Curses Are for Cads

by Tamara Berry

  I’m still debating whether or not to point out the obvious when Birdie does it for me.

  “The gold isn’t in there,” she announces in her favorite doomsaying voice. She’s careful not to meet my eyes. “Gloriana played a trick on you—on us all. You should have known better than to trust her.”

  They should have also known better than to trust Birdie, but at this newest burst of insight, Ashley is so startled that the box falls from his hands. For a long, slow-motion moment, I’m afraid Sid is going to make a dive across the field of broken glass, but it hits the floor before she starts moving. There’s a short, splintering sound as the box cracks at the corner, followed by the thud of the lid falling open on its side.

  As if by—yes, I’ll say it—magic, a single gold coin rolls out. We watch, transfixed, as it turns, spins, and eventually settles flat against the wine-spattered tile.

  The coin itself reinforces everything the Stewarts have told me about the cursed gold. Its date is obviously not of recent origin. The rough cut of it, the raised cross on the surface, and the dull color bear out the story of a fortune that’s been sitting untouched for centuries. If it’s a fake, it’s a good one—so good, in fact, that Ashley and Sid don’t even think to question its authenticity.

  “Good God, don’t touch it!” Sid cries as Ashley makes a move to pluck it from the wreckage. Her voice wavers on the edge of hysteria. “What does this mean? Where’s the rest of it?”

  “It’s just as I suspected,” Ashley says. He’s standing half-hunched, his fingers hovering over the gold coin but not making contact. “Someone took it. Someone knew Father hid it here and then stole it. That’s why all this is happening to us now.”

  “Is that true, Birdie? Madame Eleanor?” Sid looks back and forth between us. “It’s really gone?”

  As was the case when we arrived at the castle last night—and, indeed, at breakfast this morning—Birdie is content to stand back and allow me to smooth the edges. Like so many things about the woman, this habit is starting to annoy me. How convenient it is for her to make profound statements and grand gestures and then leave me to deal with the mess that’s left behind.

  “That would appear to be the case,” I say. Since we can hardly leave the gold coin on the floor—and because no one else seems willing to touch it—I palm it as though it means no more to me than a quarter dropped at the laundromat. The cross stamped on the surface is crude but beautiful. I run my thumb over it to find it much smoother than it looks. “How many of these would you say are supposed to be in the box?”

  Neither Stewart sibling answers me, so I look to Birdie.

  “Several thousand, according to most reports,” she says.

  I nod a quick thanks for the information, though I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it. What I do know is that gold in such a quantity would be heavy, difficult to transport, and even more difficult to sell. What I don’t know is, well, everything else.

  I don’t know where the rest of the gold is, I don’t know who has it, and most important, I don’t know what Birdie is playing at by uncovering it in this way.

  I tuck the coin in my bra, since this dress doesn’t have any pockets and I’m not so crass as to shove it in my shoe. “I’ll hold on to this,” I say. Lest anyone think I’m about to add theft to my list of sins, I add, “Gold is a powerful spiritual conductor even when it isn’t cursed. When it is, it’s practically a talisman. As long as I keep this on my person, the curse will have to go through me before it strikes anyone else. Right, Birdie?”

  As before, Birdie is content to let me have my way. She nods once.

  “So what happens now?” Sid asks, beginning to wilt. She seems exhausted by the day’s events, barely able to hold up her head in the face of so much turmoil.

  “You’re going to head to your room and take a nap,” I command. Considering how much work Elspeth must have to do to keep a place of this size clean and running on her own, I add, “Ashley, if you could find a broom and mop, we can get started clearing this away.”

  “I?” He blinks at me, startled. “But ‘few tasks are more like the torture of Sisyphus than housework, with its endless repetition. ’ ”

  Tell that to poor Elspeth, I think. Since quotes seem to be the only way Ashley is capable of communicating, I reply with, “Manual labor is the privilege of the enlightened.”

  His brow furrows as he seeks to place my piece of wisdom in the annals of literary history. Since I just this moment made it up, I imagine his brow will remain like that for the foreseeable future.

  “A nap,” Sid echoes weakly. She passes a pale hand over her even paler forehead. “Yes. I think I would like to lie down for a bit, if you don’t think it too rude of me to leave you on your own again.”

  Ashley notices his sister’s waning state and immediately offers his aid. “I’ll help you to your room. I’m sorry, Madame Eleanor, but she won’t want to be alone at a time like this.”

  As true as that may be, what I really suspect is that Ashley is avoiding something—and I don’t mean the menial task of housework. This makes the second time he’s hastened away when faced with the prospect of some one-on-one Eleanor Wilde time. Once, and I’m willing to look the other way. Twice, and my suspicions are roused.

  “Of course,” I say sweetly. “I’ll come find you just as soon as I confer with my colleague here.”

  Ashely nods, but there’s a twitch to his mustache that indicates he’s not excited at the prospect of our future meeting.

  “And don’t worry,” I say as they begin to head toward the door. I give the coin in my bosom a pat. “I’ll draw the negative energies toward me for as long as I’m able. That should give you enough time to rest and rally your resources before we take the next step.”

  * * *

  After an interlude like the one we’ve just experienced, the thing I want most in the world is a moment to collect myself—to think. Things are happening too quickly, and too far out of my control, for me to even pretend that I have answers.

  I want to search this wine cellar. I want to examine that box more closely. I want to lock everyone in their rooms and tell them to sit still long enough for me to make some real headway in finding the missing gold.

  Birdie knows this, of course. She knew it last night when she wouldn’t let me out of my room to search the castle, and she knows it now by refusing to leave the wine cellar. In fact, if there’s one thing that’s been popping up with painful regularity, it’s that she knows too much.

  So that’s where I decide to start.

  “How did you know it was in here?” I ask as I whirl to face her. “Who’s been feeding you information?”

  There’s just enough light in the room for me to make out Birdie’s smug smile. “I told you already. My Montague. He was able to contact Gloriana straightaway.”

  I’m not buying it. “Your spirit guide has a direct link to the former queen of England?”

  “Your sister doesn’t?”

  The quick way Birdie replies does little to endear her to me. If she had any idea how much I treasure those moments with Winnie, how fleeting and precious every second of contact is, she wouldn’t use her as a way to bait me.

  “I don’t know,” I reply with complete honesty. It seems as though one of us should. Otherwise, we’re just going to keep tiptoeing around half-truths until one of us gives up. “She might. I’m rarely able to get a good hold on her. She’s usually the one to contact me, not the other way around.”

  At this confession, some of Birdie’s smugness drops. An expression of genuine interest seems to take over . . . if anything about this woman can be genuine.

  “How interesting. Under what conditions?” Without waiting for me to answer, she rushes on to add, “On the train, you seemed to go outside yourself for a moment. You didn’t move, not even to breathe. Was she talking to you then? Telling you about the shoes and the red seats?”

  I have no way of answering that, since I don’t know. I think it
was Winnie who sent me that vision of Harvey’s death, but I can’t be sure. She tried so hard to prevent me from pushing forward, warned me against what I was about to see. It was almost as though she was protecting me from it instead.

  “You don’t know how to control it, do you?” Birdie asks suddenly. “No one has ever showed you how.”

  “What?” That one syllable is all I can utter. It’s more of an exhaled breath than a word, the air punched from my chest.

  “I can help you, if you’d like. There are ways to strengthen the bond between the two of you.”

  In that moment, I want so badly to believe her. Opportunities to meet other mediums—fake or otherwise—are incredibly rare. If there’s even a sliver of a chance that Birdie White is the real thing, then I should be doing everything in my power to learn from her. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, and I don’t have any way to find out. On a good day, my brother thinks I’m a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Nicholas humors me, but with the jaundiced eye of a man who’s been around the world a few times. And the one person I know who has actual spiritual leanings, a witch in my home village, deals more in spells than spiritualism.

  I want to understand. I want to trust. I want to learn.

  “My private readings typically run at a thousand pounds an hour, but I’d be willing to sit down with you for free the first session,” Birdie says. “As a courtesy between professionals.”

  My hope dies before it has a chance to do anything but flicker, leaving a strong aftertaste of bile in my mouth. This woman knows no more about contacting the spirits than I do. What she does know, however, is how to leverage a broken woman’s emotions.

  “Thank you, but I’ll be fine,” I say, my jaw so tight it feels close to cracking. “She’s usually more communicative than this, but I don’t have my cats with me right now. Winnie is always more active in an animal’s presence. She uses them to strengthen her hold on this world.”

  I realize my mistake the moment the words leave my lips. Birdie visibly brightens, her whole body rising as though moving up a flagpole. “A witch’s familiar?” she asks, mostly to herself. “Yes. Yes. Why didn’t I think of that . . . ?”

  “It’s not that big of a deal,” I’m quick to say. “I don’t even know that having Beast around helps draw Winnie closer to me. It’s just a working theory I have. Forget I said anything.”

  “I’ll mention it to Montague,” Birdie promises. “He might have some ideas about how we can use it to our advantage. You were wise to mention it.”

  Hearing those words spoken aloud—and in Birdie’s self-satisfied way—reinforces everything I’ve come to suspect about this woman. Professionally speaking, I can only admire what she’s doing. She’s using my emotions to exploit my weaknesses. She’s planting a seed of hope in a place where I desperately want it to thrive. There’s no better—or faster—way to manipulate a person than that.

  Personally speaking, I’m terrified of what will happen if we continue under the same roof. A few more days of this and I’m going to start twittering and fluttering like Sid every time Birdie enters the room.

  Since Birdie shows every sign of wanting to continue this conversation, I decide the time is right to make my escape. She hasn’t provided any information about finding that box, and I have no idea how she managed to make herself feel so cold when I touched her, but I don’t dare stay in this room in my current state.

  Logic, not emotion, is the way to the bottom of this.

  Evidence, not a conversation with the dead, is how you find the answers to a man’s mysterious death.

  I’m halfway out the door before Birdie makes any attempt to stop me. “By the way, Madame Eleanor,” she calls as though the balance between us hasn’t just fallen decidedly in her favor. “I’m curious. What do you plan to do with that coin?”

  I pause on the threshold, the press of gold against my skin suddenly the only sensation I have. “I don’t know yet,” I say truthfully. “Why? Do you want it?”

  Her eyes grow wide, and she shakes her head with a vehemence that seems all too convincing. “Not I. I warned you already how powerful this curse is. There’s no spell in my playbook that would make me willing to risk it.”

  “Not even if Montague promises to protect you?”

  Birdie barely manages to repress a shudder. “No, my dear.”

  “Not even if I promise to protect you?”

  She hesitates, almost as though she’s considering the offer. In the end, she only shakes her head. “Not even then. Though, to be fair, I might take up the offer if your Winnie were to make it.”

  Chapter 9

  The Stewarts abandon me to my fate for the rest of the day.

  In the name of fairness, it could be that they’re afraid of being nearby while I carry that gold coin nestled against my bosom, but I’m not feeling particularly fair. Both Ashley and Otis must know I want a word with them, and, anticipating that I’d lose no time in seeking them out, have gone into hiding. Conversely, Sid is sound asleep in her bed, and looks so tired and pale that I don’t have the heart to wake her.

  “Elspeth it is,” I say with determined cheer. “Feel free to join me in questioning her, Winnie. I have a feeling I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  Winnie doesn’t respond. Like the rest of the inhabitants of this house, she seems only interested in being mysterious and disinterested, unwilling to help me do any actual work. Then again, she could just be mad at me for being so stupid as to give all our secrets away to Birdie. I’m none too delighted about it myself.

  Locating Elspeth isn’t a difficult task. As I anticipated, she’s been left holding the broom—literally. The door to the wine cellar is propped open, the rich, tangy scent of age-old fermentation mixing with citrus-based cleansers to make an interesting and not altogether unpleasant aroma.

  “Can I help?” I ask as I approach the door. In yet another burst of practical common sense, Elspeth has set up a large framed mirror that leans against the opposite hallway wall. It’s perfectly angled to catch the light from a nearby window and cast it into the room. The light’s not as bright as an actual bulb would be, but her setup does facilitate the task of locating all those broken pieces of glass.

  “If you’ve a mind to it, I could use the hands.” Elspeth holds out a large black garbage bag. “I shouldn’t put a guest to work, but my back’s not what it used to be.”

  Although I’d already decided that her common sense made her a woman to admire, I like her even more for her easy acceptance of my offer. Taking the bag, I begin to pluck the larger pieces of glass from the floor and toss them in.

  “That generator must go out quite a bit,” I say with a pointed look at her mirror. “Either that or you’ve been here since before electricity was invented.”

  She pauses to grin at me. Her cheeks push up into twin roses. “Now, how am I to take that, so young and spry as I am?”

  I grin back. “The generator, then. I thought as much.”

  “It’s none so bad. The young Stewarts don’t care for it when the lights go out, but old Mr. Stewart—that’s our Glenn—liked the peace and quiet.” She shrugs and starts sweeping a wet pile of glass toward the center of the floor. “Come to that, so do I. It’s more work, but nothing forces folks to slow down like a return to their roots.”

  “I like it, too,” I admit. At Elspeth’s lifted brows, I add, “I own an old thatched cottage that’s practically falling down around me. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

  “Nor I,” she says simply. She pauses a moment to lean on her broom. I suspect she’s not looking at the destroyed remains of the wine cellar so much as the structure around it, this ancient old castle so meticulously and carefully maintained—and, if the current state of affairs is any indication, by her hands alone.

  I recognize the moment for the opportunity it is. “What happens to you now, if you don’t mind my asking? Are Sid and Ashley likely to keep you on as housekeeper, or will they make a
lternate arrangements?”

  “Oh, I’m not going anywhere. Airgead Island will always need a keeper.” There’s a pride in her voice that’s similar to how the Stewarts discuss the unquestionable authority of the curse. It’s almost as though they take perverse pleasure in being set in their ways—as if life, this far from civilization, is required to bear a heavy cost. “Glenn was kind enough to put that in his will. I have tenancy for life.”

  This is the first time anyone has directly addressed Glenn Stewart’s death, and I’m not about to let it go to waste.

  “That was kind of him,” I agree. “Everything else goes to his children, I presume? The property, the money . . . the gold?”

  “Aye. It’s all very straightforward. The Stewarts have always been careful about that. No mistakes, no surprises.”

  I’m not sure how much to believe her. My instinct says she’s telling the truth, since the details surrounding Glenn’s death bear out her tale. He died alone and under mysterious circumstances, but no official inquest has been made. No one is stoking the police into action, and no one is trying to pin a murder on anyone else in an attempt to take everything. I’ve been around this kind of situation enough to know that the authorities are quick to jump on anything that smacks of greed.

  Then again, there’s also the small matter of the family solicitor dying under similarly mysterious circumstances—and right after he sent Otis here to counteract the evil influences of a medium. That means Harvey knew something was going on with the gold—that it needed, at all costs, to be protected.

  But protected from what—or from whom—I’m unwilling to say.

  “Is it true that you and the other medium found a piece of the gold?” Elspeth asks, almost as though her train of thought matches my own. “Right here in this very room?”

  “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

  “Oh, not me. I’ve seen it before. Not”—she’s quick to add—“recently, but years back, before dear Katherine passed away. I didn’t much care for it then, and I certainly don’t care for it now. But if you wouldn’t mind giving my grandsons a peek, they’d be right glad of it. They’re keen on everything to do with pirates.”