Hiding behind a marble column in the entrance, she searched for Eleanor. The place was filling fast, ladies fanning themselves in the hot, close air; men clutching their programmes with their hands behind their backs. A porter rang a shiny gong suspended from a stand. “Five minutes until seating begins!” he called. “Five minutes!” By the clock in the lobby it was seven forty.
Beatrice spotted several familiar faces in the crowd, including Judith and Alden Dashley, who were holding court with several members of the Fraternal Order of the Unknown Philosophers. Mr. Guiteau was back again (along with his attendant shadows), passionately informing the receptionist of his urgent need to speak with Senator Conkling. Billy Dashley and a pair of scrubber girls darted here and there among the living, playing hide-and-go-seek. As she watched them have their fun, Beatrice thought she caught sight of Mr. Palsham, the man who’d frightened her so terribly in the park. Standing on tiptoe, she tried to get a better look at the gentleman, but before she could confirm it was him, he was gone. Across the room, the preacher who’d come to her aid was looking straight towards her. She pulled the hood of her wrap over her head. There was no sign of Eleanor.
Hands clammy, Beatrice headed out the ladies’ entrance to the street, hoping to meet Eleanor at the door. A cool breeze was stirring, rustling the fading leaves that clung to the tops of the trees. A few stray drops of rain fell as lightning flashed in the distance behind a wall of clouds. Beatrice began to count, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi…A grumble of thunder brought her count to a halt. The centre of the storm was about a mile off.
Where was Eleanor? How could she have missed her? Was she still at the shop?
Walking down the street, Beatrice thought, I won’t go far. Just a few steps down the block, and I’ll turn right back. Staring up at the magic lantern show just off the park, she saw the notice for their lecture in letters three storeys high: IT MUST BE SEEN TO BE BELIEVED.
What have I gotten myself into? She could run to the shop, leave the dress on the bed and find her way to the train station. If the trains travelling north along the Hudson didn’t run this late on Saturdays, she could always go to Joseph Wheeler’s cousin’s saloon in the Bowery. It wasn’t ideal, but surely they’d give her a place to lay her head until morning. Then it’d be back to Aunt Lydia and Stony Point and her reliable yet unremarkable life.
Crossing the street, she came upon a stretch of sidewalk where a new building was being erected. Rickety-looking scaffolds stretched high above her head. A dark figure was perched on one of the boards leaning against the brick. A mason who’d fallen asleep on the job? A man without a home? To her recollection, the building hadn’t even been started when she’d walked to the hotel that morning, but that was the way of the city, she supposed. In the short time she’d been in New York, the city had been constantly changing, one man’s idea of what was tremendous elbowing out another’s for something taller, newer, better, like bullies who stepped on sand castles on the beach.
The wind picked up and the rain along with it. Drivers perched on their carriages turned up their collars and tipped their hats over their eyes. Lightning spread in wiry fingers between the clouds—brighter, sharper. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Thunder echoed between the buildings—louder, closer. Does the lightning choose the tree, or does the tree call to the lightning? Eleanor had told Beatrice that it was her deep desire to discover if magic existed in the world that had allowed magic to find her. Beatrice couldn’t help but wonder if she was strong enough to withstand its attentions. One by one, several street lamps in front of her sputtered out, leaving her in a long stretch of darkness. It began to pour. She was almost to the shop. If she turned around, she could make it back to the hotel just in time.
What should she do?
Footsteps sounded behind her, gaining fast.
Before she could quicken her own pace, she was grabbed by the waist. Putting a gloved hand over her mouth, the man in black didn’t give her the chance to decide.
Lost and Found.
ELEANOR ARRIVED AT the hotel dripping wet. She’d trudged through the rain, completely shaken by her conversation with Mr. Newland, wondering where Lucy had run to and if there was anything she could do about her husband’s veiled threats. For now, she’d simply have to be on the lookout for whatever he might have planned. It was one thing to protect the shop from wayward ghosts, it was quite another to safeguard herself from physical harm. Cecil Newland was used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, without a care for the consequences. If he wished to hurt her, she was sure he’d find a way to do it and come out unscathed.
Shrugging off her wrap, she hurried to the Grand Ballroom knowing she was late. The clock in the lobby had just struck eight, its bells fading out of earshot as Eleanor snuck to the side of the stage. The room was stifling, the audience impatient for the lecture to begin. At least she could take some comfort in the fact that events like these never started on time.
“Where’s Beatrice?” she asked when she’d found Adelaide standing with Dr. Brody, heads bent together in deep discussion.
Adelaide looked up, worried, irritated, frantic. “I was hoping she was with you. I thought she might’ve gone back to the shop for something she’d forgotten.”
“I wasn’t at the shop.” Now wasn’t the time to explain where she’d been. “When did you notice Beatrice was missing?”
“No one’s seen her for the past half-hour,” Adelaide said. “She was in her dressing room, ready to go at half past seven. The next time I checked on her she was gone.”
It wasn’t like Beatrice to up and disappear—and it wasn’t like Adelaide to be so anxious. “Can you think of any reason as to why she might’ve slipped out? It’s awfully hot in here. Perhaps she took a stroll down one of the back hallways and lost track of time.”
Adelaide bit her lip.
“The hotel staff has searched high and low but so far they’ve had no luck,” Brody said. Putting his hand on Adelaide’s forearm he added, “That’s not to say they won’t, though. I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
Mrs. Stevens strode to the doctor’s side clutching a black lace fan. “Eight o’clock has come and gone, Dr. Brody. We can’t delay much longer.”
“Five minutes more?” Adelaide suggested, trying to hide her panic. “We’ll still be on the proper side of fashionably late.”
“Five minutes it is,” Marietta said, her eyes doubtful. “In the meantime I’ll make an announcement to pacify the masses. People are already talking of leaving.”
As Mrs. Stevens took to the stage, Dr. Brody pulled Adelaide and Eleanor aside. “If Beatrice doesn’t show before our five minutes are up, then I’ll do the presentation without her.”
“How will that work?” Adelaide said shaking her head. “What will you say?”
Looking out at the fidgeting crowd Dr. Brody replied, “I’ll say she’s taken ill. People will be understanding about that, won’t they? Or at least the thinking members of the audience will.”
Eleanor gave Dr. Brody a supportive nod. “I think it’s a wise solution.”
“People won’t understand,” Adelaide protested. “They’re here for a show, to see a sensation. You’ll get booed, you’ll get heckled, they’ll head for the door and leave you talking to empty chairs. This was to be your big night. What of your research, your career?”
“My research will be the same tomorrow as it is today,” Brody said. “What’s important is that Beatrice is found, safe and sound.”
“He’s right,” Eleanor said. “I’ll go to the shop to see if she’s there.”
Taking hold of Adelaide’s hand, Dr. Brody said, “You should go with her. I’ll be fine on my own.”
Adelaide frowned at him, hesitant.
“When you find her,” Dr. Brody added, “please let her know that she’s under no obligation to come back. If she shows, I’ll count it as a happy surprise. If she doesn’t, I’ve no hard fee
lings.”
Adelaide leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Good luck out there.”
As the two women made their way to the lobby, Eleanor whispered to Adelaide, “I’m not placing the blame on you, but I can see that you feel guilty. At some point I fully expect you to tell me what you think you did to make her run off.” Holding her breath she waited for Adelaide to rail against her words, to storm off without her, but that moment never came. They walked arm in arm from hotel to home in silence.
The lights were out in the shop and the windows upstairs were dark. Putting her key in the door, Eleanor found the lock had already been tripped. “Beatrice?” she called moving to turn up the gaslights.
“I’ll look upstairs,” Adelaide said, twisting the wick key on an oil lamp and striking a match to light it. After turning the flame down so it burned low and steady, she settled the lamp’s glass chimney in place and took the light in hand.
Eleanor followed her as she climbed the stairs.
“Beatrice?”
“Are you here?”
Silence. Adelaide briefly cast the light into their own rooms before heading to the garret.
“Hello?”
“Beatrice?”
“Are you all right?”
“Are you unwell?”
Adelaide took the lamp into Beatrice’s room but the girl wasn’t there. “Where do you suppose she’s gotten to?”
“I don’t know,” Eleanor answered, lighting a second lamp so they could search the room for clues. She’d been up here several times since Beatrice had arrived, but she’d never stayed long enough to take stock of how the girl had made the space her own. It was an endearing sight. Books were piled by the bed. Notes, spells and news clippings covered the walls. The witch’s ladder she’d brought with her from Stony Point was safely coiled inside a bottle that rested on the window ledge. Spotting a notebook that was lying open on the bed, Eleanor picked it up to inspect it. It was turned to the last page, which was blank except for the words Census of Astonishments written in large, flowery script. The rest of the book was filled with observations and musings, but nothing out of the ordinary for a young witch. Placing the book where she’d found it, Eleanor felt a pang of remorse for having snooped, but what else was she to do?
Adelaide sat on the floor rummaging through the trunk the girl’s aunt had sent to Beatrice. “All her dresses are here, except for one,” she announced. “The red calico is missing, but she was wearing it today until she changed into the gown for the lecture. It’s still in the dressing room.”
“She’d never run off in that gown,” Eleanor said, fear creeping up her spine.
Clutching a length of striped grosgrain ribbon in her hand, Adelaide replied, “You’re right. She wouldn’t.” She’d gifted the ribbon to Beatrice after she’d let her borrow it for their first visit together to Dr. Brody’s house. Beatrice had tried her best to return it, saying, “I can’t, it’s yours, I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.” Smoothing the ribbon between her fingers, Adelaide bowed her head, overcome with guilt.
Eleanor took one last look at the clippings on the wall. “It doesn’t look like anything’s missing.”
“Nothing except her,” Adelaide said, sitting on the edge of Beatrice’s bed, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
“Oh Adelaide,” Eleanor said moving to comfort her. She knew how rare a thing it was for her to cry.
Trembling, Adelaide confessed, “I was short with her when I had no good reason to be. She was nervous about the presentation, and I called her a child and left her alone instead of staying with her and making her feel at ease. You’ve been right all along. All I’ve ever done is push her, trying to turn her into something I wanted her to be.”
“Hush now. You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure she didn’t see it that way, any of it. Beatrice adores you. I don’t know how many times she’s told me she wished she could be more like you.”
Wiping her cheek, Adelaide said, “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? She’s not like me, nor should she wish to be. What was she thinking, going out alone in the city at night? She doesn’t belong out there.”
“She’s stronger than you think.”
Adelaide thought of the tragic tales she’d grown up with—young women being seduced, raped, battered, stabbed, murdered, and then tossed in back alleys or steamer trunks and left to rot. She’d known many girls, herself included, who’d been used up and discarded as ruined goods. They were girls who wished (maybe once, fleetingly, or maybe hour upon hour) that they were dead. When they’d cried for help, no one listened. When it was over (and over and over and over) they were told, “There are worse fates than this. You deserve what you got.” Looking at Eleanor she said, “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I know your story and I believe every word. And you forget that I came to know the city on my own before I met you.”
Adelaide stood and straightened her skirts. Chin up she said, “I’m going out.”
“Please don’t,” Eleanor begged. “It’s late. It’s raining. You’ll catch your death…”
“I’m no good here,” Adelaide said. “If I stay, I’ll go mad. I know where to look, who to talk to. Don’t fight me on this.”
Taking Adelaide’s hand in hers, Eleanor spat in her friend’s palm and then traced a star on her skin. Closing her eyes she whispered, “Light before, light behind, light above, light below. May you stay safe wherever you shall roam.”
“I’ll be back soon,” Adelaide said. “Wait up for me?”
“Always,” Eleanor replied.
Eleanor saw Adelaide to the door. For the first time since she’d returned to the shop she wondered where Perdu was. He hadn’t greeted them when they’d arrived and he wasn’t sleeping on his perch. “Perdu?” she called. “Where are you?”
A faint chortle sounded from beneath the counter.
“Come out here,” she coaxed. “Come on out. It’s all right.”
The raven flapped to the top of the counter and began pacing back and forth along the length of it, craning his neck and crying, “Fiend! Fiend! Fiend!”
“Perdu, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
The bird quivered and shook as Eleanor gently looked him over from beak to tail. No feathers were missing and there were no signs of injury. Still, it was clear that something had happened to frighten the poor pet.
“Fiend!” he cried again, breaking loose from Eleanor’s touch.
She remembered the open door. Had she forgotten to lock it before she’d left for Lucy’s or had someone broken in? Had this fiend taken Beatrice? Moving through the shop she looked for missing items, broken glass, drops of blood. But nothing seemed amiss. The teacups were hanging from their hooks on the wall, their saucers evenly spaced on the plate rail behind them. The honey pots, sugar bowls and creamers sat innocently waiting to be filled. There was no evidence of a burglary, no signs of struggle.
“Fiend!” the bird bellowed as if he were sounding an alarm. Ruffling his feathers, Perdu lit on the top shelf behind the counter and began pecking his beak against a glass jar. Ting, ting, ting, he tapped. Ting, ting, ting, three times more.
Seeing what the bird was pecking at, Eleanor let out a gasp. “Merde,” she said putting her hand to her mouth.
The jar that Perdu was focused upon wasn’t one of Eleanor’s. Cobalt blue with a cork stopper, it was fitted with a label that bore a skull and crossbones. Bringing the container down to the counter, Eleanor removed the cork and inspected it with care. “Arsenic,” she said, eyes wide with fear. Staring at the many tins and jars that lined the shelves, she had the chilling thought that perhaps everything in the tearoom, every jar of honey, every tin of tea, every container of sugar had been opened and tampered with. Slumping on a stool, she put her head in her hands. This was just the sort of treachery Cecil Newland would exact.
Flapping back to the shelf, Perdu chose a jar of hibiscus tea and began to peck at it, ting, ting, ting…ting, ting, ting. Chortling, low in
his throat, the bird said, “Who’s a good boy?”
Knot in her belly, Eleanor replied, “You are.”
Shaking his head, Perdu tapped the jar again, ting, ting, ting…ting, ting, ting, then he repeated his throaty, ghoulish question, “Who’s a good boy?”
“You are?” Eleanor asked, wondering if there might be method in the raven’s madness.
Ting, ting, ting…ting, ting, ting.
Taking the second jar from the shelf, Eleanor opened it and discovered a ring of white powder stuck to the rim. Clearly the bird knew all that’d happened. With any luck she’d soon know too.
Thinking there might be a way to assist the raven with his task, Eleanor grabbed her broom from the closet and pointed the end of the handle at the next jar on the shelf. Ting, ting, ting, she lightly tapped the glass and waited for Perdu’s response.
The bird stared at her with a gleaming, curious eye.
Ting, ting, ting, she tapped again, looking to the jar. “Safe?” she asked, hoping he’d cotton on.
“Safe!” he croaked, vigorously nodding yes.
Eleanor moved on to the next jar.
After Perdu had declared five jars in a row to be safe, Eleanor gently ran the broom along the rest of her stock as if she were a child running a stick along a picket fence. “All safe?” she asked, praying he’d confirm her hunch.
“Safe!” he crowed, nodding and flapping his wings. “Who’s a good bird?”
“You are,” she declared.
Sitting in the front window, Eleanor kept watch for Adelaide and Beatrice and anyone who might bring her news. Pulling apart a loaf of Mr. Markowitz’s black rye, she tossed a hunk to Perdu then took a piece for herself. The chewy loaf tasted of molasses and malt, and helped to settle her churning belly. She had no doubt that Cecil Newland had ordered someone to do the dirty business with the arsenic, but had he ordered them to take Beatrice too? She didn’t think he would dare such a crime—it carried too much risk—but she needed to rule out the possibility. Running to the counter she fetched an egg from a wire basket. “Who wants a treat?” she asked Perdu.