Constance hesitated at the threshold of the shopfront in the seedy mall on the outskirts of Salem. A woman in a Victorian dress not unlike her own had risen with alacrity and swept out toward her. “Welcome to the Coven of Salem! From whence do you hail?”
Constance moved into the spacious room, which had once been some sort of store, but was now repurposed into a reception area and meeting place. There was nothing strange or sinister about it; it was, rather, a sunny, cheerful space with thick carpeting and yellow-painted walls. A dark green curtain closed off the rear of the space. She had the feeling this was the woman’s residence as well as her coven.
She took another step inside.
“Shoes off!” the woman said sharply.
“I beg your pardon.” Constance removed her flats.
“Come in and sit down, please.”
Constance put down her bag and eased herself into a chair. It was uncomfortable and a little grimy, and she once again reflected on how much she’d rather be back at 891 Riverside Drive, playing the harpsichord or reading a book, instead of rising at the crack of dawn to take a hired car from Exmouth to Salem at Pendergast’s request. The agent had returned to the Inn at four in the morning, stopping only long enough to change his clothes before running out again to rendezvous with the police. He’d looked in on her before leaving, mentioned something about an incident in the swamps, promised to give her all the details at dinner, and exhorted her to make all possible haste to Salem. Your analysis, and your recommendations, are most necessary. More than once, his words of praise the previous morning had echoed in her mind. He had entrusted her with this assignment; he considered it to be important—and as a result, whatever her private thoughts might be, she would do everything she could to see it through successfully.
The woman sat down opposite her. She was a solid, firm-looking figure in her forties, with a prominent bust and a pugnacious chin, thrust forward. She eyed Constance with a faintly suspicious air and spoke with stilted formality. “I am Shadow Raven, of the Salem Coven, the largest of its kind in New England.” She made a strange, old-fashioned gesture with her hand, a medieval flourish of some sort.
“I am Constance Greene.”
“How nice to meet you.” The woman looked her up and down. “What a beautiful dress. Princess-line with a hint of mutton-leg sleeves. Where did you get it?”
“I’ve had it for a while.”
“And what coven are you from, sister? I thought I knew all the Wiccan practitioners in New England, but I have not seen you before.”
“I’m not from any coven. I’m not Wiccan.”
A look of surprise. And then the woman relaxed her guard. “I see. You have an interest in Wicca, however? Perhaps you are looking for a teacher?”
Constance considered this a moment. “Yes, I do have an interest, but not in the way you might think. I’m investigating a murder.”
“And what,” said Raven, her voice suddenly wary and her suspicious look returning, “could the Salem Coven possibly have to do with a murder?”
“You misunderstand. I’ve come not to accuse but to ask for your help.”
The woman eased herself back. “I see. In that case, I would be happy to oblige. You must understand, witches have been subjected to persecution and lies for many centuries. Wicca is all about peace, harmony, and oneness with the divine. To be a white witch is to be a healer, a teacher, a seeker! It is worth pointing out that our religion predates Christianity by twenty thousand years.” Her tone had become condescending. “Yes, we do perform magick, but our spells involve healing, wisdom, and love. We do not engage in satanic worship or consort with demons. Satan is a Christian creation and you can keep him, thank you!”
She folded her hands.
“I have no interest in Satan or any other demon,” said Constance, trying to stem the flow and redirect the conversation. “I’m here because I’d like your opinion on a certain set of inscriptions.”
“Inscriptions, you say? Let us see them.”
She held out her hand. Constance withdrew the sheet of paper that Pendergast had given her and passed it over. Raven took it, glanced at it.
A sudden, ice-cold silence descended on the room. “What is your interest in these?” the woman demanded.
“As I told you, I’m investigating a murder.”
Raven quickly handed them back. “Wicca has nothing to do with the Tybane Inscriptions. I can’t help you.”
“What, exactly, are the Tybane Inscriptions?”
“They have no relation to our coven or us. ‘Harm none’ is our creed. Anyone who intends harm through magick is not a Wiccan or a witch. Just to bring them in here, to soil this place of worship, is unacceptable. Now, I am a busy woman. I will ask you to remove yourself and those markings immediately.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Constance said, “that you know something of these markings? And yet you refuse to tell me?”
The woman rose in a vast, indignant rustle of fabric. “The door is over there, Miss Greene.”