhole, Beatrice discovered an eye staring back at her. It was dark and shiny and definitely not human.

  “Hello,” she called again, unsure as to whether or not she wanted an answer.

  “Who’s there?” a voice responded, soft and sweet.

  Before Beatrice could reply, the lock clicked, the knob turned, and the door opened wide. No one was there to greet her. Choosing curiosity over fear, she entered the shop.

  The place was dimly lit, yet welcoming and warm. The scents of tea, dried herbs and honey filled the air. It reminded her of the chapel of the Stony Point Presbyterian Church on Christmas Eve, all close with beeswax candles, cedar boughs and age-old mysteries. To her great relief, the cacophony that’d been ringing in her ears was suddenly silenced.

  “Hello?” she quietly called, hoping to find a friendly face at last.

  “Hello,” a voice, eerily like her own, replied from overhead.

  Looking up, Beatrice discovered a large raven perched atop the open door. “Heavens!” she exclaimed, dropping her bag to the floor.

  Flapping to Beatrice’s feet, Perdu hopped in a wide circle around the girl then waddled towards her bag to peck and pull at its clasp.

  Amazed by the creature’s antics, Beatrice bent down to the bird and asked, “Was it you who let me in?”

  With a hearty caw, Perdu vigorously nodded.

  Beatrice laughed, feeling as if she were Alice, gone through the looking glass.

  In the back of the room someone seconded her laughter.

  “Who’s there?” Beatrice asked, taken by surprise.

  No sooner had the girl posed the question than the shop’s door slammed shut, and the air in the room turned cold.

  Perdu lit on the counter and began to hiss. The feathers around his neck puffed into a menacing mane.

  Beatrice wasn’t sure if she should stay or run.

  “Care to have your palm read?” a voice asked from the shadows. “Your future revealed?”

  Slowly walking towards the voice, Beatrice came upon a beautiful woman seated at a small, round table. Silver hoops dangling from her ears, silk scarf tied around her head, bangles clanging on her wrists, she looked every bit like the woman whose image graced the back covers of Madam Morrow’s Strange Tales of Gotham, a woman who Beatrice had always assumed was Madam Morrow herself.

  “I’ve come to inquire about the position that was advertised in the paper,” Beatrice replied. “Are you the shop’s owner?”

  Silver hoops swinging as she shook her head, the woman said, “No one’s here.”

  “Perhaps I’ll come back another time,” Beatrice faltered.

  “Come, sit!” the woman ordered. “Give me your hand.”

  Those averse to magic need not apply.

  Remembering the words that had appeared at the bottom of the newspaper notice, Beatrice wondered if the fortune teller’s invitation might be some sort of test. Seating herself across from the woman she extended her hand.

  As the Gypsy turned Beatrice’s hand palm up, her own fingers turned pale and withered and her face went blue with death. When the Gypsy opened her mouth, no words came out, just the stink of dank river water, fishy and thick with rot. Gasping, the woman began to choke as if she had something caught in her throat. Before Beatrice could move to help her, the fortune teller stuck her crooked finger between her teeth to retrieve the thing that was causing her distress. With a violent tug and a terrible retch, she brought up a long length of old fishing net tangled with seaweed and oyster shells.

  Beatrice hid her face in her hands and made a wish, Let this be a dream. Let this all be a terrible dream.

  When she opened her eyes the Gypsy had vanished. Sighing with relief, Beatrice tried to stand, but found she was trapped in her seat. Her
wish might have caused the woman to disappear, but it hadn’t set her free. Her own dress was now dark and heavy and wet—water dripping from her sleeves and skirts, and pooling on the floor at her feet. From the murky puddles a nest of eels emerged, slithering around her ankles. Struggling to escape, she let out a terrible scream and fainted.

  Eleanor returned to the shop to find the girl lying in a heap on the floor, and Perdu pacing frantically beside her. Racing to her side, she listened for her breathing, wrapped her fingers around her wrist. “Hello, miss?” she said in her ear. “Please wake up.”

  Fanning the air in front of the girl’s face, she implored again, “Miss…wake up.”

  Perdu stayed close, tilting his head with concern.

  Taking a phial of smelling salts from a chatelaine at her waist, Eleanor removed the lid and waved it under Beatrice’s nose.

  With a terrible grimace, Beatrice opened her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Eleanor asked. The girl had a bump on her head that looked angry and fresh, but at least it wasn’t bleeding.

  “I think so,” Beatrice answered, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

  Eleanor helped her to her feet and then to a nearby couch. “I’ll get you some water,” she said, “or would you prefer tea?”

  “Tea,” she answered, then remembering her manners, she added, “please.”

  As Eleanor busied herself behind the counter, Beatrice struggled to collect her thoughts. Was the woman who’d just offered her tea the same woman who’d offered to read her palm? Surely not. Unless, of course, her brain had taken her on some bizarre flight of fancy. Perhaps the bump on her head was worse than she’d thought.

  “Here you are,” Eleanor said, handing Beatrice a cup. “This should help.”

  “Thank you,” Beatrice said, inhaling the tea’s sweet scent.

  “Chamomile, lemon balm, lavender and St. John’s wort,” Eleanor said. “To soothe your nerves.”

  Closing her eyes, Beatrice took a sip.

  Eleanor asked, “When was your last meal?” The poor thing really did seem unwell.