Third Time is a Charm

by Cate Martin

  "Yes, I'm sure that's true," I said.

  "Here, I made copies of the photos of the body and the wardrobe," he said, digging into the pocket of his coat. "The body is a bit gruesome, but the face came through all right. If anyone knows him, I think they will find him recognizable."

  "Thanks, this is really helpful," I said. "If I find out who he is, I'll let you know. You can decide what to do with that information yourself."

  He nodded again and headed out the hall towards the front door but stopped with his hand on the knob to look back at me again.

  Amanda?" he asked.

  "Yes?"

  "That pain you had in your head? Outside the apartment door when we were walking to my place for dinner? Has that been happening again?"

  "Not since we found that dead body," I hedged.

  "So that's just a thing that was happening because of the wardrobe and the dead body?" he asked.

  "I assume so," I said. "I kind of think that at some point we might turn up other dead bodies. One with a bashed head and one with the slit throat."

  He gave me a look like he was desperately hoping I was joking but knew that I wasn't.

  "Just be safe," he said to me.

  "I will," I said.

  He gave one more nod, then left.

  Chapter 11

  The tea had helped a bit, but I was still shaky. I poured myself another cup, helped myself to a double handful of smoked almonds from a jar in the cupboard, and several cubes of sharp cheddar cheese from the fridge. By the time that was all gone, I felt recovered enough to walk up the stairs to the library.

  I was a bit worried about interrupting Brianna again, but she seemed to have been waiting for me. The minute I stepped into the room, she jumped up from her table and ran over to me.

  "I have so much to tell you," she said.

  "I have a lot to tell you, too," I said.

  "You first," Brianna said, folding her arms as she waited.

  "I went back to 1927," I said. "Remember how I told you it's getting easier for me to shift my consciousness to the world where I see the webs?" Brianna nodded, her eyes watching me intently. "Well, I did that again, but over there."

  "Did you find the wardrobe?" she asked.

  "No, but I was just talking to Nick downstairs. Apparently, the family didn't buy it until the 1970s, and they bought it in Manhattan. It doesn't seem likely that it was even in the area here in 1927. But I didn't know that at the time, so I did try to look for it."

  "And?"

  "And I didn't find it, but I saw something else. While I was over there, I shifted my attention to look at the house itself. This house, Miss Zenobia Weekes' Charm School for Exceptional Young Ladies."

  "Does it look different there than it does here?" Brianna asked.

  "Slightly," I said. "I'd like to take a look at it again when we're all over there. I want to see what it looks like with you there, but not today. What I did there, on top of what I already did this morning, I think it was too much."

  "You do look really drained," Brianna said. "But about the house?"

  "The house," I said. "The house looks normal in most respects, except for it doesn't interact with me at all. It's like it's closed itself off to me. I can see it, smell it, everything as usual, but I'm not quite interacting with it in the same reality."

  "A protective spell," Brianna asked. "That's why we can't see the students who were there in 1927, even though we know that they're there. Or Miss Zenobia or Cynthia or anybody."

  "That was my thought as well," I said. "We should do some more experiments with that."

  "Experiments, definitely," Brianna said. "But you don't think this is related to either the dead body or the wardrobe or the attacks?"

  "No, I don't think so. So if you're saying that the experiments can wait, I'm inclined to agree with you."

  "I've been busy while you've been away," Brianna said. "I've been in contact with my mentor from back in Boston."

  "Someone from your mother's coven?" I asked.

  "No, not from the coven," Brianna said. "This was a witch I found myself when I was a student at the university. It took a bit of work; she doesn't like interacting with others anymore. I'm not even really sure how old she is, possibly even older than Miss Zenobia. She talks about Boston in the old days, and I swear she speaks like she's been there since the 1600s. But she was my mentor in the magical part of my studies when I was there. I haven't been in contact with her as much as I should've been since I came here, I've been so busy. Busy, but not keeping up with my studies. But she answered my call right away. She's available any time, she said. I'm wondering if you can do a drawing of some sort to show her what that antique wardrobe looks like?"

  "I can do better," I said, digging the photograph out of my pocket.

  "Perfect," Brianna said, clutching the photograph tightly. "I'll call her back up so I can show her this."

  "Call her up and show her?" I repeated as she raced to the computer alcove.

  "Sephora doesn't like to interact with strangers, but that doesn't make her a technophobe," Brianna said. "I talk to her all the time through video chat. She prefers it to conventional phone calls. She likes to make eye contact. It's a thing."

  "Well, at the moment, it's a pretty handy thing," I said.

  The wait screen flickered and was replaced by the image of an older woman. Her steel gray hair was pulled back into an untidy bun, and she was wearing a truly astounding amount of tinkling jewelry. Nothing fancy, nothing expensive, just a lot of it. Her fingers were covered with rings, the bangles on her wrists jangled even as she was moving her hand back from answering the computer call, and I wasn't sure how anyone could wear so many necklaces without being bowed over with the weight.

  "Brianna, lovely to see you," Sephora said.

  "Miss Sephora Marlowe, may I introduce you to my colleague Miss Amanda Clarke?" Brianna said formally. "And Amanda, this is Miss Marlowe."

  "Call me Sephora, dear," she said with a jangling wave of her hand.

  "Pleased to meet you, Miss Sephora," I said.

  "As I mentioned before, we're calling about an object that we think has been enchanted. We're not sure if it's something with a long history or a more recent enchantment. The wardrobe in question is an antique."

  "What does it look like?" she asked, leaning closer into her computer camera.

  Brianna held up the picture, holding it steady in front of the camera lens as Sephora gazed at it intently. "Ah yes. Unless I'm very much mistaken, which I rarely am, I do know what that is," she said. "Very interesting piece."

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "The wardrobe this puts me in mind of was one of a pair. As furniture, they both date back to the time of Louis XV of France, but they weren't enchanted until the 1880s. They were identical and owned by a pair of sisters. The Rousseau sisters. Identical twins, actually. They used to perform parlor magic as a bit of a lark. They had been from a very wealthy family, but France being what it was at the time, they lost their estates and all the wealth with it. The lark became their only source of income. They were supporting themselves with these little magic shows, but they were really quite good. Of course everyone they performed for thought they were just illusions. The Rousseau sisters would make objects move from one wardrobe to the other."

  "A fairly simple spell, especially if both wardrobes were on the same stage," Brianna said.

  "Quite correct," Sephora said. "But they had wonderful chemistry with each other and were a joy to watch, apparently. You can find stories about them in mundane accounts of the day if you look. But nothing lasts forever, especially not youth. Not even if you're a witch. In later years, when their popularity started waining, they modified the act, which meant modifying the spells. Frankly, they had someone else modify the spell for them. Their skill was more in stage presence than actual magic, and it would've been a very complicated spell," she said.

  "What sort of spell?" I asked.

  "Well, if the stories
are to be believed, it was a sort of time magic. They would put things in one wardrobe. Both wardrobes would be visibly empty for a certain period of time, then they would open one, and there the object would be. Alas, it did not help the popularity. It was too slow of an illusion, not enough of a show even when they started using people instead of objects. Of course, that's not what really destroyed the two of them."

  "Destroyed?" Brianna repeated.

  "It's an unhappy tale with an unhappy ending," Sephora said. "By the time they started dabbling with time magic - or rather as I've said, had someone else dabble in it for them - they were beginning to look like women in the last of their middle years and were not so lovely in their provocative parlor show outfits as they used to be.

  "Then tragedy struck in the form of man, a recent widower, that both sisters fell in love with at the same time. The man chose one sister, marrying her and taking her with him to Manhattan, and one of the wardrobes with them. The other sister never married. She stayed in Paris until her dying days, and her wardrobe was always with her."

  "How sad," I said. "They were witches. You'd think they'd be more sensible."

  "You don't know the half of it," Sephora said grimly. "The man in question wasn't worthy of either of them. The marriage lasted less than a year after they arrived in Manhattan. He was a philanderer, and no witch would take that betrayal lying down. She left him, but she never went back to Paris and her waiting sister. So far as I know, her wardrobe always stayed in Manhattan. But she died with no children, and no one knows exactly what became of her wardrobe."

  "And the other wardrobe?" Brianna asked.

  "The other wardrobe was passed down to a niece when that sister died. But it was destroyed in a house fire," Sephora said.

  "Do you know when that happened?" Brianna asked.

  "Let me check," Sephora said. I expected her to swivel in her chair, to pick up one of the large tomes I could see stacked high all around her or filling the overstuffed bookshelves behind her, but instead, she turned her attention to another computer. There was a tapping of keys, and she leaned forward to squint at the other screen before turning back to us.

  "Late October 1927," she said. "It was a house in Paris. And yes, it says here just what I told you, that no one knows what became of the other wardrobe. Perhaps it also was destroyed. Although apparently not," she said, pointing with her chin towards the photograph sitting next to Brianna's hand.

  "If it disappeared in New York, that makes sense," I said. "This wardrobe was purchased in New York in the 1970s."

  "That gives more than seventy years of not having its whereabouts pinned down precisely," Sephora said.

  "I think that other date, October 1927, that's the more important one," Brianna said, tapping her fingertips to her bottom lip.

  "Because of your time bridge?" Sephora asked. I gave Brianna a sharp look. I thought the time bridge was our secret. Did that exclude other witches?

  "The wardrobe didn't move through the time bridge," Brianna said. "But the bridge has a very strong influence on things around it. Even if we can't see it, other things feel its pull. Isn't that true?" she asked her mentor.

  "I would assume so," Sephora said. "But you know, time magic, it's a rare gift. And those who understand it, they are often recluses. They don't teach their magic to outsiders, and they don't write things down."

  "So you don't know anyone who knows anything about time magic?" I asked.

  "Amanda has shown skill in time magic," Brianna hastily added, apparently worried her mentor would think that I was being rude.

  "No, I do not," Sephora said with a thoughtful air. I appreciated that while her brain was constantly running at a dizzying speed, she seemed better capable than Brianna of having a one-on-one conversation at the same time. Perhaps that came with age. "I can put word around, but I'm not sure it will turn anything up. I haven't heard of a witch with that sort of power since I was a very young girl. It's very rare."

  "If you find anyone, please let them know I'm looking for them," I said. "It's very difficult, having a sort of magic no one can teach you how to use."

  Sephora gave me a hard look, her eyes drilling deeply into mine. I wanted to look away, but I was certain that that would be the wrong thing to do. I held myself steady, and let her finish her assessment.

  At last, she gave a sharp nod - to me or to Brianna I couldn't tell - then wrote something down on a pad near her elbow. "Like I said, I'll put the word around. But no promises."

  "Thank you, thank you very much," I said sincerely.

  Yes, thank you, Sephora," Brianna said.

  "If you ever need anything, just give me a call," Sephora said. "You know I don't like to travel, too many people in too small of transports, But I can answer questions over the phone anytime. It's no problem at all."

  "I'll remember," Brianna said, then gave a little wave before terminating the call. "What now?" she asked me.

  "Now, I guess I go back to 1927," I said. "It's just as well I never changed back into my normal clothes."

  "What are you going to do in 1927?" Brianna asked. "It seems pretty clear that the wardrobe wasn't there."

  "Unless it was," I said. "It's just too weird a coincidence that the other wardrobe was destroyed just before all this started happening."

  "Well…" Brianna said, clearly wanting to argue the timelines. I knew what I meant. She knew what I meant. But she wanted to argue the minutia, and I knew she would quickly turn my mind into a pretzel if I let her get going.

  "Also, I've got this," I said, showing her the picture of the man who had died. "No one here knows who he is. The usual methods of getting an ID aren't going to match anything. I really think he's from 1927. So if I show his picture around in 1927, I might find someone who recognizes him."

  "Unless he really was from New York," Brianna said.

  "Well, there's just one way to find out," I said. Then I went back down the stairs, grabbed my coat, and went back through the backyard, back to 1927.

  Chapter 12

  The sun was just setting as I went into the backyard. The wind was finally starting to die down, but the deep cold was getting ever deeper. And the brownness of so many dormant plants waiting to be blanketed in snow was just as depressing as ever.

  Then I stepped across the bridge and found myself surrounded with dazzling snow. The sun was just as low in the sky, but the icy crystals were amplifying it all around me.

  I didn't bother going into the house; I had nothing to learn there this time. Instead, I went out on Summit Avenue and walked a block over to Maiden Lane where Edward had his little garret over one of the garages. I'd never been inside, only about halfway up the steps, but I remembered which one it was along the row of similar garages.

  I carefully picked my way up the snow-covered stairs, knocked on the door then knocked again.

  Clearly, he wasn't home. I hadn't planned for that at all. But there was no light through the tiny window next to the door, no sign of footsteps in the snow on the stairs save mine. So he must've left before the snowfall and hadn't been back yet.

  I wondered where he was. When had it snowed? It had looked fresh when I came through in the morning, so I supposed it was possible that it was snowing when he went to work, stopped after he got there, and he wasn't home yet.

  I didn't know where his office was, but I knew one other place that he could be. I walked back to the charm school, then on next door to the house, the one Coco's family lived in.

  Coco's older sister, Ivy, was the object of all of Edward's affections. The first time I'd met him, he'd been coming down the porch stairs after trying to pay a call on her the day after meeting her at a dance. Every time since then that I'd run into him he pretty much had either been coming or going from seeing Ivy.

  I looked up at the warm lights glowing through the windows. They looked so homey. Nobody in that house knew me but Coco, and she was thirteen. I couldn't very well knock on the door and pretend to be calling on either a gue
st who seemed frequently less than welcome or on the youngest member of the household.

  So I stayed on the sidewalk, empty in the cold of impending nightfall. I closed my eyes and expanded my awareness to pass over all parts of the house.

  It was crowded with even more people than before, and I suspected that they were having a dinner party. Most of the glowing clusters of threads were in what I would assume to be the dining room, a few others in the kitchen around the back of the house.

  But none of the patterns of glowing threads felt like Edward. I'd never looked at Edward while in the web world, but I was pretty sure if I encountered him I would know him. I would recognize his very nature in that pattern.

  He wasn't there.

  So I guessed he really was still working. That seemed plausible, though. I knew he was hoping to get a promotion, hoping to earn more money and impress Ivy's father. That must be what was happening.

  But it left me with no one to help me find anyone who might recognize the man in the photo I had in my coat pocket.

  Well, there was one other person.

  I walked past the cathedral into St. Paul itself and then down to the riverfront. I'd gone this way before, more than once, but I had never gone alone, and never this close to nightfall. The sun was just barely in the sky, and it was getting darker by the minute, especially as the buildings grew taller around me.

  Then I turned down the street on which I found the former beer hall, still some sort of public house that was never not filled with rollicking men. It was no longer actually a functioning beer hall, not during prohibition, but I found it hard to believe that no one there was doing any drinking. Not from the loudness of their voices and the redness of the cheeks. And sober men seldom went into back alleys to settle disputes with a fist fight. All that spoke of some sort of alcohol, and probably not anything as benign as beer.

  Alas, that fistfight was going on in the alley I needed to pass through to get to the cellar stairs. I gathered my coat more closely around me and slipped behind the crowd of jeering onlookers, staying close to the wall. This kept me as far from the fight as possible, but all too close to the very strong stench of urine against the stones of the wall. Apparently, the beer hall had no bathroom. I was very grateful I was wearing boots.