Chivalry, thy name is Pericles Crafter!
* * *
Caroline, if I live and Providence grants that we meet again soon, I will thank you to kick me once, firmly, where it may do me some good. I am a goose. Only a goose would mistake unconsciousness for death. Only a greater goose would so lose all proper sense of comportment that she fling herself joyously upon the gentleman mentioned when the signs of life return to him. Only the greatest goose in all the world would so far forget herself that she leave her personal correspondence unguarded so that the gentleman may read it and discover those delicate revelations of affection never intended for his eyes.
Ah, welladay, there is no mending some things. And so we are to be married. If we live.
My mind’s eye forms a picture of your expression, and it is not a flattering one. Do not gape so, sweet erstwhile companion, at these words. I was duped, misled, made a pawn by the man I trusted, whose tale of woe, witchcraft, and whimsical sisters I too readily believed. He is no more the Duke of Kirk-Chatenaire than he is Horatio Culpepper! He is not witchcraft’s victim, but its master! The face and form he claimed were fixed upon him by my darling Pericles’ sorceries were in truth self-inflicted, a clumsy disguise procured by his substandard enchantments whose slippage I did on occasion espy. Had I but known!
But how could I know? Oh, the plausible scoundrel! I had no sooner dispatched my last message to you, my precious friend, than he was at my side, urging me to initiate the scheme we had compounded between us for the purpose of overcoming the supposed “Wizard Crafter.” I was to lure poor, unwitting Pericles into the front parlor, on the pretense of showing him some family relics.
“I leave it to you to select the objects themselves,” the so-called Duke mewed in my ear. “But I caution you to make certain that they are truly things which once belonged to your ancestor Thomas. These Crafters have a nose for the authentic.”
“I cannot include the token he seeks,” I replied. “The little wooden skeleton. For one thing, I have never seen it beneath this roof, and for another, it would be unwise to lay such an item before our enemy unless we have a plan for his immediate overthrow.”
“Unwise, most unwise to be sure,” the glib wretch assured me. “This is but bait, my adored Delilah, the lure to divert his attention while you slip this into his tea.” He urged a small gray chamois bag into my palm. On loosing the yellow drawstring I found it to contain a measure of acrid brown powder.
“But if you poison him, how shall you ever free your sister?” I queried.
“It is no poison, but a drug whose virtues subvert the mind and subdue the will of whosoever ingests it. I have acquired it only at great personal risk, but I would dare more for dear Athena’s sake ... and your own. The evil Wizard Crafter is too sly to give me the chance to apply this ... remedy—ha, ha!—myself, but he has no cause to suspect you and every reason to desire sight of old Thomas Crafter’s keepsakes. Once he has downed the brew and its effects take hold, I may in safety command him to perform the requisite rites to release Athena and restore me. Only then shall I give the blackguard his just reward, a length of good, clean Sheffield steel through the marrow of his rotten heart!”
Sweet friend, as I glance up from these words and see my dearest Pericles riffling through book after book for some means to our salvation, I shudder to recall how it was less than an hour ago I thrilled to hear the vile pseudo-Duke swear to slay him. Heedless girl that I was!
I took the pouch and gave my word that the drug would find its way into the tea, the tea into Pericles. To protect it, I took the precaution of wrapping the pouch itself in the bizarre black handkerchief which that peculiar and most mysterious gentleman had given me upon the horrid day of Mamma’s death. (I have written to you of him, have I not? As he never called upon us again thereafter, I wonder what might have become of him.) Thus guaranteed against spillage, the pouch was concealed in my bosom.
As the “Duke” had predicted, my unsuspecting darling responded to my invitation with alacrity. When he entered the parlor, he was bewildered to find me there alone, sans chaperone. A ready lie, fed me by the “Duke,” informed him that Stepmamma and Papa had been called from home unexpectedly. The souvenirs of Great-grandpapa Thomas lay temptingly arrayed upon the table, hard by the tea things. I told him I was willing to postpone our interview, should he feel ill at ease without a duenna, but that for my part I saw no harm in entrusting my honor to his own. His dark violet eyes were alight—with hunger for the wretched token’s power, I surmised. Ah, how wrong I was!
“I confess, ma’am,” he said, seating himself beside me on the divan, “I find these circumstances more than wonderful. Your honor’s safe with me. Heaven witness, there ain’t a single hair of your head I’d see come to harm.”
“Tea, sir?” I asked brightly, interposing a brimming cup.
My heart fluttered. Pericles is the finest of gentlemen, the handsomest example of Nature’s handiwork. What woman in her right mind would not find herself thrilled to hear such words of devotion laid at her feet? Alas, that worm of a soi-disant Duke had envenomed my ear against accepting Pericles’ tribute at face value. My heart perceived the truth, my mind insisted it must all perforce be falsehood. Oh, naughty mind!
I attempted to attract his attention to the family relics presently bestrewing the tea table. “Will it please you to examine these, Mr. Factor?” I offered, still using the name by which he was commonly known beneath our roof. “You may handle any you like while I prepare your dish of tea to your taste. Sugar, I believe? And a spot of milk?” It was to be my chance to introduce the drug.
Oh, happiest chance not taken! His eyes still upon me, he picked up the mementos of Great-grandpapa Thomas one by one in quick succession, with all the polite disinterest of one compelled to view a friend’s butterfly collection. He was done with them too soon to permit me to bring forth the chamois bag, unwrap it from the enrobing black handkerchief, and tip the brown powder into his cup. All too soon—as then I thought his tender eyes were fixed upon me again.
“Very interesting,” he said, giving me to know it was not.
“Oh, sir!” I protested. “Surely you have not examined these objects thoroughly at all. Why, look. Here among them is a box which might contain ... some relic of more than passing fascination for you. I have heard that my great-grandpapa Thomas enjoyed wood carving.” There, I thought, with some smugness. That should draw his notice from me.
I was mistaken. “I don’t care a fig for your great-grandpap, Miss Delilah,” he said somewhat heatedly. “Beggin’ your pardon, but we’re plainspoke folks back home. All this truck’s nothin’ to me. What I come here to say—to say to you—to say—”
Whatever he had come to say, he did not say it. Rather a most disconcerting change came over him. His skin paled. A light dew garlanded his noble brow. He held a hand to his heart and swayed as if taken with the vapors. And through all this access of giddiness, I saw him grit his teeth, clench his eyes tightly shut, and I heard him mutter, “The devil! Oh, the ring-tailed devil! His power’s still on me, bridling my tongue, but I will speak! My heart’ll just about bust itself clean open if I don’t fight off that potion for your sake and have my say.”
I believed him to be speaking of his demonic master and was much troubled. What if he should summon up Beelzebub himself to aid him in all sorts of mischief? To distract him from this suspected spellcasting, I hurriedly seized the very box which I have mentioned and opened it. “Oh, look!” I cried desperately, holding the contents up before his eyes. “What a common-looking stone. Whyever would Great-grandpapa Thomas take such pains to house it in so fine a casket? The box is lined with best Spanish velvet, yet this looks for all the world like an ordinary garden pebble. Did you ever see—?”
“Lord above! A bezoar!” he gasped, and snatched the pebble from my hand. As I stared, dumbfounded at an accused wizard’s easy invocation of the Divine, he p
ressed the stone to his brow, then to his heart. His lips moved over a series of unfamiliar syllables and a faint, rosy luminescence emanated from his person. Then, with a sigh, he slumped back on the divan. “Free,” he breathed. “Free at last.”
“Free,” echoed a cold voice from the doorway. “Free to perish like the vermin you are, Crafter.” I beheld the man I still thought of as the Duke of Kirk-Chatenaire, only now he had seemingly reverted to the fair image of the miniature independent of anyone’s sorcery ... save his own!
Pericles rose from his place, the light of battle in his eyes.
“Curse you, Renfrew Coister! Aye, and curse me for ever lettin’ one of your blood near enough to turn me into the Devil’ s puppet. If I’d’a listened to my mam instead of thinkin’ all her warnin’s of old family enemies was so much woman-talk, you’d never of got near enough to me in Boston to dose me with your demon-dust.”
“I fail to comprehend your complaint, Crafter,” the former “Duke” sneered. “You have benefited amply from our association. For one, I have saved your precious mam the cost of your passage to England, taking all our combined travel expenses wholly upon myself. For another, I have obtained you entree to the home of those very Crafter relations whom she most desired you to seek out, for whatever foolish purpose.”
“She sent me to search out the very thing you’re after, you hound,” Pericles shot back. “She got took with a vision of how some witchy varmint was out to lay hold of old Amer’s carving what Cousin Thomas took off with him to England. That’s why she sent me to fetch it back to where it’ll be kept safe from the likes of you!”
“Your mamma is as meddling an old fool as Amer ever was, I perceive,” the low Coister replied too smoothly.
“You keep your miser’ble tongue off my mam’s good name, Coister!” Pericles shouted, and hurled himself upon the foe. Woe, with but a gesture of that loathsome man’s hand one of Papa’s prized Staffordshire dogs flew from its place on the parlor mantel to smash against the back of my darling’s head. Pericles collapsed—dead, so I fancied—and the value of the remaining ceramic dog was entirely spoilt.
“You have slain him!” I exclaimed.
“A needful action,” the poltroon drawled, blowing imaginary dust from his fingernails. “I did not reckon with old Thomas owning a bezoar. Such stones are found exclusively within the brains of certain select toads and have the power to instantly negate the effects of all drugs and poisons. He is quite out of my power, now. Fortunately, he has served his turn. A clever blind from which to stalk my quarry.” He eyed me meaningly.
I leapt to my feet and dashed for the bell-pull to summon the servants. The wicked man was there before me, either through his own nimbleness or by some supernatural agency. He seized me roughly by the shoulders, brute that he is! “You waste your time,” he said. “The household is dispersed. A spell of suggestion has sent them all away for an indefinite time, the better to permit me a full search of the premises.”
He cast a scornful eye at the objects which I had laid out upon the table. “I had hoped,” he said, “that you might do still more of my work for me, sweet Delilah. When I told you to fetch some of old Thomas’ gimcracks to ‘bait’ the alleged ‘Wizard Crafter,’ I thought Luck might let you bring among them the very token of power I seek. Alas, Dame Fortune proves a chancy jade, as ever. The old geezer must have placed it beneath several layers of warding spells, but no matter—” Here the mountebank reached with one hand into the bosom of his jacket and thrust a forked hazel branch into my unwilling grasp. “We shall find it.”
I recognized the dowsing rod and knew its purpose from my delvings into Mamma’s notebook. Did the boldfaced recreant actually believe that I would lend my abilities to his cause? I let it drop to the floor and trampled it underfoot. The rod remained unharmed, but at least I felt somewhat better for the defiant gesture. “We, sirrah?” I demanded, standing tall. “By we do you dare to intimate you and I?”
Again his hands fell upon me. Oh, how the barbarous fiend laughed! “But naturally, my lovely,” he gloated. “For I own that I came to this house seeking one prize, but I mean to depart with two.”
“Never!” I flung the word in his face and wished it were a dish of scalding tea. “You, Renfrew Coister—if that is your real name—are a liar, a murderer, and a thief. I know not what pit of the fiery Abyss spawned you, but ere I would link my fortunes to your own, I should sooner hurl myself thither. Be sure of it!”
His eyes grew wide. “That is no way to speak of New Haven,” he said. “Very well. You have chosen. Yet while you term me murderer with such high contempt, know that you came within a hairsbreadth of sharing that honorable title with me. What do you think was the true function of that powder I gave you to dose young Crafter’s tea withal?”
His eyes told me that he spoke honestly, for once, and a monumental trembling fastened upon my limbs at the thought of how near I had come to being the agent of an innocent man’s death. Granted, I thought him dead already, but still ... My tender spirit could not bear it. I tumbled into a swoon.
I awoke in Mamma’s study, and the rest you know. I assume that the fiend Coister, by whatever means, conveyed our insensible bodies here so that he might not be embarrassed should any unexpected callers happen to glance in at the parlor windows during his search. Too, the study makes a good prison.
As I write, dear Pericles cons my mamma’s notebook, seeking some deliverance for us. It is our sole hope, he says. Like myself, he is of Crafter blood, and as such possesses that Talent which (so he has told me) has long caused our family to be mistaken for those fallen souls like Renfrew Coister who have obtained their powers through diabolic agencies. We Crafters scorn such, relying rather upon the sovereign and holy forces of Education, Observation, and Scientific Method to cause Staffordshire dogs and other objets d’art to fly across rooms.
The aftereffects of the subjugating potion by which my Pericles was enthralled have unfortunately so affected his memory that he is at a loss to summon up the incantation proper to the destruction of the fulsome Coister. I regret with all my heart that I came so late to my studies, else by this my own Talent (so my darling calls it, as Mamma did—had I but known!) might prove a match for Coister’s vile machinations.
Woe, the time I have wasted in girlhood’s frivolities! The portrait of Great-grandfather Thomas glowers at me from its frame, condemning me, in my mind, for my many shortcomings of character. And yet Mamma said that he was kind to her, in his acerbic way. The thought of Mamma makes me weep, and all I have to dry my tears is this outré black kerchief which late wrapped the pouch of Coister’s evil poison. The temptation to use those fatal grains upon myself is strong. Better death by one’s own hand than dishonor at the hands of Renfrew Coister! For of one thing I am certain now, dear Caroline: He is no gentleman.
Farewell, farewell. God knows when we shall meet again in fields Elysian! Yet ere I die, I should cherish some last word of parting from you, my bosom friend. Therefore please find enclosed with this last missive a measure of blue powder folded into a small parchment envelope. Sprinkle half of it liberally over any letter your compassion might see fit to send me, the while reciting the words which you shall find writ upon the parchment itself. I know not whether this will work for you, having no Crafter blood, but it might be worth a try. Nil desperandum.
The remainder of the powder, if mixed with two parts sheep fat and one part olive oil, will do wonders for your complexion.
You might therefore perchance care to utilize it the night preceding your nuptials and think of one who once was
Your Doomed, Unfortunate, and Miserable Friend,
Delilah
* * *
September 1804
My Most Cherished and Beloved Caroline,
Of course I shall tell you how it happened! I have been trying to tell you for months! Owing you so much, and the ties of Family being what th
ey are, can I do less than offer you full explanation for the astonishing events which were a collateral effect of your late resourcefulness, sagacity, and initiative? Perhaps this letter will meet a kinder Fate than all its predecessors.
In my present circumstances, it is hard to believe that not so long ago I sat bereft, sobbing helplessly into the only kerchief at hand. Its funereal hue did little to lift my spirits. I had just sent you the letter and asked Pericles whether he had found any aid for us yet. Reluctantly he admitted failure.
“I don’t know where your mamma hid her fightin’ spells, but all I’ve found in these books is ord’nary cantrips for easing pain a mite and curing the common cold; nothing special,” he said. “There’s a little spell of animation here might do us some help, but—”
“Animation!” I cried, elated. “Do you mean the words are capable of imparting motility to objects otherwise devoid of autonomous motion?”
“Wellll, I guess,” Pericles replied, scratching his head in that adorably bewildered way he has about him.
“Then might we not use it upon these very books and cause the whole contents of this library to assault the despicable Coister when he returns to claim my person?” I suggested eagerly.
My joy was doomed. “We could try,” Pericles said. “But Renfrew Coister’s slyer’n a frontier fox. He’ll have a plain shielding spell up around him when he comes back, you mark my words. The books’ll just bounce off.”
“And is that useless spell the best you’ve found?” I asked.
“Darlin’, that spell’s all I found,” he replied. “Page forty-three of that blue-bound book over there.” He nodded towards the table where my Greek text lay. Now I knew the full measure of our peril, for I had read that very cantrip while teaching myself the ins and outs of the Attic tongue and accepted it as little more than a linguist’s whimsy. Who would use a true spell to illustrate a point in Greek grammar? In truth, the whole of it was scarcely more than five words, all told. The black handkerchief rose to my eyes once more.
The Crafters Book Two Page 11