by Sarah Penner
Without so much as a croak or groan, as though grateful to be discovered at last, the hidden door swung open.
With one shaky hand against the wall, I clutched my dying cell phone and lifted it up. Ahead of me, the beam of light pierced the dark. Then, in breathless, disbelieving silence, I took in what lay before me: all that had been lost and buried for far too long.
19
Eliza
February 10, 1791
I woke upon a dry, clear morning to the sound of a carriage rushing by, its iron wheels screeching against the cobblestone road. I’d slept a street away from Nella’s shop in a protected crevice at the back of Bartlett’s Passage. It was damper and less comfortable than the shed inside which I had rested two nights ago, but still better than my warm cot at the haunted Amwell home.
As soon as I woke, I clenched my teeth, waiting to see if the bloody belly pains had returned—if Mr. Amwell’s spirit, no longer fooled, had made its way back to me. But that was not the case. The pains had now stayed away for a full day, the trickle of blood reduced to almost nothing. And though I was grateful for it, I felt sure it was because Mr. Amwell lay in wait for me elsewhere. The idea of it angered me; he may have been master over me in days past, but it was not so any longer. I was not his toy, his plaything in death.
I thought, too, of Lady Clarence’s dinner party last evening. If all went as planned, Miss Berkwell should now be dead. A frightening vision, but I remembered what Nella told me about betrayal, and vengeance as medicine. Perhaps now, without the unwelcome presence of Miss Berkwell, Lady Clarence would find a way to tend her marriage and make a baby.
Unsteady on my feet, I lifted myself from the ground and pressed down my skirts, which were grimy and in need of a wash. My hand brushed the cover of the book inside my gown’s pocket: the book of magick. Locating the address within was my most pressing task, for I had little else in which to hope, and no other way to rid the Amwell house of ghosts.
I began to make my way to the bookshop on Basing Lane. A night of poor sleep had left me feeling wild, like an animal. My hands shook and a headache beat behind my eyes as the people near me moved about in a watery haze. Messenger boys raced their carts against one another, fishmongers waved away the gulls, and an elderly man slapped the rear of his goat with a flimsy reed. As my toes pushed uncomfortably against my tight shoes, I could not ignore the momentary temptation of returning home, or even to the servant’s registry office, where Mrs. Amwell first found me. I was a hundred times more desirable now than I was then. I was literate, for one; I could read and write and had been employed by a wealthy family. Surely my skills would be valued elsewhere, in a home not teeming with unsettled spirits.
I thought on this as I walked to the magick bookshop, but the idea quickly lost its hold as I considered the many reasons that I could not bear to run away—not least of which was my devotion to Mrs. Amwell. She would return from Norwich in a few weeks’ time, and by then I hoped to have rid the house of Mr. Amwell—and Johanna—altogether. Besides, I could not imagine any other girl writing my mistress’s letters. It felt a very special task, reserved only for me.
And a spirit could move, too; if the spirit of Mr. Amwell was able to seize me and follow me to Nella’s shop, what was to stop him from haunting me all over London? Even leaving the city and returning to Swindon would not solve this, for there was no such thing as escape from something that could float through walls. If I could not run from his spirit, I must find a way to dispel it.
There was so much at stake in this very moment, and removing Mr. Amwell’s spirit seemed all that mattered to me. So I was pleased, finally, to come upon Basing Lane, and I hoped to find the bookshop without trouble. But my joy did not last long; my eye passed from one storefront to another—a haberdashery and a baker, among others—and I frowned. The bookshop was not there. I walked another block, retraced my steps and even looked for the shop across the street. As I searched, I felt plagued by endless discomforts: tears pricking my eyes, frigid air burning my throat, a blister stinging and wet on the bottom of my foot.
Walking again to the end of Basing Lane, the whistle of wind rushing between buildings caught my attention. Set back from the lane was a shoulder-width alley, and at one side of this was a building with a wooden sign: Shoppe of Books and Baubles. I gasped; the bookshop, which I’d walked right past several times, was tucked behind the other storefronts, as though it meant to disguise itself. If Nella were here, she would have been disappointed that I had not unraveled the mystery sooner.
I placed my hand on the doorknob and stepped into the shop. It was not a large place, about the same size as Mrs. Amwell’s drawing room, and it was deserted save a single young man at the counter, his face buried in the spine of a thick book. This gave me a moment to take in my surroundings, which consisted of several shelves of dusty children’s trinkets and trifles at the front of the store, and a small area of books at the back behind the store attendant. The shop was humid and smelled of yeast, probably on account of the bread bakery nearby. I closed the door and the bell jingled softly.
The attendant looked up at me over his eyeglasses, eyes widening. “May I help you?” His voice cracked on the last word. He was young, only a few years older than me.
“The books,” I said, motioning to the shelves. “May I browse them?”
He nodded, then returned his attention to his book. I crossed the room in only four or five strides. As I stepped closer to the shelves, I saw that each shelf had a small sign identifying its subject. Eagerly, I read them: History and Medical Arts and Philosophy. I scanned quickly, wondering if the book on midwife magick might have come from the Medical Arts section, or if there might also be a shelf with books on the occult.
I made my way to a second case of books. Squatting low to better read the small signs at the base of the bookshelves, I let out a gasp; there, at the very bottom on a single half shelf, was a sign that read Magickal Arts. There were only a dozen or so volumes on the subject, and I intended to inspect them all. I began with the book on the far left, letting it fall open in my hands, but I cringed at the images printed onto the first few pages: large blackbirds with massive swords through their hearts; triangles and circles in a variety of strange patterns; and a long passage written in a language I could not understand. I carefully placed it back on the shelf, hoping for better luck.
The next book was half the size, both in height and width, with soft, sand-colored binding. I turned several pages until I found the title, printed in a small, even font: Spells for the Modern Household. I was pleased to find that it appeared written entirely in English—no strange symbols in this one—and the first few pages revealed a wide assortment of everyday “recipes,” although not the sort required to make a pudding or a stew:
Elixir to Extract Child’s Tendency to Lie
Brew to Assign Infant’s Gender In Utero
Tincture to Create Great Wealth Within a Fortnight
Brew to Reduce Age in the Woman’s Body
On and on they read, each stranger than the last, but I felt it possible that here within this book, I might locate something useful. I found a more comfortable seated position and tucked my legs underneath me. I continued to read each and every recipe, sure not to overlook a single one, and I searched especially for anything in reference to spirits or ghosts.
Concoction for Erasure of Memory, Specific or General
Philter to Instill Affection in Object of Desire, Even Inanimate
Elixir for Restoring Breath to the Deceased Infant’s Lungs
I paused, bumps forming on my skin, as I felt a warm breath against the back of my neck.
“My own mother used that spell,” came the young voice, mere inches behind me.
Ashamed of the book in my hands, I snapped it shut.
“Sorry,” he continued, his voice backing away from me. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
It was the shop boy. I turned to face him, seeing now more clearly the pimples on his chin and the roundness of his eyes. “It’s okay,” I mumbled, the book lying limp in my lap.
“A witch, then, are you?” he asked, a sly grin at the edge of his lips.
I shook my head, embarrassed. “No, just curious, is all.”
Satisfied with this response, he nodded. “I’m Tom Pepper. Pleasure to have you in the shop.”
“Th-thank you,” I muttered. “I’m Eliza Fanning.” And though I wanted badly to open the book once again and continue my search, I found that Tom, up close, was not so unpleasant to my eyes.
He glanced down at the book. “I wasn’t lying, you know. That book was my mother’s.”
“So your mother is a witch, then?” I was only teasing, but he didn’t laugh as I’d hoped he would.
“She was not a witch, no. But she lost her babies—one after the other, nine of them before me—and in her desperation, she used the elixir on the page you just closed. May I?” He motioned to the book, waited for my nod and gingerly took it from my lap. He flipped to the page I had just been reading and pointed to it. “‘Elixir for Restoring Breath to the Deceased Infant’s Lungs,’” he read aloud. Then, looking up at me, he added, “According to my father, I was born dead, like all the others. This spell brought me back to life.” He tensed, as though the revelation pained him to share. “If my mother were still alive, she could tell you about it herself.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, our faces close.
Wetting his lips, he looked to the front of the shop. “This is my father’s shop. He opened it after my mother died. The front, where you came in—those baubles all belonged to her. Things she collected for the babies over the years. Most of it never touched or used.”
I could not help but ask, “When did your mother die?”
“Soon after I was born. Later that week, in fact.”
I covered my mouth with my hand. “So you were her first baby that lived, and then she did not...”
Tom picked at a fingernail. “Some say that is the curse of magick. Why books like the one you’re holding should be burned.” I frowned, not understanding what he meant, and Tom went on. “The curse of magick, they believe, is that for every reward, there is a great loss. For every spell that goes right, there is something else—in the real, natural world—that goes terribly wrong.”
I looked at the book in his hands. It would take a great while, a couple of hours, at least, to read every spell within. And even then, who knew if I would find something that might prove useful? “Do you believe in the curse of magick?” I asked.
Tom hesitated. “I don’t know what I believe. I only know that this book is very special to me. I would not be here without it.” He then set the book gently in my lap. “I would like you to have it. You may take it for free, if you like.”
“Oh, I can pay you, surely—” I reached a sweaty hand into my pocket, fumbling for a coin.
He put out a hand but did not touch me. “I’d rather it go to someone I like than a complete stranger.”
At once I felt hot, almost unwell, as my stomach turned loops inside of me. “Thank you,” I said, hugging the book close to my chest.
“Just promise one thing,” he said. “If you find a spell in there that works, it will be two for two. Promise me you will stop by and tell me of it.”
“I promise,” I said, untangling my tingling legs to stand. And though I did not want to go, I had no reason to stay. Making my way toward the door, I turned back a final time. “And if I try a spell and it does not work?”
This seemed to take him by surprise. “If the spell does not work... Well, then the book cannot be trusted, and you must come back to exchange it for another.” His eyes glinted mischievously.
“So either way, then—”
“I’ll be seeing you. Good day, Eliza.”
I walked out the door in a dizzy haze, feeling a strange, new feeling, one I had not felt in my twelve years of life. It was foreign and nameless to me, but I felt sure it was not hunger or fatigue, for neither of those things had ever made my step so light and my face so warm. I hurried west, eventually walking along the south edge of St. Paul’s churchyard, to find a bench in the soft, quiet frontage of the church. A place where I could read every single spell and, perhaps, find one to take to the Amwell house today.
With all my might, I wished to find the perfect spell inside this book of maybe-magick. Something not only to remove spirits and mend all that was broken, but something that would permit me to share the good news with Tom Pepper as soon as possible.
20
Nella
February 10, 1791
The demon who decided, long ago, to crawl its way through my body—crunching and curling my bones, hardening my knuckles, wrapping its fingers around my wrists and hips—had begun, finally, to move upward into my skull. And why wouldn’t it? The skull is made of bone, just as what might be found in the hand or the chest. It is as susceptible as anything else.
But whereas this demon inflicted tightness and heat on my fingers and wrists, in my skull it took another form: an agitation, a tremor, a persistent tap tap tap inside of me.
Something was approaching, I felt sure of it.
Would it come from within, my bones melting into a single, hardened mass, leaving me crippled on the floor of my shop? Or would it come from the outside, dangling in front of me like a rope at the gallows?
* * *
I missed Eliza the moment I sent her away, and now, as I picked rosemary leaves from the stem, the lack of her companionship was as sticky and sharp as the residue on my fingers. Had it been cruel of me to dismiss her, no matter how petty I considered her fears? I did not truly believe the Amwell estate swarmed with ghosts, as Eliza seemed to think—but did my beliefs carry any weight if I was not the one sleeping at the place?
I wondered how she felt, returning to the Amwell house last night with a gown made filthy by our efforts, and gloves worn through, and a silly book on magick that couldn’t possibly remove ghosts that existed only in her colorful imagination. I hoped, in time, she would learn to replace such fanciful thoughts with real matters of the heart: a husband to love, children to feed, all the things I would never have for myself. And I prayed Eliza woke this morning anew, never to think of me again. For as much as I missed her pleasant chatter, longing was something with which I was well acquainted. I would manage just fine.
I had made my way through four stems of rosemary when there was a sudden commotion in the storage room: a panicked cry, then the incessant hammering of a fist against the hidden wall of shelves. I peeked out of the cleft to see Lady Clarence, her eyes wide as saucers. Given my heavy sense of foreboding over the course of the preceding day, I could not say I was all that surprised by her unexpected arrival. Still, her manner alarmed me.
“Nella!” she shouted, her hands flinging wildly about in front of her. “Hello? Are you in there?”
I opened the door quickly and ushered her in, no longer taken aback by the untarnished silver buckles on her shoes and the scalloped edges of her taffeta gown. But as I gazed over her, I noticed the material at the bottom edge of her skirt was smudged, as though she had traveled part of the way on foot.
“I have not more than ten minutes,” she cried, nearly falling into my arms, “and when I left, it was under pretense, something about the estate.”
I frowned at her nonsensical words, confusion surely writ all over my face.
“Oh, something has gone terribly wrong,” she said. “God, I will never...”
As she dabbed at her eyes, choking over her words, my mind raced with possibilities. Had she accidentally disposed of the powder? Had she managed to rub some in her eye or on her lips? I searched her face for blisters, pockets of pus, but saw none.
“Shhh,” I said, quieting her. “What has happe
ned?”
“The beetles—” she hiccuped, like she had just sucked down something bitter. “The beetles. It all went awry.”
I could hardly believe my ears. Did the beetles cause no harm? I was sure that Eliza and I had gone to the correct field and harvested the blister beetles, rather than their harmless, bluish cousin. Yet it had been so dark, and how could I know for sure? I should have tested a few of them for the familiar burn upon the skin before roasting them.
“She is still alive?” I asked her, my hand on my throat. “I assure you, they were meant to be fatal.”
“Oh.” She laughed, a twisted grin upon her face, fat tears spilling down her cheeks. I could not make sense of it. “She is very much alive.”
My heart surged for a moment. Intermingled with the dismay that my poison failed, I was greatly relieved, too, that a woman did not die at my hands. Perhaps this gave me another chance to change Lady Clarence’s mind. But as I considered this, a knot formed in my belly. What if Lady Clarence thought I’d given her a false poison? What if she meant to reveal my shop to the authorities, as she had originally threatened?
Instinctively, I took a step back toward my register, but she went on. “It is him. My husband.” She let out a wail and covered her face. “He is dead. Lord Clarence is dead.”
My mouth dropped open. “H-how?” I stammered. “Did you not watch your lady’s maid give it to the mistress?”
“Don’t blame this on me, woman,” she snapped back. “My maid put it into the fig dessert liqueur, just as planned.” Lady Clarence fell into the chair and took a steadying breath as she unraveled her story for me.
“It was after dinner. Miss Berkwell sat some ways away from me and my husband, the Lord Clarence, was at my right. I watched from across the room as Miss Berkwell took a sip, a single sip, of the fig liqueur from her pretty crystal glass. Within seconds, she reached her hand to her throat, a lascivious smile on her face. She began to cross and uncross her legs—I could see it all, Nella! I could see it so clearly, what was happening to her—but I began to fear that someone might catch me looking, and so I turned to my left and began to speak with my dear friend Mariel, and she told me all about her recent visit to Lyon, and on and on she went, until after a short while I dared to look over at Miss Berkwell again.”