A Toxic Trousseau

by Juliet Blackwell

  “The very one!”

  Sailor was already locating the room on his map.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s take care of those waivers and have something to eat. Then Sailor and I will do a quick walk-through just to see what we’re dealing with before you cast your circle. I know it’s a tourist attraction and this is all fun and games, but . . . we want to keep it that way.”

  Chapter 21

  Sailor led the way.

  We walked in silence; back out through the formal entry hall, down one corridor, up another. I peeked into open rooms as we passed. Everything on this main floor was marked by the opulence of the Victorian era: rich, dark woods gleaming with French polish; heavy velvet and brocade drapes bordering intricate leaded and stained windows; Tiffany lamps hanging from the ceiling and studding the paneled walls. The fabrics were embellished with tassels and fringe, the furniture with knobs and stiles and curlicues.

  Sailor would pause and check the map now and then at the junctions of hallways and foyers and parlors.

  “You’re good at reading that floor plan,” I said.

  “I like maps. No GPS for me. I need to be able to orient myself.”

  “Yet another of the reasons I like you. Do you feel anything?” I asked as we walked down one hall and around another. We went up one staircase that circled back down, depositing us at the base of the stairs we had just mounted, leading nowhere.

  “The question, in a place like this, is what to feel and what to ignore. It’s jammed with sensations.”

  I heard a muffled banging. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hammers.”

  “What?”

  “According to what I’ve read, Sally Rodchester employed thirteen carpenters, twenty-four hours a day, for thirty-eight years to build this place. They didn’t put down their tools until the moment she died.” He turned down a corridor, then opened a strange little door that looked like a cupboard. We had to step over a foot-tall threshold, but the portal opened onto a different section of the house. “One or two are still on the job.”

  “Do you think all the coven sisters can hear it? Or . . . is it just us?”

  “Between the chatting and the margaritas, I’m sure they’ll hear only what they want to hear.”

  “Now you sound like the very sweet and sexist Clyde.”

  “We both know the Welcome coven is here for the goodwill, not the icky stuff. Let’s just make sure they don’t have to deal with any less welcoming than they are.”

  We walked down a broad hallway, and Sailor stopped short in front of a huge mirror built into the wall. The back was flaking slightly, as antique mirrors tended to do, and the border was cracked in a few places.

  “Now, this is interesting . . . ,” he said, looking into the mirror and then glancing behind us. Over and over.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Sailor took me gently by the upper arms and positioned me in front of the mirror.

  “Tell me what you see in the mirror.”

  “A very handsome man. Brooding and intense, but with a heart of go—”

  “Cute. What do you see besides us. Anything else?”

  I shook my head, wondering what I was supposed to see—or not. “All I see is the wall behind us, and an empty hat rack.”

  “Is there a crack in the wall?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I see a big crack in the plaster. And something that looks like a worker’s smock hanging on the rack.”

  I craned my neck to look at the wall and the empty rack, then back in the mirror. What I saw reflected the here and now.

  “Does that happen to you a lot? That you have visions in mirrors?”

  “Not a lot, no. But it’s something I’ve been working on. As you know, mirrors can be powerful. This is the only one I’ve seen in this house so far.”

  “You’re right, I haven’t noticed any others.”

  “If Sally Rodchester was a spiritualist, she might have avoided mirrors for that very reason. Too many issues with spirit portals, the backward world, that sort of thing. And right this moment, there’s a worker standing behind us.”

  I whirled around but saw nothing but air.

  Sailor chuckled slightly. “Don’t let him spook you. He’s just checking on the place. He put his heart and soul into this building.”

  “Quite literally?”

  Sailor nodded. “I suppose you could say that. Okay, let’s check on the Russet Room before the sisters draw down the moon. How much time do we have?”

  I checked his watch. “They planned on midnight mountain time, which is ten o’clock here.”

  He gave me a questioning look.

  “Bronwyn was born in that time zone. It’s her birthday, so it’s a thing. Apparently the staff even agreed to ring Mrs. Rodchester’s tower bell to mark the occasion. Anyway, it’s all margaritas and games until then.”

  “I didn’t think covens formed the circle after drinking.”

  “They don’t, not usually. It’s sort of a special occasion. A birthday circle.”

  We passed through a second kitchen and a series of pantries. For a woman who lived alone and didn’t entertain, the Widow Rodchester had quite the extensive party facilities. Sailor showed me a second-story door that opened to the outside with no stairs, another that opened onto a wall. Several windows led from one interior room to another, or were blocked by walls.

  I started counting: thirteen panels in the ceiling of the dining room, thirteen lights in the chandelier, thirteen panes in the spiderweb-patterned windows, thirteen jewels studding the glass. We walked up a stairway with thirteen steps and down a corridor with thirteen sconces.

  “There’s someone in that corner, floating up near the ceiling,” Sailor said quietly, maneuvering himself so he stood between me and the shadowy corner.

  I didn’t see anything . . . but I could feel the shiver, a feeling like a puff of cold air on the back of my neck.

  “Keep walking,” said Sailor.

  “What was it?” I asked quietly when we reached the end of the hallway.

  “Hard to say. A random occurrence, I think, nothing to worry about. An old house like this hosts all sorts of energy. Everything from residual memory in the walls to the occasional sentient spirit. I get a sense that woman may be one of the housekeepers; this house seems to have a way of keeping people around. She won’t bother anybody.”

  “Oh. Good, then.” I kept walking, but my nerves made me chatty. “Hey, remember when we went through the Paramount Theater after hours? That was fun.”

  He glared at me over his shoulder. “That wasn’t ‘fun.’ You practically got me killed.”

  “Not really. I mean . . . Okay, maybe it did go wrong. But I was thinking about how you went with me and helped me even though you didn’t even like me.”

  He muttered something.

  “Sorry—what did you say?”

  “I said I liked you.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course I did.” He paused and turned to me. “Why else do you think I went with you?”

  “I thought Aidan forced you to go.”

  “He told me to go, but like I said, theaters are jammed with ghosts. They give me the creeps. I wouldn’t have gone, but I knew you’d go without me if I refused. And I was worried about you.”

  “You were? Why didn’t you say anything? You were always so . . . grumpy.”

  “I was smitten.”

  I had to smile. “Smitten? Seriously?”

  He shrugged and looked away, as though embarrassed.

  “You sure didn’t act smitten.”

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly fit in to where I saw my life going. I may be a psychic, but I don’t seem able to predict my own future. And you—you scared the hell out of me.”

  Sailor stopp
ed suddenly outside a door. He cocked his head, waited for a moment, then consulted the floor plan in his hand.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Something . . .” He glanced at his wristwatch and swore under his breath. “I don’t want to get into this without enough time. The sisters are going to want to go call the moon soon. Let’s go babysit the coven and then come back and check this out.”

  “Um . . . okay. What did you see? Or did you feel something?”

  Sailor was already headed back the way we came. I trotted along to keep up with his long strides; he still held the map, and I feared I’d lose my way without it. Clearly something was on his mind. He was distracted; determined.

  “Sailor?” I tried again. “Hold up a minute! What did you sense? Something dangerous?”

  He stopped and turned to me. Lifted his hand and cupped my cheek. Gave me a half smile. “Not dangerous. I don’t think. I’d rather not say more until we can come back and check it out properly. But it has to do with something I felt in Autumn Jennings’s apartment.”

  * * *

  The Welcome coven stood in a circle in the Russet Room, preparing to draw down the moon.

  Sailor was guarding the door on the outside, and I looked down on the group from one of the odd interior windows that led from one space to another; it overlooked the room from a story up. On our quick walk-through of the house we hadn’t encountered the ghost of the Widow Rodchester, but I imagined if she was lurking she would approve of tonight’s activities. From all accounts she spent every evening in this very room, conducting séances, calling on spirits, receiving messages. The bell in her tower used to toll, signaling midnight, while she tried to communicate with the beyond. I would think a well-intentioned coven drawing down the moon would be right up her alley.

  Then again, she had lived a solitary life. And integral to the magic of the coven was the sense of community and connection.

  My very favorite part of the ceremony was when they started to link hands, one after the other, touching their clasped hands to their hearts. It was a touching, bonding gesture. It linked them to one another and to the long line of powerful women who had walked Mother Earth throughout the ages.

  As I watched, part of me wished I could join the circle. I had done so in the past, but only on specific occasions when I needed the strength of the coven behind me for going up against demons and the like. But although I had been learning to ask for help and rely on my friends, in general my brewing was a solitary affair. Notwithstanding Oscar and now, on occasion, Selena.

  But coven magic was special. As I felt the hum arise from the circle, I realized I could never be a full member of this sisterhood. And I accepted that.

  The coven moved through the stages of the circle, with first one priestess, Wendy, then another, Starr, taking the lead, invoking the Lord and Lady of the Woods, Quan Am, the Corn Mother, and Hulda. They called on several goddesses from different cultural traditions; it was an equal-opportunity belief system. Finally, Bronwyn moved to the middle of the circle and the women invoked the Mother, the Daughter, and the Crone, beseeching them to bestow their blessings through the light of the moon. Then Bronwyn went around the circle to receive a private blessing from each member, one by one.

  As they bowed their heads in a final moment of worship, thanking the calm strength of the moon, as women have done throughout millennia, the bell of Mrs. Rodchester’s tower began to toll.

  And then Starr screamed.

  Chapter 22

  The door flung open and Sailor rushed into the room.

  “Over there!” Starr exclaimed, pointing. “Did you see it?”

  Sailor ran toward a pair of shutters that opened onto a kitchen the floor below. There were no stairs. The shutters were ajar.

  “I saw someone, or something!”

  “I saw it, too!”

  “What was it?”

  A cacophony arose from the group as the women milled around, gasping and exclaiming. I ran down the narrow stairwell and joined them in the room. By the time I arrived they were giggling with excitement and nerves, everyone talking at once.

  “Was it a spirit of some sort?”

  “More like a demon! It was so ugly, covered in scales, with a long snout . . .”

  Sailor and I exchanged glances.

  “And big ears, like a bat!”

  “About how big was this creature, would you say?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, exactly; I just caught a glimpse—but not as big as we are.”

  “With green scales and a snout and long ears?”

  “Big ears, and eyes that glowed green!”

  “Yep, that’d be a common house demon,” said Sailor in a grave tone. I gaped at him. When he met my eyes, I could see he was fighting to keep a straight face.

  “A house demon?” said Wendy.

  “Harmless little critter, by and large,” he continued. “But he can be . . . mischievous, I guess is the best word. I think he was attracted by the energy of the coven. If I were you I’d go back to the ballroom and stay there for the rest of the night, just so you don’t scare up anything else.”

  “Well,” said Bronwyn, holding her hand over her heart. “This is the best birthday ever! If this doesn’t call for a cocktail, I don’t know what does!”

  * * *

  I encircled the entire ballroom with salt and sprinkled the protection brew at the four compass points: east, west, north, south. Then I lit a white candle and uttered a charm.

  “Do you think that’ll do it?” Starr asked Sailor.

  He nodded. “Your average house demon won’t cross the threshold of a protected room. No worries.”

  “Use the buddy system for the bathroom,” I said. “And here, take the pouch of sprite dust when you go, just in case.”

  “Sprite dust?”

  “It’s helpful. Sometimes.” It made spirits think of a person as a sprite, and therefore they kept their distance. But I didn’t think it was worth going into a long explanation. The dust was probably overkill, since we hadn’t actually encountered anything particularly troubling in this bizarre house, but it couldn’t hurt.

  Then Sailor and I headed back to the strange door that had attracted Sailor’s attention. As we traversed the house, I expected Oscar to show himself, but there was no sign of him.

  “I can’t believe he disobeyed me,” I muttered.

  “Really? You can’t?” Sailor said in a sardonic tone.

  “He does hate to be left out. Where do you suppose he is?”

  “Probably exploring. It’s a fascinating place. Given all I’m feeling, I can only imagine Oscar is sensing even more. It’s sort of like a dog’s sense of smell—Oscar can pick up on things way beyond human perception.”

  Since Oscar hated being compared to a dog, at Sailor’s last comment I thought he might pop out of somewhere and surprise us, but all remained quiet. We climbed the steps to the third floor, and Sailor paused in front of the door that had caught his attention during our earlier exploration.

  “What do you think is in there?” I whispered.

  “One way to find out.” Sailor reached out slowly, gripped the doorknob, and turned. The door opened onto a narrow stairway leading up into blackness.

  “Do you suppose we’re allowed to go up there?” I whispered.

  “There’s no velvet rope.”

  “True.”

  “There’s something up there. And it’s not on the regular tour, so maybe there’ll be less scattered energy and it’ll be easier to tease out whatever it is. Want to wait for me here?”

  “No, of course not. I’m your girl Friday, remember?”

  He nodded and led the way up the stairs into the attic.

  The roof was steeply slanted, so we could easily stand in the middle but had to crouch along the sides. The attic was dimly lit by the moonlig
ht coming through several dormer windows. It was jammed with old furniture, cardboard boxes, and sheet-shrouded forms that looked, to my all-too-vivid imagination, like human-shaped creatures.

  Sailor walked around the perimeter, pushing past an old armoire and a dusty globe.

  “There’s definitely something here. . . .” He sat cross-legged on the floor. “I’m going to take a moment.”

  “Of course. Sure.”

  I watched him. It bothered me, to tell the truth, to watch Sailor go into a trance. It took him away from me, however briefly. This was a part of his experience that I would never understand, something I could never be part of, rather like the sisterhood of the coven. On the other hand, my brewing was like that as well, a private, guarded thing. I supposed it was all right for each of us to keep part of our journey to ourselves. Alone didn’t have to mean lonely, after all.

  Still, it rankled that Patience, of all people, shared this with him.

  I realized the banging sounds of the hammers had stopped. Silence enveloped us, broken only by the buzzing of an insect.

  A honeybee flew by.

  “Call me crazy,” said Sailor finally, standing. “But this feels a lot like something I was feeling at Jennings’s place.”

  “Are you saying Autumn Jennings was here? Or . . . is here?”

  He shook his head and started pulling sheets off the cloaked items.

  He revealed a couple of upholstered chairs and a dressmaker’s dummy. And then a large black steamer trunk.

  “This is it,” he said.

  “This is what?”

  “This trunk holds the sense of the clothes we felt upstairs at Autumn’s place.” He opened the lid. The trunk was empty. “Come and feel.”

  I laid my hands on the shredded silk and threadbare velvet of the lining. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on sensing the vibrations of the fabric.

  Sailor was right.

  “But how . . . ?” I began.

  “I guess that’s the question,” said Sailor. “What connection did Autumn have with the Rodchester House?”

  “I don’t know about Autumn, but Scarlet volunteered here once. And I was told Renee donated cupcakes for the event as well.”