A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

“No,” I lied. I toyed with my dessert fork. “All right, a little bit.”

  “The training is going well. My powers are coming back—I can feel them; I have more control, more abilities to touch base with the beyond and to interpret the signs. I need these abilities in order to make a living, among other things, Lily. Not to mention to help keep tabs on you, make sure you’re safe.” He reached out and placed his hand over mine on top of the small café table. “You’re going to need me, you know, if you’re going to work with Aidan to keep the magical forces in this town in check.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  He gave me a crooked smile. “Of the magical forces, or of needing me?”

  “Both. But mostly . . . of needing you.”

  “I know,” he said softly, tossing his napkin atop the table. “But you’ll get used to it. And I will reiterate: You have absolutely nothing to worry about with me and Patience. Nothing. To. Worry. About.”

  I rose and took his arm, and we walked toward Union Square.

  “I’ll go check out Scarlet’s last known address; it’s not far from where I’m headed this afternoon anyway,” said Sailor.

  “Brad said she already moved out.”

  “Mock orange, remember? I’m not ready to trust Brad.”

  I nodded. “Okay, thanks. Sailor, did you notice anything . . . off about Renee?”

  “The cupcake lady? Not particularly. But neither was I looking for anything. Why?”

  “I was wondering whether she might be involved in this whole affair, somehow.”

  “The cupcake lady?”

  “I grant that her association with cupcakes makes it a harder notion to accept. But just because she’s a baker doesn’t mean she can’t also be powerful. After all, how many vintage clothes dealers would you think were superpowerful witches?”

  He grinned. “Superpowerful? Aren’t we getting a little big for our britches?”

  I nodded, acceding to his point. “But remember yesterday the little weasel—”

  “Jamie?”

  I nodded. “Jamie said Renee had recommended him to Autumn. Why would a cupcake baker know anything about lifting curses?”

  “Maybe she had use for his services at some point. That would be no more sinister than going to Patience for a crystal ball reading or to my aunt Renna for Tarot. I know that you don’t engage in magic in exchange for money, Lily, but some of us who are very close to you do.”

  “True. But today when I asked her about it . . . she gave me a funny look.”

  “What kind of funny look?”

  “Sort of . . . blank, funny. Almost like you look when you’ve made contact with the beyond. Sort of spooky.”

  “And yet in my case you’re willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Well, you’re a special case.”

  “A funny look after you ask her about her association with a fellow like Jamie, in front of a group of strangers, might have been due more to embarrassment than anything more. Or . . .”

  “Or . . . ?”

  “Far be it from me to disregard your witchy intuition. I suppose at the very least it indicates that we should be careful around her. But for now, do you think you can stay out of trouble until tomorrow?”

  “I’ll do my darnedest.”

  Chapter 18

  Back at Aunt Cora’s Closet, Maya told me the afternoon had been mellow, with just a few customers in and out. Duke and Conrad had stayed, and they’d decided to order pizza for dinner—with an extra one for Oscar, sans pepperoni.

  I begged off dinner, citing the huge leisurely French lunch I had shared with Sailor. Plus I was nervous about my appointment with the mayor at Aidan’s office, so I wanted to get there early.

  First things first: I went upstairs to my apartment, closed the door, and asked Oscar for some advice.

  His eyes grew huge. “You’re meeting the mayor? Wow. You go, mistress! You mind asking him about a coupla parking tickets . . . ?”

  “How in tarnation did you manage to rack up parking tickets?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes you think you’re gonna be, like, ten minutes, and then one thing leads to another, and you totally forget how much time you’ve got left on the meter.”

  “No, I understand that, but . . . oh, never mind. I don’t want to be late. Do I look all right?”

  He scrunched up his muzzle and made a funny kind of grimace-slash-shrug.

  “You think I should change?”

  “The mayor’s a little . . . traditional. What about a nice suit of some sort?”

  “The only suit I have is from the nineteen forties. Do you think that will do?”

  “Sure! Put it on and I’ll tell you what I think.”

  When I emerged from the bedroom he suggested softening up the brown outfit with the addition of an Hermès scarf in tones of gold, sage green, and rust. Then he told me to try pinning my hair up in a messy bun on top of my head: “It says formal but not stuffy, if you know what I’m saying,” Oscar said.

  I stood back and checked my reflection in the mirror.

  “That’s not bad,” I said. “Not bad at all. I’m impressed, Oscar.”

  “Why do you sound so surprised? I hang around in the shop every day; I pick things up.”

  “You sleep fifty-five minutes out of every hour.”

  “I’m a quick study. I get it from my father’s side: Goblins are smart. Everyone knows this. Here, a few bangles at the wrist and you’re good to go.”

  Oscar. Gobgoyle sidekick and fashion consultant.

  “Okay, any actual advice for my meeting the mayor, beyond wardrobe?”

  “Don’t mention eels.”

  “Eels.”

  “Or seesaws.”

  “Why on earth would I mention eels or seesaws?”

  “Exactly.” He shook his big head. “Good luck. And don’t forget to ask about those parking tickets!”

  * * *

  As I neared Fisherman’s Wharf, I realized I was absurdly early. I didn’t want to cool my heels in Aidan’s office for a full hour and a half. It wouldn’t be much of a detour to pass by Vintage Visions. Maybe I’d stop in next door for a cupcake and try to suss out what was my overactive imagination from what was real.

  I drove down the street, but Renee’s cupcake store was closed. Along with the permanent closing of Vintage Visions Glad Rags, it made the whole street seem a little sad.

  Then I saw Mrs. Morgan across the street, trying to make it down the long flight of wooden stairs with Colonel Mustard’s leash in one hand and a walker in the other.

  I double-parked and rushed out to help her.

  “Mrs. Morgan, are you all right? May I help you?”

  “Oh! Would you? It’s good for me to take Colonel Mustard to the park, but these stairs are daunting. It seems counterintuitive, but going up is so much easier than down, isn’t it? I was better about getting out before, but now that Mr. Morgan has passed . . .”

  I took the dog’s leash and the walker from her hands. Once she could hold on to the rail she seemed able to make it down without a problem.

  “Why don’t I drive you around the corner to the park?” I offered. “Then you only have to walk in one direction.”

  “Oh, would you? That would be lovely.”

  I helped Mrs. Morgan into the passenger side, and Colonel Mustard hopped into the backseat. We arrived at the park in about twenty seconds. I helped Mrs. Morgan out and onto a nearby bench, while Colonel Mustard clambered off to play with a rambunctious black Lab.

  “It’s too bad the cupcake store’s closed,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I would have treated you as a thank-you!”

  “Mmm, too bad. I could have gone for another Chocolate Suicide.”

  “Have you tried the rosemary-orange? That’s my favor
ite.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You do?”

  “From the other day,” I said. “When I brought you one from Renee.”

  “Oh, I forget things sometimes,” she said, waving it off but giving off a little whiff of embarrassment.

  I was forgetful enough as it was; I couldn’t imagine how I might be when I got to be Mrs. Morgan’s age. A forgetful witch could be a handful. . . .

  I had hoped to spot Cody and Eleanor at the dog park, but though there were a few people with their pets, the only person I recognized from the other day was Rolando. But then, it was a different time of day, and most people stuck more or less to their daily schedules. We laughed as Rolando threw the ball for his dog and Colonel Mustard ran after it, trying to beat him to it. Then they both picked up a stick, each carrying one end of it. Fast canine friends.

  “Do you happen to know a young man who comes here sometimes, with a big beard?” I asked Mrs. Morgan. “His name’s Cody?”

  “I’m no good with names, either, child. Forget them just like everything else, I’m sorry to tell you. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “No, I just know him from here. And I saw him once at the cupcake shop. But I wanted to ask him some questions about the Rodchester House of Spirits. Do you happen to know it?”

  “I went there many years ago. But I know Autumn was talking about it recently, and she and Renee had something of a feud going about it.”

  “A feud?”

  “That’s too strong a word, probably,” she said. “They argued, is all.”

  “What about?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. But I believe Renee donated the cupcakes to an event down at the Rodchester House. She and Scarlet went down there.”

  “Scarlet? As in dog walker Scarlet?”

  “Yes, I told you she was always looking for odd jobs.”

  * * *

  I thought over what I had learned from Mrs. Morgan as I drove toward Fisherman’s Wharf.

  Renee had acted like she hardly knew Scarlet. She certainly hadn’t mentioned driving down to San Jose with her. That trip took an hour; it wasn’t as though it could have slipped her mind. They must have spoken. They knew each other.

  So what was I thinking? That they had worked together to kill Autumn with a cursed trousseau? For what possible reason?

  I had no patience for parking like a cowan today, so I used my parking charm to free up a spot and squeezed my Mustang in between two huge SUVs half a block from the newly reconstructed wax museum. This was my first time back since I had been instrumental in burning down the old one. Not that it had been my intent, but I was implicated. They had rebuilt it awfully quickly, but then I supposed they were motivated; it held pride of place right there on Jefferson, the main street of the tourist mecca of Fisherman’s Wharf.

  Sitting in the enclosed ticket booth was Clarinda, a young woman who dressed like a Queen of the Dead. Clarinda had been injured in the disaster that closed the old museum. Apparently she’d recovered and had gotten her old job back.

  “Hi!” I said, pleased to see her even though she’d never given me so much as a smile and always pretended as if she didn’t know me.

  This time was no different. She looked bored out of her mind and put the battered paperback she was reading facedown on the counter, then looked up at me languidly.

  “How many?”

  “Just me. But I don’t need a ticket; I’m letting myself into Aidan’s office.”

  “Yeah, real funny, lady.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Look, I got work to do. Besides, Aidan’s not even here.”

  “That’s why I have his keys,” I said, holding up the ring and tinkling it.

  Her eyes grew huge. “For real?”

  “I have the satchel, too.”

  She waved me through. “It’s behind the Great Entertainers exhibit.”

  The new wax museum was sleek, with lots of chrome and glass surfaces. It didn’t look much like the old place, but it was nonetheless difficult to hold at bay the memory of the wax figures liquefying, their features slipping and pooling, the scent and sensation of burning hot wax on my feet as we made our escape. I shuddered. What would make someone like Aidan, who had resources, want to have his office here?

  Perhaps he gained strength from the wax figures. Poppet magic was a whole supernatural world I was barely getting to know.

  There, behind sculptures of Louis Armstrong and Barbra Streisand, I could barely make out a door. Aidan’s office, I was sure. He had cast a glamour over it; it didn’t make the door invisible, exactly, but most people wouldn’t notice it. You had to be sensitive, and you had to be looking for it.

  As I slipped the key in the lock I hoped I wouldn’t be greeted by Noctemus, Aidan’s pure white long-haired cat. We weren’t fond of each other.

  Gathering strength, I pushed in the door. Aidan’s office was done in what I liked to think of as Late Victorian Gentleman Fortune-Teller. The floor was covered in a plush oriental rug in shades of deep red, sapphire blue, ochre, and green. Heavy red velvet drapes, edged in gold fringe and tassels, covered the windows, leaving the place dimly lit by hand-blown sconces that lent a subtle, orangey light to the room. Two walls were covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with a library that focused on the magical world; many were leather bound and ancient, with scribblings in the margins written by mages and academics. Although a lot of this information was now available on the Internet, there were some nuggets that were available only in this sort of collection. I hadn’t cared much when the original wax museum burned down, but I had winced at the thought of Aidan’s library going up in smoke. Somehow he had pieced it back together over the last few months.

  No sign of a feline nearby. As Aidan’s familiar, Noctemus would have accompanied him on his trip, unless he had a reason for her to stay.

  I tilted my head and perused a few titles on the shelves, and my gaze landed on a big book titled The Rodchester Mystery. Hmm. I took it out. Perhaps some bedtime reading for yours truly?

  A huge mahogany desk dominated the room. The vast surface was clean save for a lamp, a blotter, and a manila envelope with the mayor’s name printed on it. I lifted it; I felt something inside, though not a stack of money. Something with dimension, like a metal or ceramic object. I thought back to the envelope for Jamie I’d found in Autumn’s bedroom. Was this the standard for bribes and shakedowns these days? I wondered.

  There was an upholstered chair for visitors. A globe, an hourglass, a crystal ball, a black mirror for scrying. The signs of a practitioner on display.

  I checked the clock on the bookcase: five fifteen. The mayor wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another forty-five minutes.

  I was alone in Aidan’s office.

  Alone in Aidan’s office. Probably there weren’t a lot of people who could utter those words truthfully. I could rummage through his desk drawers if I wanted, or peek in the closet. I had broken into Aidan’s office at the Ferry Building once, but I’d never been invited in.

  Why would he trust me so implicitly? I was a snoop; surely he knew that.

  But then . . . he probably didn’t keep any real secrets here. Certainly not if he knew I was going to have access to the place.

  I slipped into Aidan’s leather chair behind his desk. The weight of responsibility fell on my shoulders, a tangible burden. It was all well and good to complain about bureaucracy, to tease and joke about Aidan being the witchy godfather of the city. But now . . .

  Not for the first time, I wondered where Aidan actually lived and tried to imagine his everyday experiences. Did he have a personal life? Anyone he cared about? He always seemed so elegant, but I knew for a fact that his image was, in large part, due to the glamour he cast over himself to hide the scars of a demonic battle, years ago.

  Did he ever do anything norma
l, like sitting around in his pajamas, eating ice cream straight from the carton and binge-watching TV dramas?

  Not that I would ever do such a thing . . . at least not very often. What would Sailor think about something like that, if we lived together?

  Best not to allow myself to go down that mental road. Besides, thinking of Sailor and Aidan in the same moment made my mind want to explode.

  So I got up and opened a little half door behind the desk. It led to a six-sided chamber. This was Aidan’s vision chamber, a special room set up to encourage the opening of the portals and the ability to connect to the energy through the ages and to see through the veils. Tiny nooks held a series of magical objects: crystals, pyramids, and black mirrors.

  Essentially, the room helped focus and coalesce power. And it worked. Aidan and I had once combined our energies in the old version of this hexagonal room, and we ended up melting his light fixtures and door hardware.

  I caressed my medicine bag, took a deep breath, and closed myself in.

  Shutting my eyes, I concentrated on opening myself to the forces extant in the tiny chamber; I could already feel the whispers along my skin, the tingling on the back of my neck, what felt like the marching of an army of ants along my spine.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw the horizon beyond the Golden Gate Bridge; it was covered in dark clouds. The coming storm.

  Was this what Aidan had been seeing that had so disturbed him?

  As I watched, the clouds came together. Thunder and lightning shook me to my core. The rain came in a torrent, but it turned to blood as it poured into a bottle that reminded me of a massive version of the lacrimatory from the Vintage Victoriana exhibit: covered in gold and silver filigree, but shaped like an almond rather than a long tube.

  I saw thread being drawn through a pearl, sand pouring through an hourglass. A crown of parsley, a cup of snakes. Ashes. And a phrase: coincidentia oppositorum.

  A loud knock on the door roused me from my vision.

  Startled, I felt my heart pound and I wondered how long I had been in the chamber. Aidan was right; something was coming. I wasn’t sure how to interpret what I had seen, but I knew I needed to be sure Selena was safe. And me, and my friends . . . and this city. Suddenly claustrophobic, I yanked open the door, almost panicked that it would be locked. But it opened easily and I stumbled out.