Potions Are for Pushovers

by Tamara Berry

  “Well done,” the general says with a liberal wink in my direction.

  “Oh, what a lovely idea,” says the Pomeranian-wielding widow.

  “I told you what a boon she’s been to the community,” Mrs. Brennigan puts in.

  Even Oona MacDougal seems to relax a touch. She doesn’t go so far as to smile at me, but she does release the ironclad grip she’s had on her daughter’s arm since they walked in. Lenora takes immediate advantage and bounds across the room. She plops herself at my feet, where Rachel has already made herself comfortable on several of those now-squashed throw pillows.

  I half expect Dr. MacDougal to raise a protest at her daughter’s defection, but she merely watches Lenora settle next to Rachel with a small, tight smile. I watch, too, but I don’t smile. Instead, a heavy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.

  The MacDougals’ sudden acceptance of me is starting to make sense. The only wonder is that I didn’t see it before. Naturally, they never wanted me to educate their daughter in the ways of witchcraft; what rational parent would? That would be like sending Hansel and Gretel into the woods with a basting brush and a favorite family recipe.

  This story is much more predictable—and a lot less fun to tell. The Hartfords might not be nobility in the true sense of the word, but they’re the closest thing to it in these parts. They have land, they have prestige, and they have money. They also have a tendency to keep to themselves, with the sole exception of the woman currently residing in a cottage about halfway between the castle and the village. A woman, as it were, with a foot on both sides of the tracks.

  Oh, dear. What are you getting yourself into now, Ellie?

  I wish I could give Winnie a concrete answer. Trouble, obviously, but I suspect there’s more to it than that.

  “On that subject, what charity did you end up deciding on?” Annis turns to me with an expectant blink. From those wide, guileless brown eyes, one would assume there’s nothing but purity and innocence in her heart, but I know better. Both of those things are in her heart, but they’re cushioned in a sense of humor that’s enjoying my discomfiture far more than a vicar should.

  “I didn’t,” I say with perfect honesty. “After talking with Mrs. Blackthorne’s family and paying a few visits, I realized she wouldn’t have wanted us to spend a single red cent on this village.”

  I allow the outburst to settle before I turn to address the assembled group, confident in my chosen path. Mostly because that outburst isn’t filled with outrage or incriminations at me. It’s all internalized—the way no one is quite meeting my eye, suddenly taken up with the state of their own fingernails, is a clear sign.

  So are all the other things I’ve gathered about Sarah Blackthorne’s life over the past few days. What I’m facing isn’t a community in mourning; it’s a community in shock, plain and simple. The spectacle of Sarah’s attack was alarming, yes, and the loss of anyone to a violent death is unpleasant, but that’s as far as these people’s sympathy goes.

  No one here misses her or her accusations of the evil eye any more than I do—I’m as sure of that as a woman in my position can be. Kittens are rejoicing. Penny hasn’t baked a chocolate cake in weeks. Even her nephew can’t muster up a convincing show of regret at her loss.

  “Sarah was a solitary woman and a joyless one,” I say. “She didn’t have many visitors. She didn’t have many friends. She didn’t even have a pet.”

  All those meals for one, the fact that her house didn’t contain a single bottle of gin hidden in the depths of the freezer—that’s not how someone who finds delight in the small things lives. Or someone who routinely has guests.

  “To pretend that any of you are mourning her passing would be disingenuous to her memory. You didn’t like her when she was living, and to pretend that death suddenly makes her worth commemorating is a sham.”

  For a moment, I fear I’ve taken things too far. These are good people, decent people, and even Rachel is starting to look alarmed at my speech. But I press on, determined to see this thing through to the end. If there’s one thing I’ve never lacked in my life, it’s nerve.

  “Let’s keep the money here,” I say in a gentler tone. “Let’s spend it on community outreach and local celebrations. Let’s enjoy it while we can. That might not be what Sarah Blackthorne would have wanted us to do with it, but I think we can all agree it would have done her a world of good to get out every now and then and take pride in the place she calls home.”

  The sound of slow clapping rises from the far side of the room. Glancing over, I expect to find Nicholas leaning in his languid way against the door frame, his familiar mocking smile in place. Instead, I’m greeted with the vision of a stranger.

  No—not quite a stranger. That round, cherubic face and those yellow-tinted eyes are familiar, even if the man’s taller frame and too tight, too bright clothes aren’t.

  “Richard!” Oona MacDougal leaps up out of her seat, showing more enthusiasm at the sight of our guest than I’ve ever seen from her before. The sudden burst of energy does much to soften her sharp angles, her lips lifting in what I suspect is a smile. “You came. You’re here.”

  The man’s face creases in an answering smile. “Of course I’m here. The prodigal nephew always returns—or didn’t you know? Hullo, Annis. Mrs. Brennigan. Ah, General von Cleve—glad to see you’re still alive and kicking.”

  “It’ll take a lot more than old age to knock me down,” the general replies. He also rises to his feet, though with a much more dignified air. He crosses the room with his hand outstretched. “I’m sorry about your aunt, Rich. I didn’t like her, never did, but I know you were close to the old girl.”

  Richard’s smile loses some of its wattage. “Yes, well. As this young woman was saying before I interrupted, Aunt Sarah could have sucked the joy out of a royal wedding on Valentine’s Day. She was always good to me, though. Me and Lewis both.” He paused to peer around the room. “He’s not here yet?”

  “I invited him to come to the meeting today, but he was busy with your aunt’s affairs.” Annis, too, crosses the room to greet her guest, offering first one cheek and then the other for the man to kiss. Her warm acceptance of this nephew’s arrival is as far removed from her reaction to Lewis’s as it’s possible for a kindhearted vicar to be. “Eleanor here was just, uh, helping us decide how to best memorialize . . .”

  A better woman than I would have had the decency to blush, but I catch a gleam in Richard’s yellow eyes and realize there’s no need. If ever a man was willing to overlook the near-slanderous aspersions cast on his dead relative’s name, it’s this one.

  “She was absolutely correct,” Richard says with a smile my way. “Aunt Sarah was a bitter old miser, and the last thing she’d have wanted was for any of you to experience joy at her expense. I say you take that money and throw the biggest party this village has ever seen. I’ll bring the champagne.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean a party so much as a new park or a commemorative bench under a tree,” I say, “but—”

  My belated attempts at recovering my image fall into the sudden cacophony that bursts out. Not since the mythical vicar and his twelve mythical children has this room seen so much energy, so much verve.

  Well, that didn’t go quite as you planned, did it? Winnie asks.

  No, it most decidedly did not, but at least one of my more pressing questions appears to have been answered. From the easy way everyone in attendance suddenly lights up with delight, it appears I have quite a few potential murderers in my midst—all of them cheerfully throwing Sarah Blackthorne under the figurative bus. Only the general and Annis appear concerned at the party atmosphere; the general with a worried pucker to his brow, and Annis with a slightly bemused glance at me.

  I mouth a quick apology at her, but all she does is shrug helplessly. She could, I know, quiet this room with a soft-spoken word and her usual air of dignity, but she allows her flock to gather around Richard with halfhearted apologies for his loss and whole
hearted enthusiasm for his return. Even Rachel and Lenora, still at my feet, are whispering excitedly to one another.

  “—but did you see the one—?”

  “—exclusive interview, I swear on my—”

  “—broke up with that model—”

  “Okay, out with it,” I say to the two girls. “What’s going on, and why is everyone in this room acting as though they’ve gone stark raving mad?”

  “Because they have gone stark raving mad, Ellie.” Rachel clasps her hands to her chest and sighs. “Don’t you know who that is?”

  “Sarah Blackthorne’s favorite nephew,” I say, hazarding a fairly good guess. “And Lewis King’s least favorite brother.”

  The two girls shake their heads at me as though I’ve recently landed from an alternative universe. In the normal way of things, that’s exactly the impression I want to give—my dark heels, dark lipstick, and floaty purple dress demand it—but perhaps not a universe quite as removed as what they have in mind.

  “That’s Rich King.”

  “Yes, I gathered as much.”

  “Rich King.”

  “I don’t see how emphasizing a different part of his name is going to help me.”

  Rachel is the first to give in to my ignorance. “The famous celebrity host? Red Couch Diaries? Ellie, you’ve lived in England for almost four months. How can you not have seen him on the tellie?”

  For starters, I don’t have a television. The cottage came with one of those huge, flat, oversized ones, but it was the first thing I got rid of. The cozy atmosphere and AGA stove I can sell, but Eleanor Wilde brewing potions by night and watching game shows by day isn’t part of the image I’m trying to project around here.

  Secondly, I resent the implication that living alone with only a cat for company means I have nothing better to do than bulk up on British dailies. Yes, Sarah Blackthorne might have been cooking microwavable meals for one most of the time, but I have friends. I have visitors. People love me.

  They tolerate you, anyway.

  I flap my hand in a gesture designed to quiet my sister, but Lenora assumes it’s meant for her.

  “Madame Eleanor is too important to bother with things like television,” she says with all the confidence of a twelve-year-old who’s seen almost nothing of the world.

  “Is that a fact?” As if drawn by the mention of fame, Rich King—no, excuse me, Rich King—draws close.

  His smile is even more disarming from close up, though I find the glittery sheen of his canary yellow shirt a bit much for anywhere outside of a nightclub. He’s also older than I at first assumed. His hair is thick but far too uniform in color not to have come from a box, his healthy tan extending to a line at the top of his neck where the makeup stops. He’s not a bad-looking man, but he’s hardly the spring chicken he’d like everyone to believe him to be.

  “Then what, may I ask, does Madame Eleanor consider worthwhile?” he asks, still smiling. “Village fêtes, obviously, but that part goes without saying.”

  His words snag on my conscience. “I’m sorry you walked in when you did. I know it must have sounded harsh, those things I was saying about your aunt, but all I meant was—”

  “Oh, I know what you meant, and I’m glad someone around here finally had the stones to say it.” He laughs, showcasing a row of pearly white veneers up top and a crooked lineup of yellowing teeth on the bottom. “She was a tough old bag, Aunt Sarah, but not a bad sort, when all was said and done. A little fun would have done her a world of a good. It’s a shame you didn’t arrive in this village earlier. You two could have been good friends—you have a lot in common.”

  Every part of me balks at that implication, but Richard is drawn away by a pair of sharp-eyed matrons I know for a fact have daughters of a marriageable age. Since they’ve both bought several bottles of my attraction elixir and neither one appears to be cloaked in lavender, I assume those daughters won’t remain marriageable for long.... Not if they have anything to say about it, anyway.

  Rachel bounds after them without a single backward glance, but Lenora has the decency to wait until I wave her off before she, too, departs.

  “Alas, poor Madame Eleanor.” Oona MacDougal sidles up to replace my entourage, watching as the entire room crowds around Richard to offer condolences, ask about his television show, and, in one case, brandish a pen for an autograph on an impressive display of cleavage. “Your shining star is about to be replaced.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I ask, trying to sound less affronted than I feel.

  “If it’s any consolation, he won’t stay long. He never does. He flits in and out with the seasons. You’ll be back to being the village oddity in no time.”

  “I’m not jealous.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’d never even heard of the guy before today.”

  “Why would you?”

  I strongly suspect Dr. MacDougal to be laughing at me. The knowledge doesn’t, as expected, make me want to retreat. If anything, I like her all the more for it. A sense of humor—even at my expense—is always a good thing.

  “Anything he does to take the pressure off me is welcome,” I say in what I hope is an accurate summary of my feelings. “By the way, you rushed off so suddenly the other day, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you about Lenora’s apprenticeship. I wanted to assure you that—”

  Oona raises a hand to silence me. It’s just as well, since I’m not sure what sort of reassurances I have to offer a woman as steeped in the sciences and medical community as she is. “I make it a rule never to squabble in public, Madame Eleanor, so the less we say on the subject, the better.”

  I, however, would much prefer to have our squabble deep in the public eye. There’s a much better chance of me walking away with my dignity—and body parts—intact that way.

  “I know it’s not your ideal placement for her, but I’m doing my best to keep it educational,” I say.

  “Oh?” she asks with careful civility. “Is that what you’d call werewolf studies?”

  My heart sinks. I thought I’d have at least a week or two before Oona took too much of an interest in her daughter’s work, but I obviously hadn’t counted on the influence of someone as important in the neighborhood as Rachel Hartford. I have the feeling this woman is going to take a much keener interest in this project than I’d prefer.

  “She wrote four pages on the subject. Four good pages, actually. Do you want to read them?”

  Oona’s sharp brows raise, and she watches me with a kind of attentive wariness I know from experience is that of a skeptic trying to decide if my intentions are pure. Since they are—in this case, at least—I double down.

  “I’m not grading it or anything like that, but she has a solid grasp for how to present evidence in a way that’s both convincing and entertaining. You might have a scholar on your hands.”

  “What I have, Madame Eleanor,” she says dryly, “is a child with an overactive imagination and far too liberal an upbringing. I wanted to send her to boarding school, but her father wouldn’t hear of it. The English countryside is as good as any unyielding Swiss matron, he said. Nature will fill in what traditional learning can’t, he promised.”

  That sounds like pretty solid advice to me, and I’m about to say as much, but Oona prevents me from being able to form any words at all.

  “Speaking of evidence, I assume you’ve had a chance to read the report on Mr. Worthington’s pig?”

  I blink, unsure at first if Winnie is playing tricks on me by speaking aloud at the worst possible moment. It wouldn’t be the first instance—she once reminded me to take out the garbage while Nicholas was kissing me good-bye outside my gate—but there’s an expectant purse to Oona’s lips that indicates she’s waiting for an answer.

  “I didn’t know there was a report on Mr. Worthington’s pig,” I say in the breezy, neutral tone I always adopt when I’m unsure of my ground but unwilling to let it show. “I was under the impression that Inspector Piper was wai
ting for an authority to take a look at the remains.”

  “He was. And I did.”

  Not even the most consummate professional would have been able to hide her surprise at that one. “You’re his authority on pig corpses? But—”

  “But I’m a family practitioner? Tsk, tsk, Madame Eleanor. Can’t a woman have more than one accomplishment in this world? I wasn’t born a doctor, you know. Once upon a time, I was just a pig farmer’s daughter.”

  “That’s how you got interested in medicine in the first place,” I say with a nod. Unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s also why she’s so keen on throwing her daughter into Rachel Hartford’s path. Some things are difficult to shake no matter how much education you manage to secure. A childhood spent wading through pig slop is one of them. “Your son likes to dissect things, too. Of your two children, he’s the most likely to follow in your footsteps. You should cultivate that.”

  At my quick—and I hope accurate—assessment of her family situation, Oona relaxes a little. “Yes, well. If you haven’t been granted access to that report yet, you’ll hear the details soon enough. I’m not sure what sort of line of reasoning you’re following with this werewolf nonsense, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go planting ideas in my daughter’s head.”

  “Oh, the werewolf wasn’t my theory—”

  “She’s young, she’s impressionable, and she thinks the sun rises and sets on your shoulders. And while I will admit that it was strange to find the heart removed from that poor pig, there are a number of predators that will do that to their prey.”

  It takes me a moment to process everything she’s telling me. “I’m sorry. Did you just say the pig’s heart is missing? As in, all the way gone?”

  “They found pieces of the entrails scattered for half a kilometer in all directions, so it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” When I don’t respond right away, she adds, somewhat testily, “Birds, Madame Eleanor. They most likely picked up bits and pieces before the pig’s body was fully recovered.”