“Silence!” roared the priest. “That’s enough!”
“I only pray you are right,” Deborah said. Then she melted back into the crowd and disappeared.
The priest flung the plant to the ground and quickly ended the service. But as the mourners dispersed, there had been a tense silence, born of more than the usual funereal sorrow.
Lauren blinked and looked at the nameless graduate student who was watching her expectantly. She took a large gulp of wine. “No,” she said. “I don’t know who she is.”
The woman smiled knowingly. “If that’s the game you want to play.”
Lauren was saved from any further discussion by Simon, who threw his arm over her shoulders. “Could you excuse us, please?” he asked. When they were alone, he glanced down at Lauren and smiled sadly. “Sorry you weren’t able to give a eulogy,” he said. “I’m sure Jackie would’ve liked it.”
Lauren turned so that he had to drop his arm and stepped away from this distinguished-looking man who had given her friend so much trouble with his childish and miserly wrangling. Simon Pappas was all too accustomed to getting his own way, and Lauren knew she couldn’t trust his pseudopoliteness.
“I wasn’t up to it,” she said. Although she felt a bit guilty for having turned down Helene’s request, Lauren recognized she was far too upset to talk about Jackie in public, not to mention that her discomfort at speaking in public bordered on being phobic.
Simon leaned toward her, putting his face uncomfortably close to hers. “I won’t have Jackie’s memory or Matthew’s future besmirched by a bunch of lesbians spouting witchcraft.”
She took another step backward, stunned into silence. Even knowing that Simon had never recovered from the blow of being left for a woman, Lauren was still surprised by the hostility underlying his words.
“I want Jackie’s name off the book—no authorship credit,” he said. An elderly woman walked by and touched his arm. He bent over and, murmuring softly, kissed her papery cheek. But when the woman moved on, he straightened up. “I’d buy her off the contract if I had the cash, but I’ve got my own troubles,” he said as smoothly, although his eyes were like ice. “And when her estate’s settled, it’ll probably turn out that she gave everything away to some antique society. So you’re the only one who can do it.”
Suddenly, Simon’s eyes softened and he draped his arm lightly over Lauren’s shoulders. “Gabe Phipps!” he called out in a voice guaranteed to carry across the room. “I can’t tell you how pleased we all are by the success of one of our own. Your TV show is just wonderful—and the cover of Time magazine! Well, all I can say is that I’m extremely impressed.” He grabbed Gabe’s hand in both of his. “It’s good to see you again, old man.”
Gabe nodded politely and withdrew his hand. “I only wish we were meeting under happier circumstances.”
Simon quickly bowed his head in pseudosorrow, as if just remembering the purpose of the repast. “It’s a difficult time for us all.”
Disgusted, Lauren tried to slip toward the door, but Simon tightened his grip on her shoulder. “Lauren and I were just discussing the witchcraft book,” he said. “Boylston’s your publisher too, right? Same editor?” When Gabe nodded, he continued. “Do you think they’d have a problem with turning the whole project over to this attractive young lady here?”
Jerking herself away from Simon, Lauren shot Gabe a glance that clearly indicated her aversion to the man.
Gabe smiled uncertainly at Lauren and shrugged, as if unclear about Simon’s contact with reality. Then he turned back to Simon. “Lauren’s a very capable scholar,” he said slowly. “One of our best. And frankly, I don’t see that there’s an alternative.”
“They could try to keep Jackie on as primary author because of her name value.” Simon smiled affectionately at Lauren. “But that wouldn’t be fair to Lauren here. She would be the one doing all the work, so she should be the one getting the credit.”
“Or they might cancel the whole project.” Gabe paused and turned to Lauren. “What do you think?”
Lauren looked into the depths of her wineglass. She had been so upset about losing Jackie that she hadn’t given much thought to how Jackie’s death was going to affect her professionally. She blinked back the tears that welled in her eyes.
“Lauren?” Gabe touched her arm lightly. “You okay?”
She nodded and blinked again. It was unthinkable to cancel the book. She would have no dissertation, and there was the small issue of returning money she had either already spent or had earmarked for rent and food for the next six months. “This book contract is a gift,” Jackie had said. “My great adventure.” How could she turn her back on what meant the most to her dead friend? On the other hand, how could she, a conservative, agnostic scholar, write a book using the supernatural as an explanation for an historical event?
Simon squeezed her shoulder. “This is a difficult time for us all,” he said again. “But we must get on with the banalities of day-to-day business.”
Lauren twisted away from Simon. “Yes,” she said slowly, stalling for time. The answer was to get Nat to go back to the original plan—retaining the supernatural as one of many possible explanations, but not focusing on it—and to keep Jackie on as primary author just to spite Simon.
“The truth is,” she said to Gabe, avoiding Simon’s eyes, “I’ve never been comfortable with making the supernatural a large part of the book. And now that I’ve got to handle it by myself …” She glanced down again and ran her fingers along the damp stem of her wineglass, feeling like a heel for taking advantage of Jackie’s death to alter the book for her own purposes. She looked up at Gabe and was reassured by his smile. “Do you think I could convince Nat to drop the supernatural as the focus of the book? To maybe relegate it back to a single chapter?” She purposely left out any direct mention of authorship.
Both men beamed at her. Gabe said, “I don’t see why not. Want me to call Nat?” he offered. “He owes me a favor or two. I could tell him I’d be very grateful if he’d consider dropping—or significantly condensing—the supernatural piece of the book.”
Lauren hesitated for a second. Jackie had been the one who had handled all the business dealings with Boylston, and Lauren had been more than happy to leave it that way. But things had changed and, although she would have preferred to sink back into her research, the book was her responsibility now. Jackie would want her to take charge.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’ll call myself. You can be my backup.” As she spoke the words, Lauren was uncomfortably aware that her first act of mastery, an act motivated by her desire for Jackie’s approval, was also an act against Jackie’s vision of their book.
“I’m here if you need me,” Gabe said, smiling into her eyes. “Call any time.” He squeezed her hand, then slipped around the bar.
Lauren stared after him, still feeling the imprint of his hand on hers. But before she could wonder about her response or Gabe’s, Simon pressed his face so close to hers she could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Just make sure her name isn’t on that book,” he said. Then he let go of Lauren’s arm and walked briskly across the room to Helene.
Lauren watched Simon kiss his daughter’s forehead and sit down next to Dan. The three of them pressed closely together, forming a perfect tableau of a grieving family. Lauren decided she’d call Matthew and Helene later in the week and slipped toward the door.
She searched through the jumble of coats piled on a narrow marble bench running along one side of the entryway. Over the bench hung a huge white canvas, empty except for three tiny overlapping green rectangles. She had to get out of here, away from all this pretension and deceit. She needed to be alone, needed space to think.
Just as she was pulling her jacket from the pile, she felt two hands on her shoulders. She jerked away sharply and whirled around.
“Todd,” she cried in relief, forgetting she was furious with him. She threw her arms around her tall, lanky husband and buried her
face in his coat. It smelled like fresh air and autumn. And Todd.
“Hey,” he said, running his hand down her long hair in a familiar, soothing gesture. “Hey,” he said again.
She wanted to stay there forever, buried in his safety, in his protection. But she knew that Todd offered neither safety nor protection. That his arms were an illusion she couldn’t trust, couldn’t depend upon. She pulled away and grabbed her coat, pressing the wool to her eyes. “I was just leaving,” she said stiffly.
He reached out and touched her cheek. “Sorry I couldn’t be here earlier.”
She slipped her coat on. Todd was always sorry. And he was never there. She shook her head and walked quickly out the door.
Lauren took Memorial Drive, hoping that the prettier route, with its view of Back Bay town houses rising above the fiery autumn trees, would cheer her. But neither nature’s magnificent palate nor man’s magnificent architecture could touch her grief. The bright sun, highlighting the scullers as they pulled on the river like choreographed centipedes, depressed her even more.
She had a terrible longing to be with Drew. She needed to touch his skinny shoulder blades, feel the satiny plumpness of his cheek against her own, to smell his innocent, little-boy smell. She needed to know there was life to be lived, sweetness to be savored. But it was only one o’clock and Drew was still in school. Then she remembered it was Tuesday, Todd’s night with Drew, and that she wouldn’t get to see him until tomorrow. A single tear slid down her cheek.
She considered visiting Aunt Beatrice. But she knew at this hour Aunt Beatrice was either playing bridge or having lunch with her cronies. Maybe she should just wallow in her sorrow, Lauren thought as she took the series of quick turns that would put her at her house while avoiding the traffic of Harvard Square. She had every right to be miserable. She had lost her best friend—her two best friends, if you counted Todd.
The lump in her throat expanded until it felt as if it would burst through her skin. Lauren swallowed hard and blinked back her tears. No, she told herself, she would not wallow. She turned the car toward the university. She would take advantage of the afternoon and get some work done.
But when she got to the library, Lauren found herself wandering through the stacks as if she had never been there before. Her Oliver Osborne nightmare came flooding back to her, and she looked up at the tall bookshelves, almost expecting them to tip inward as they had in her dream. She glanced furtively down the long rows of books, alert for flashing knives. When she saw nothing but a couple of students whispering in the medieval section, she felt foolish and slipped over to where the American history books were shelved.
Lauren breathed in the familiar scent of glue and dust and old leather bindings, but she couldn’t find her usual comfort in them. So instead of reaching for the dry tomes she knew she should be reading, she went over to her favorite books: Everyday Life in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, Letters and Notes on Colonial Days, Manners and Customs of the Early American Settlers, Life in the Shop and Home of Captain Joseph Weld.
Running her finger along the thick books, she finally withdrew Manners and Customs and brought it to a nearby study table. She flipped open to a chapter on the duties of children and was soon lost amidst the details of a Colonial girl’s occupations: hatchelling and carding, spinning and reeling, weaving and bleaching. There was a fascinating segment from the diary of a young girl from Colchester, Connecticut, in which she had recorded her daily work.
Fix’d gown for Prude,—Set a Red Dye,—Milked the cows,—Hatchel’d flax with Hannah,—Made a Broom of Guinea wheat straw,—Made Soap with Mother …
Lauren leaned back in her chair. It had been so different then. What must it have been like to spend a childhood milking cows and hatchelling flax and making soap? Never really able to be a child, to laugh or to run or to play silly games? Never to be free from the punitive cramp of life in the seventeenth century? Lauren closed her eyes and imagined a mother and daughter doing their chores on a spring morning in 1690.
“Come roundabout and help me set the leach,” the mother said. “We must make the lye.”
A young girl, perhaps five years of age, in a long skirt and bonnet, smiled up at her mother. “Must we, Mama? It would be much nicer to walk in the woods. Tis such a pretty day.”
“Thou art a mischievous and troublesome girl,” her mother grumbled, but there was warmth in her voice and the crinkle of a smile played around her tired eyes. “The winter’s fires have given us sufficient wood ash and grease. ’Tis time to make the soap.”
“But we must have some sport,” the child cried gleefully as she danced around the barrel of ash. She stopped and stared up at her mother. “Making soap is the most loathsome of chores.”
The mother shook her head fondly at her high-spirited daughter. “With your dear fattier gone, there is not much time for sport, I’m afraid. Come, help me fill this barrel. Then together we shall pour the water through.”
“But, Mama,” the child whined, “it takes so many pours ’til it is lye—and the odor is vile.”
“We shall sing as we work,” the mother cajoled. “Come do as I say.”
And sing they did. Through the morning as they turned ash into lye. And through the afternoon as lye and grease were boiled into soap. As they lifted and stirred and lifted and stirred once again. “Dry sun, dry wind, safe bind, safe find,” the woman and girl sang together. “Go wash well, saith summer, with sun I shall dry …”
As the singsongy voices faded away, Lauren opened her eyes. She blinked in confusion for a moment, then smiled. Once again, she had been able to slip into the seventeenth century, to immerse herself so completely that it had felt as if she were living there. Despite Jackie’s warning about the dangers of escaping into the past, Lauren knew it was this skill that set her apart from her fellow graduate students. It was her ability to lose herself in time that allowed her to write so vividly about Colonial life, that had landed her the coauthorship of Rebeka Hibbens.
Jackie, Lauren thought as she rubbed her sore shoulders. It was going to be so lonely without Jackie. Glancing down at her watch, she saw that two hours had passed since she had entered the library. She quickly gathered her things and left.
As she walked across campus, every building, every bench, every turn reminded her of her lost friend. She and Jackie had stood in that doorway, arguing about the chances that ergot poisoning in the wheat had caused the hallucinations that started the witchcraft hysteria.… She and Jackie had sat on that bench, eating red-pepper subs in the noon sunshine.… She and Jackie had walked along that path the day Todd left, Jackie rubbing her arm and telling her that she was there whenever Lauren needed her.… Lauren swiped at her tears with the sleeve of her jacket as she climbed into her car.
She headed toward home, barely aware she was driving. A yellow light suddenly loomed before her and she slammed on her brakes, evoking blasting horns and raised fingers from the cars behind her. Lauren dropped her head to the steering wheel as a wrenching sadness overwhelmed her. She needed to be home. She needed to enfold herself in misery, to cry for everything that had been, for all she had lost that could never be again.
A furious honking roused her from her reverie and she stepped on the gas. When she finally pulled up to the curb in front of her house, she had decided she’d walk down to the White Hen Pantry on the corner of Mass Ave. and buy a big bag of cookies—Vienna Fingers, her favorites. Then she’d curl up on the couch and cry as hard and as loud and for as long as she wanted. And she’d eat every cookie in the bag. Lauren felt consoled for the first time in days. Her step was a little lighter as she headed for the store and lighter still as she returned home.
The last rays of sunlight shot into the large foyer, warming the dark oak wainscoting that circled the room and climbed the curving stairway. The house seemed to wrap itself around her, welcoming her home, comforting her. Lauren quickly sifted through the mail piled on the table at the foot of the stairs, separating her bills and ca
talogs from her neighbors’. There was a package the size of a narrow shoe box. It was wrapped in brown paper and addressed to her.
Lifting the carton, she noticed the handwriting was unfamiliar and that there was no return address—although it was postmarked “Cambridge” and dated October 27. Three days before Jackie had died. Lauren was startled by the realization that she had begun dividing events into “before” and “after.”
Shaking the box, Lauren felt something soft and light shift within it and caught a fleeting odor that reminded her of farm animals. She placed the box under her arm and carried her mail and cookies up to the apartment.
In the kitchen, Lauren grabbed a knife and cut the string from the box. As she ripped the paper, she saw that it was indeed a shoe box, and as the odor became stronger she was suddenly filled with foreboding. She didn’t reach to lift the lid for a long moment, then with a jerky motion she flipped it off the box.
Inside was a poppet. Only this doll was even more hideous and deformed than Jackie’s had been. Its pewter eyes were more mismatched and askew. Its left arm grew from its stomach.
Lauren opened the white note card resting on the chest of the horrible thing. Those who risk the sanctity of the coven shall be punished with eternal death, the card said. Do not touch the chronicle.
Eight
WITH A GNARLED BROWN CANDLE, DEBORAH LIT THE christianwort packed inside the incense holder. As soon as she replaced the copper cap, black smoke poured from triangular holes cut into the metal; she breathed in the bitter vapors, concentrating on aiding Bram with his mission.
Deborah had dreamed of the raven every night since Jackie’s death. In one dream, the black bird sat motionless on top of a towering flagpole, watching her every move. In another, he shattered into a flock of insect-sized ravens that rained down on her head in shiny black pellets. And in the dream she had had that morning just before sunrise, he swooped from the rafters of a shadowy barn and swallowed the chronicle whole.
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