In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

“Gah!” she said, patting me on the face.

  I laughed and kissed her nose. She tucked her head back under my chin. I haven’t been around babies much; they always made me nervous, with their vulnerability and need. But holding this child… it was easy to see how people fell in love with infants.

  There were several framed pictures on the bedside: a few of Luna, one of Miriam with the newborn baby and her dad. And a cute one of Miriam and Jonathan, arm in arm, at a party.

  She had broken up with him, but she kept this picture out? Or… Jonathan said she broke up with him through a text message. He had just denied sending a text message to Anise, which made me realize just how easy it would be to impersonate someone by using their phone. Could someone have pretended to be Miriam, sending the message to Jonathan in order to break up the happy couple? It was possible, though I had no idea why someone would do that.

  What else? Clothes.

  My arm started to ache, so I shifted Luna to the other hip and crossed over to the closet.

  The lovely gown Miriam had worn to the ball was hanging on the outside of the door. Sea-foam green so suited to her honey-colored hair. A drop-waist, gauzy sheer dress worn over a simple satin sheath. Long strands of beaded fringe along the bottom. I brought the cloth up to touch my cheek, closed my eyes, and concentrated.

  It would be better to take the dress home with me, if Duke would allow it. Offhand, it didn’t seem to have any strong vibrations that could tell me anything, only what I’d sensed from Miriam when I saw her at the ball and what I’d felt on the bed: scattered, vague, confused.

  I entered the small walk-in closet and hugged the hanging clothes with my one unoccupied arm. Some of them shared the same disturbing sensation. I noticed several wool skirts and winter clothes, which must not have been worn for a while. These had very different vibrations: upbeat, cheerful, and wide open. I blew out another breath of frustration.

  Luna socked me in the jaw.

  “Hey!” I said, but when I looked down I saw a fleeting smile before the scowl returned to her face and she tucked her head back against my chest.

  “No hitting,” I said, though I couldn’t work up much outrage. She was such a precious little thing. I patted her back and rocked a little, kissing the top of her head. “You need attention, sugar?”

  The simple, natural act put me in mind of the young woman I had seen on the street in North Beach the other night, leaning down to kiss her baby on the head. I hurried to the bathroom. There on a small white-painted side table was a wooden box full of makeup. I snatched up several lipsticks, but felt nothing untoward.

  But then I saw it: a jar decorated with a handwritten sticker: Special Salve… for Miriam.

  I had first seen this pot at the hospital, with the other things Duke had brought from home for Miriam.

  Reaching out with care, I picked it up. I felt it then, as sure as I knew my own name. It hummed with malice, with mal intent.

  Slowly I unscrewed the top and brought it up to my nose: The scent was rose geranium. I touched it. It was hard and waxy, with a sheen of oil. Like most homemade salves without the preservatives and blenders used in the production of mass-produced lotions.

  Olive oil. Beeswax. Essential oil for scent. And something more.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated. I imagined Miriam rubbing a little of this over chapped lips and later leaning down and kissing her baby. This wasn’t the sort of thing that would take you out by simple onetime exposure, but over time her energy would be drained, sapped. And then if one were to add a cursed corsage to the mix…

  The scent of bread toasting brought me back to the moment. I tucked the pot of salve into my pocket and carried Luna out to the kitchen, where Bronwyn and Duke were sitting at the table, eating toast and jam and drinking tea. It never ceased to amaze me how Bronwyn transformed everyplace she went into a home.

  “Duke, do you have any idea where Miriam got this salve?” I asked as I showed him the little jar.

  He shrugged and shook his head. “I just found it out on her counter. I remember her using it for her lips, so when the hospital folks suggested I bring in a few of her things from home, I grabbed it. Why?”

  “Do you mind if I take it, try to figure out what’s in it?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “Plus, I found her cell phone and—”

  He threw up his hands. “Listen, as long as you think you can help, I don’t care what you take.”

  “How about you let us take care of Luna for the day? Give you a break,” Bronwyn suggested, handing the baby a tiny piece of toast. Little Luna gummed it happily.

  “I really couldn’t impose…” Duke said.

  “How about this?” I suggested. “Why don’t we all go back to my shop? You can bring your reading and relax there for a bit, while we take turns amusing the baby. Also, if you agree, I’d like to try a few healing techniques on her.”

  “You know what’s wrong with her?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But there are a few things I could try.”

  “I don’t want the poor little thing to get stuck with any more needles.”

  “I promise, Luna won’t need any more Band-Aids.”

  Chapter 14

  By the time we arrived at Aunt Cora’s Closet, two dozen women were milling about and chatting, waiting for Lucille’s patternmaking class to begin.

  One of them was Susan Rogers, who I hadn’t seen since the Art Deco Ball. We said hello and she oohed and aahed over the baby, then asked me what Aidan had said about ditching me at the dance.

  “I haven’t seen him since, to tell you the truth.”

  “Really?” She looked crestfallen. “Oh well, fiddle dee dee, as they say. Lots of fish in the sea, right?”

  I smiled and nodded, not in the mood to ponder Aidan or his mysterious ways when I could focus on happier things.

  I greeted a few women I knew from Bronwyn’s coven, noting that Wendy’s absence was rather conspicuous—she had RSVP’d the other day and had seemed excited about coming. There were several other women I recognized as regular customers at the shop and a few familiar faces from the neighborhood.

  Duke took a seat in the big upholstered chair near the dressing room, silent but benign, observing but unobtrusive. He was one of those men who seemed able to let women gather without interfering or imposing.

  “Looks like your mom’s got a full house,” I said to Maya, who remained behind the register and looked out at the crowd with a dubious expression.

  “I had no idea it would be so popular,” she replied. “I just hope we don’t become a sewing shop. Not sure I can deal. I grew up with that.”

  Maya’s mother, Lucille, joined us, laughing. “Maya has never liked sewing, no matter how much I tried. All she wanted to do was read and paint, but how could I fault her there? She’s like her father, smart as a whip and so talented.”

  It was hard to tell, but I thought I saw Maya blushing.

  Luna fussed and pushed away from me.

  “Poor little love’s probably colicky. Give her here. I can fix that.” Lucille held out her arms. An ample, well-padded woman, Lucille was almost preternaturally calm and commanding, while being warm and welcoming. She made me want to curl up next to her. I handed over the baby, relieved to give my arm—and my back—a rest.

  As soon as I handed Luna over, she started to wail. Lucille bounced and cooed at her. Luna screamed.

  One of the young Wiccan women offered to take the baby. She had no better luck. Before long just about every woman in the shop had joined us.

  “She must be teething,” said one. “Give her a green onion to bite down on.”

  “My mama always held crying babies upside down, to shock them out of their mood.”

  “Maybe a healing ritual?” suggested another.

  Luna’s wails reached ear-piercing proportions. She pushed away from the sweet grandmotherly woman holding her, stretching toward me.

  I opened my arms; she practically jump
ed into them.

  And calmed, hiccupping and whining.

  Oscar snorted and butted my legs. But the circle of women smiled in relief and admiration.

  “You’re a natural,” one woman commented.

  “Some women just have a way with babies,” Lucille added. “My mother was like that.”

  “I really don’t,” I said. Still, I couldn’t help but feel flattered. “But Luna seems to like me, for some reason. I may need an arm transplant soon.”

  “Wait. I’ve got this thing that Miriam used,” Duke said, bringing a baby sling out of his bag.

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “First, though, I’d like to take her in the back and whip up something for her. It’s not harmful at all.”

  Duke nodded his assent. “As I said, I’ll try anything at this point.”

  Oscar glared at me, then harrumphed off to sulk on his pillow. If there’s one thing I had learned about my familiar, it’s that he doesn’t like to share.

  If mal ojo was the cause of whatever ailed young Luna, there was no need to consult my Book of Shadows. I knew what to do.

  I asked Bronwyn to mix fresh ginger for upset tummy, chamomile for nerves, and a small amount of peppermint for heartburn into a tea sweetened with a spoonful of cane sugar. Meanwhile, Maya ran upstairs to my apartment for an egg and a potato as well as the lemon bars I had baked for the crowd, while I massaged Luna’s back with warm almond oil.

  When Maya returned, I laid the baby down on the floor on a soft blanket. I sliced the potato and held two pieces to her temples. Ignoring her renewed wailing, I swept the egg over her in the shape of a pentacle: top of head to ball of right foot, to the left hand, then the right, back down to other foot. I turned her over, facedown, and repeated the pattern. I cracked the egg and dropped it into a jar of water, then placed a pentacle made of broom straw on the top.

  Then I spooned a little of the sweetened tea into her eager little mouth.

  Finally, I chose a special amulet called an azabache from my display counter. It was a carved seed that looks like a deer’s eye, or ojo de venado. I tucked it into the top of her diaper.

  Luna had started fussing again. I brought her over to Duke, and he gave her a bottle. Within five minutes she was asleep.

  “She hasn’t gone to sleep that easily in… weeks,” said Duke, amazed.

  “Let’s put her down for a nap.”

  Duke tucked her into the portable crib we had set up in the back room. I placed the jar of water with the egg underneath the crib.

  “What is it supposed to do?” asked Duke.

  “After her nap it will tell us whether Luna is suffering from mal ojo. And if she is, I might need to sweep her a few more times with an egg, or with a sprig of rue, but I should be able to fix it.”

  Duke gave me an incredulous look. “You’re saying you can fix what ails her by waving an egg over her?”

  When he put it that way, it did seem rather dubious. But I had grown up witnessing the cure. It often worked.

  “I know it seems strange. But as you said earlier, what could it hurt?”

  Duke inclined his head and blew out a resigned breath. “I guess.”

  In the meantime, Lucille had called the women together and started to explain the process of patternmaking.

  “Most dresses are made up of the same basic parts,” Lucille said as she laid out a deconstructed dress, piece by piece. Earlier in the day, Conrad had helped place plywood over the glass counter, with a sawhorse supporting the other end. So we had one big surface plus three card tables for folks to work at.

  “The magic is how the pieces are shaped and contoured, following the lines of the bust and hip, our bones. Sizing up means we take the shape and expand it. But before we start, let’s talk supplies.” She held up a piece of shaped plastic. “My French curve set. French curves mimic the curves of the body: armholes, necklines, hips. They arc on one end, then straighten out. Mine have ruler markings, very handy.

  “Also necessary is a regular straight ruler. I like the clear acrylic kind, so you can see what’s underneath. A protractor helps to transfer patterns and for marking the exact angles when putting in darts and shoulders and sleeves when the seam angles need to match.”

  I sometimes mistook Lucille’s normally quiet demeanor for shyness. Now, in front of this large group of women, I saw how wrong I was. Lucille must belong to that “don’t speak unless you’ve got something important to say” group. Now she had something to say, and she addressed the group with a natural ease.

  “Tape measure, of course. Tailor’s chalk to mark fabrics. Pen for marking the pattern pieces.” She held up each item as she spoke of it. “Tracing wheel for making copies of garments and pattern pieces. Doubling seam allowances for quadrupling widths and shortening hems… seam gauge and L square. And a calculator because there’s so much math in dressmaking!”

  The women nodded and murmured, some taking notes.

  “See, Lily?” said Bronwyn. “This is a real-world example of using math, even algebra.”

  “Mmm,” I said.

  “And, of course, we’ll need general sewing supplies: scissors, pins, cutting mat, and the like. Now, let’s get down to work.”

  Lucille began by deconstructing several dresses that were beyond repair, though their original designs were lovely. She handed them to Susan and several other women to meticulously pick out the stitches, thread by thread, doing their best not to leave ragged edges. Though the dresses weren’t worth anything, they were perfect to be used as masters.

  “Here’s another,” said Maya, holding up a drop-waist “flapper” dress. Its lace had ripped away in spots, and the silk hung limp and “shattered,” or shredded. There was no way to repair it, but it served as wonderful inspiration for a reproduction.

  “I thought we could tear this one up, too,” Susan said. “It’s from my first marriage.” Yards of white silk had been encrusted with seed pearls and hand-tatted lace, but it had yellowed significantly. “It kills me—I paid to have this dress ‘preserved,’ and now look at it.”

  At Aunt Cora’s Closet we saw a lot of garments that had been improperly preserved. Plastic doesn’t allow the cloth to breathe; therefore it causes yellowing and even encourages mold growth. The clothes would have done better simply left hanging in the closet. Or better yet, in a high-quality garment bag that provides protection from dust and insects, while allowing oxygen exchange.

  Unwrapping the wedding dress, I thought back on when I first met Susan, outfitting her niece’s wedding entourage. Max Carmichael and I still had a tentative date to attend her niece’s vintage-style wedding together, though for all I’d heard from him lately I doubted he even remembered. Or if he did, he was probably trying to think of a way to get out of it. I realized I should call and let him off the hook. He was a wonderful man, but I was more certain with every passing day that Max was far too normal for the likes of me.

  “This is fascinating, Lucille,” said Susan as Lucille prepared to start making the actual patterns. “Thank you for letting us watch! Funny how I’ve worked with clothes and fashion my entire life and never knew the basic construction.”

  “You’ve never sewn?”

  “Good heavens, no! And have no intention of starting. I like people to make my clothes for me.” She smiled. “But it’s still fascinating to learn about the inner workings of such things.”

  Lucille pulled out crinkly thin brown paper, almost like stiff tissue. This she laid upon the pieces and showed the women how to sketch the lines of the pieces of material, marking indents and darts with squiggles and triangles—a shorthand language of its own.

  “We can use this bodice pattern for several kinds of dresses,” said Lucille, “pairing it with different styles of skirt.”

  They began with a pattern for an early-1960s sundress. In much of coastal California, the sundresses were wonderful for almost every day, as they were so well paired with simple bright-colored cardigans for a coordinated outfit. I wor
e them all the time. They tended to look good on just about every body type, especially the plumper, full-breasted woman who was often difficult to dress in vintage clothing.

  I looked over at Maya, who was studiously avoiding the sewing lessons.

  “Guess I’d better get going on that Web site,” she said, when she saw me looking her way. Maya was setting up a Web site for Aunt Cora’s Closet to handle eventual Internet orders. We were starting small, but had decided to expand in response to demand.

  “In all your spare time,” I teased. In addition to working part-time at Aunt Cora’s Closet, Maya was attending the San Francisco School of Fine Arts and was conducting an ongoing oral history project with elders in the community. She was young, but even the youth ran out of energy eventually. “Hey, speaking of high tech, could you help me with something?”

  I pulled out Miriam’s cell phone and explained to Maya what I needed.

  “I swear, Lily, one of these days we’re going to have to introduce you to the twenty-first century.” She shook her head as she bent over the phone, both thumbs flying, and came up with Miriam’s history of text messages, sent and received, in about four seconds flat.

  “Thanks,” I said with a smile, taking the phone. I scrolled through the messages and found Miriam’s note to Jonathan saying it was over between them. I didn’t blame him for being upset—I couldn’t imagine caring for someone, then breaking up via this sort of short, impersonal messaging.

  But then… several days previous to that message, there were several texts between Tarra and Miriam discussing none other than Wolfgang. In one, Tarra wrote: OMG. M soooo in luv w Wolf. Will c him 2nite, cant w8!

  The bell tinkled over the front door, rousing me from my thoughts. Almost as though I had conjured them, two Unspoken coven sisters, Jonquil and Anise, passed through the doorway. Conrad had opened the door for them and was waving them in.

  “Thank you, Conrad,” said Jonquil. “So nice to meet you!”

  Jonquil still had that excited, happy look, as though she was thrilled with a secret that she was about to impart; she carried a large, flat package under one arm. Anise trailed behind her, seeming sullen and more interested in whatever she was texting on her phone than in her surroundings.