The Book of Spells (23 page)

“I hope Jane and Lavender are able to get the fig oil in town,” she said instead.

“I’m sure they will,” Alice said, tugging out a weed and tossing it toward the side of the garden. “Theresa set them on the task, and Theresa always seems to get whatever she wants.”

“Even the eye of newt?” Eliza said.

Alice didn’t respond. She simply went on with her work.

“What will we tell Miss Almay if she comes out for a stroll on the grounds?” Eliza asked. She pushed herself up and walked over to the bushes near the house to gather some lavender.

“We’ll tell her we’re weeding,” Alice said flatly, tossing another dandelion off onto the grass. “What’s another white lie, after all?”

Eliza paused and turned back toward her friend. “Alice, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help in all this. I know how you must feel, and I’m so very sorry this has happened, but I honestly think this is going to work. Everything is going to be all right. I promise.”

“I keep thinking about that first night,” Alice said, still refusing to make eye contact. She moved methodically—trowel in the dirt, dig, yank out the weed, throw it—the same pattern over and over again. “How you convinced me to go into the chapel. How you told me you’d never let any harm come to anyone you loved.” Finally, she stopped digging and stared right into Eliza’s eyes. “Perhaps you should think about keeping your promises to yourself from now on. Because from what I can tell, Catherine is dead, and the rest of us are doomed to eternal damnation.”

Eliza’s jaw dropped open, the wind knocked right out of her. Tears of confusion, regret, and anger filled her eyes. She was just opening her mouth to speak when Alice turned away from her, and a pair of well-worn leather shoes appeared in her line of vision.

“Miss Eliza?”

Eliza looked up and shaded her eyes with her hands. The sun lit
Helen Jennings from behind. Quickly she placed the twig, laden with lavender leaves, into her basket.

“Yes, Helen?” she said, wiping her dirty hand on her apron. Her voice cracked, and she saw Helen’s brow knit with concern. This surprised her, given their previous encounter.

“Is everything all right, miss?” Helen asked.

The tiny hairs on the back of Eliza’s neck stood on end. “Everything’s fine, Helen,” she said firmly, looking the girl in the eye as she fiddled with her locket. Helen’s expression hardened. She glanced at Alice, who was still intent on her work, then held out her hand. Tucked into the cup of Helen’s palm was a small folded note. Eliza’s heart skipped a beat, and she quickly took it and squirreled it away in the pocket of her dress.

“I came to see if the two of you wanted a refreshment from the kitchen.” Helen glanced past Eliza at her wicker basket, which was half full of herbs. “Lavender, rosemary, and ginger root, I see.” Then she looked Eliza in the eye and arched her brows. “Are you making a potpourri?”

Eliza swallowed hard. “Yes. We thought they might make a nice gift for our parents on parents’ weekend.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Helen said flatly.

Feeling completely flustered, but not entirely sure why, Eliza took a deep breath. “We don’t need any refreshments, thank you. Right, Alice?” she said, gazing directly into Helen’s eyes.

“No, thank you, Helen,” Alice replied.

“All right, then,” Helen said.

She gave Eliza one last knowing look before she turned and walked away slowly, carefully avoiding the vegetable plants as she went. Eliza stood and watched Helen until she had gone inside the house and closed the door behind her, but even then she had this awful, prickly feeling that she was being watched.

Helen Jennings knew more than she was letting on. And the thought frightened Eliza to her core.

That night, the girls gathered in Eliza’s room and quickly performed the Spell of Silence so they could sneak out to the chapel. Everyone was dressed in dark tones—black, gray, navy blue—as if attending a funeral instead of an awakening.

“When will we be leaving, Eliza?” Genevieve asked. “I would like for this to be finished.”

Anxiety was etched on all her friends’ faces. All but Alice’s, who sat at the foot of Eliza’s bed and had drawn the hood of her black cape over her face so that only the very tip of her nose could be seen.

“We’ll go as soon as Theresa arrives,” Eliza replied. “Don’t worry, Genevieve. This will all be over soon.”

The door to Eliza’s room suddenly opened and Theresa entered. Eliza felt a thump of foreboding and guilt the moment she saw her. The note Helen had delivered earlier had been from Harrison—a request for her to meet him again tonight. Eliza hadn’t felt comfortable
sending her refusal through Helen, so she knew that Harrison was going to be standing in the woods tonight, waiting for a girl who would never come.

“You really should knock, Theresa,” Lavender said. “For all we knew, you could have been the headmistress.”

“Thank you for that lesson in etiquette, Lavender,” Theresa said sarcastically.

Theresa had dressed in a royal purple frock, the most festive of the bunch. The book of spells was clutched against her chest, and she glanced around the room until her gaze came to rest on Eliza.

“We have a problem,” she said, keeping her voice low.

Every single girl turned to look at Eliza. All except Alice.

“What is it?” Eliza said.

Theresa opened the book as she walked to Eliza. “The instructions are quite clear. This spell will not work without all eleven members of the coven present to recite it.”

“What?” Jane exclaimed, stepping forward.

All around there were questions and whispers and panicked twitters. Eliza took the book and scanned the page. Theresa was right. The instructions referred to “eleven voices raised” and “twenty-two” crossed arms. The numbers were there over and over again. Her heart sunk into her toes and disappointment descended over the room.

“Well, we’ll just have to try it with ten,” she said, trying to sound firm.

“I don’t think so,” Theresa said.

“She’s right,” Marilyn spoke up, for once without Petit Peu in her
arms. “What if something goes awry because we do not have enough power? This is Catherine’s life we are talking about.”

The other girls murmured their assent. Eliza couldn’t help wondering if some of them were grateful for an excuse to not perform the spell.

“We need an eleventh,” she heard herself say.

“Where are we going to get someone new now?” Viola whined, fidgeting her black-gloved hands. “Not to mention someone who won’t run screaming when we tell them what we’re about to do.”

An idea flitted through Eliza’s mind. It made her feel sick to her stomach, but what other choice did she have? Catherine’s life hung in the balance.

“I know someone,” Eliza said.

“You do? Who?” Theresa asked.

“I’d rather not say until I know that she is willing,” Eliza told her. “All of you go to the chapel and wait for me there. If I haven’t arrived within an hour, you can return.”

As the girls grumbled and whispered and gathered their things, Theresa latched on to Eliza’s arm tightly.

“We can’t wait much longer to do this,” Theresa said through her teeth. “Those forty-eight hours are wasting away.”

“I know,” Eliza said, lifting her chin. “I just need a little time. Trust me. I will bring our eleventh.”

Eliza waited until her friends had walked out into the night. From her large window overlooking the Crenshaw House entry, she saw the lights of their candles and lanterns bounce merrily through the darkness, as if unaware that anything could be wrong in the world.

She snuck out of her room and closed the door quietly behind her. Crenshaw House was dark and perfectly still. She took a moment to get her bearings in the wide hallway before tiptoeing down the runner carpet and onto the wide oak stairs. Her fingers lightly brushed the polished banister as she scurried down the steps. The first floor was deserted, but she could see a shaft of light beneath the door to the kitchen. Cringing at every creak in the old floor, Eliza moved slowly and cautiously toward the light, her ear tilted toward the ceiling to catch any noise, any sign of life, from Miss Almay’s room. Just outside the latchless kitchen door, she paused. Whoever was inside was humming, and the tune was low and mournful, like a funeral dirge. A chill
of fear raced through Eliza and she stood for a moment, her hand on the door, her breathing shallow and raspy.

Thinking of Catherine, Eliza screwed up her courage and pushed the door open on its hinges.

Helen sat at the table, her back to Eliza, her blond braid down the back of her blue shawl. She was polishing silver methodically as she hummed.

“I delivered your message to Harrison Knox, Miss Eliza,” Helen said.

Eliza nearly collapsed. How did Helen know she was standing there? She hadn’t made a sound. And what message was she talking about?

Helen turned around slowly. “He won’t be waiting for you. I let him know you couldn’t be there, as you were to be otherwise occupied.”

Eliza’s mind swam as Helen blithely returned to her work. She took a tentative step into the room and was surprised when her weakened knees held her.

“What . . . how did you . . . ? Did you read his message to me? How did you know I couldn’t go to him?”

Helen simply arched one eyebrow as she rubbed a serving fork with her rag.

“What do you know?” Eliza asked, walking boldly over and standing next to Helen’s chair. Her skin pulsated with uncertainty and fear, but she wasn’t going to let Helen see that. “How much do you know?”

The polishing continued, as did the awful tune.

“How did you know it was me at the door?” Eliza demanded.

“Oh, that.” Helen placed the spoon she’d been working on down on the table, along with the rag. When she looked up at Eliza, her expression was far more normal—amused and lightly teasing. “You, Miss Eliza, have a very peculiar gait.”

Eliza’s shoulders relaxed, and instantly she felt foolish. Of course. Her mother had always scolded her for loping around like a boy, and after a couple of weeks of living among the other girls, she knew none of them had her plodding steps. She pulled out the chair at the head of the table and rested her hands in front of her.

“I need your help,” she said.

“I know,” Helen said, picking up a fork and inspecting it in the candlelight. “You need me to help you bring her back.”

Eliza’s heart thumped.

Helen breathed on the fork, and Eliza could have sworn that the rust stains disappeared before her eyes. Still Helen lifted the rag and polished it anyway.

“None of your spells work on me,” she continued, laying the fork alongside the other gleaming utensils. Her eyes flicked to Eliza’s locket. “Not a one. I’m under the protection of a charm that makes me immune to witchcraft.”

Eliza sat and stared. “A charm?” she blurted stupidly.

“Yes,” Helen said as she polished a teaspoon. “I know what those books of yours can lead to. I knew the girl who last owned them.” She placed the teaspoon down on the table and slowly turned to look at Eliza. “She was killed by her craft.”

Eliza felt as if Helen had just plucked one of the forks off the table and jammed it into her heart. “Killed? Like Catherine was?”

“No, not quite like that,” Helen said thoughtfully. “This girl, she let the magic consume her. It became an obsession . . . an addiction . . . and it took over. After she died, we tried to burn those books so that it would never happen again, but it didn’t work.”

Eliza sat up straight and swallowed hard, attempting to focus. “What do you mean, it didn’t work?”

“We threw them in the fire, and they came out an hour later without a mark or a scratch,” Helen explained. “They were untouched, Miss Eliza. Unscathed.” She pushed the silverware away, her eyes hard. “You’re fooling with a power that is not to be trifled with. That is why I have tried to send you those messages all this time. Tried to tell you to turn back when you were about to get yourself into trouble. But you don’t seem to want to listen.”

Eliza’s heart dropped into her toes. “That voice I’ve been hearing . . . that was you?”

“Yes, Miss Eliza,” Helen said, going to work on a serving spoon. “But like I said, you didn’t want to listen.”

Eliza was stunned, an awful hollowness growing inside of her gut. A feeling that she had started something she could not control. A feeling that if she didn’t end it now, it might grow and expand and swallow everything she held dear.

But it had already swallowed Catherine, and she couldn’t rest with that on her conscience.

“If you wish to help me so badly, then help me now,” Eliza pleaded,
scooting her chair closer to the table, angling herself to look into the maid’s face. “Help
us
.”

“I’m sorry,” Helen said simply. “I can’t do that.”

“But you must!” Eliza protested. “Helen, if you know something of this, if you understand how these spells work, then you
must
help us.”

Helen continued to polish the silver, as if Eliza wasn’t begging for someone’s life.

“We’re going to do it with or without you,” Eliza said.

Helen paused. She laid down the rag and turned to look Eliza in the eye.

“Fine,” she said. “I will agree to help you on two conditions. First, I wish to read this spell first, to make sure there are no mistakes.”

“Done. And second?” Eliza asked, laying her palm flat on the table.

“Second, when the spell is done, we bury the books again,” Helen said. “We bury them, and you all put this magic where it belongs. In the past.”

“Agreed.” Eliza reached out and took the maid’s hand. “All I want is for this to be over.”

Helen sat and stared at Eliza’s hand on hers.“All right, then,” she said, sliding her hand away from Eliza’s. She wiped both palms on her dingy apron. “I’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” Eliza said, her voice thick. “Thank you, Helen.” She shoved her chair back and held out her hand to the maid. “Now come along. We must go.”

“Go where?” Helen asked, standing.

Eliza looked her up and down. Beneath her blue shawl and brown apron she wore a nightgown of white flannel.
Perfect.