“Oh.”
“It wouldn’t be like before, though. You would be a regular employee. He would pay . . .” I trailed off. What was money to someone like Oscar? “Never mind. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t need Aidan. I can pull this off myself.”
“Without Aidan, and without your guiding spirit?”
“It looks like it.”
“If . . . if it means saving Sailor, I’ll do it.”
“Oh, Oscar. Now that I think about it, I realize I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You said I could be the ring bearer at the wedding. How’m I gonna do that if there is no wedding?”
“I tell you what, Oscar. I appreciate the offer so much, you have no idea. But let’s get through the Magical Match Tea tomorrow. Also, Graciela’s coven is set to arrive tomorrow as well. Maybe things will shake out differently, and we won’t need Aidan’s help at all.”
“Maybe. You still think it’s Wind Spirit?”
“Maybe. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, see if I can get her to admit what’s going on. But for right now, I have to brew, guiding spirit or no. Will you help?”
“Of course, mistress. It was real classy how you said to Conrad, ‘It will be an honor, and a pleasure.’”
“Thank you, Oscar.”
“It will be my honor, and my pleasure.”
Chapter 27
After the brewing—which went well enough, though the Ashen Witch once again failed to appear—Oscar curled up in his cubby over the refrigerator, and I took a long shower, then dressed in a fresh white cotton nightgown I had bought from a lovely elderly woman in North Beach. Its vibrations were sweet and calm. I could use all the help I could get at this point.
I wanted to look through the shoe box alone. I sat cross-legged on my bed, centered myself, set out my stones, chanted for a minute, then slipped off the top of the box.
Despite Selena’s perusal, everything looked just as it had. Ignoring the squirming silverfish, I gazed again at the photo of my mother and father on their wedding day. Instead of putting it back, I propped it up against the frame holding Sailor’s photograph on my bedside table. No matter how fraught our personal history, these were my parents. And, according to the expressions on their faces, they had once loved each other. Perhaps they had once loved me, too.
Next, I unwrapped the lachrymatory and held the small bottle up to the light. I gazed at the tiny crystals within, tumbling as I turned the glass bottle. Were these the vestiges of my tears? Had I cried? I remembered Tristan saying—via Hervé—“The tears of the daughter . . .”
If these truly were mine, they were too precious to keep in a shoe box. I secured the stopper with some soft wax, then cleaned and anointed the bottle with olive oil, and added it to my leather medicine bag.
Next, I took the stones and crystals from the shoe box and added them to my basket of stones. Several hummed with teenage angst and energy, a few with great sadness. But as I knew only too well, negative forces could also be useful in spells. It was all about balance.
Finally, I picked up the watch. The glass face was scratched, the brown leather band worn. Had my father given this to me? Or had I nabbed it? It put me in mind of Sailor’s missing watch. I wondered whether the police had taken it into evidence, as Sailor had suggested . . . or if someone had stolen it from him to cast a Sailor-looking glamour. If so, it would suggest this person knew where Sailor lived, as well as Sailor’s connection to Tristan Dupree. And this person wouldn’t want Dupree horning in on Renee’s attention.
I considered winding the wristwatch to see if it worked, but remembered seeing this same watch nestled with the broken eggs in my vision. Probably it was merely symbolic of my father betraying me, but just in case . . . I set the watch, unwound, on my bedside table, alongside my parents’ wedding photo, and the one of me as a toddler.
All that was left in the box were the last vestiges of herbs and the silverfish. Very special silverfish, apparently, which could be used to cast glamours. They might come in handy someday, if I took the time to experiment a little and discover how to use them.
As I went to close the box, I noticed with astonishment that the creepy little fellows had arranged themselves in the shape of Deliverance Corydon’s mark.
* * *
? ? ?
The day dawned bright and cheery, a beautiful spring morning for the Magical Match Tea. Officially the event started at eleven, but the steering committee showed up early to finish setting up.
Tables were covered with colorful cloths, plates were stacked, and silverware was put into jars. Food arrived by the carload: platters of cookies and petits fours, trays of finger sandwiches and cupcakes, and bowls of fruit. There were vats of coffee and tea, and pitchers of juice and punch. Maya had put together a playlist that featured a mix of old and new tunes, and there was a good deal of dancing while we finished our preparations.
We were a raucous, excited, and extremely well-dressed crowd.
Maya and Lucille wore matching turquoise dresses patterned with little sprigs of bright red cherries. Bronwyn’s twelve-year-old granddaughter, Imogen, wore an actual vintage dress in a pretty butter yellow with white embroidery, while Bronwyn wore a version that Lucille had skillfully produced to match the original. Selena and I were matching in our polka-dot dresses, and the rest of the coven sisters came with an assortment of daughters, nieces, and granddaughters. Starr brought her two foster daughters, forming a matching trio instead of a pair. Wendy brought her barista buddy, Xander; they were outfitted in matching corsets and black boots with faded jeans. They both looked quite fetching.
“Where’s Wind Spirit?” I asked the group, checking my watch. “It’s almost ten thirty.”
“She texted me that she had to pick up some cupcakes,” Starr said. “Said she was running late.”
“Looks like we have plenty of cupcakes already,” I said.
“She wanted to be sure there were more than enough, Lily,” Bronwyn explained. “It’s just the way she is.”
If Wind Spirit really was working with Renee, I reflected, she wasn’t trying to hide it. Then again, why would she? How in the world was I supposed to prove that she had cast a glamour to look like Sailor while attacking and murdering Tristan?
Conrad declined to attend the actual tea, but accepted a muffin and the smoothie I had made for him with the special brew I concocted last night. He announced he would stand outside and act as doorman.
“I’ll keep our little porker friend out here with me if you want.”
“Good idea. That way he won’t be underfoot. I’ll bring you both some snacks later.” Something occurred to me. “Conrad, do you know what time Amoeba Records opens?”
“Dude, I love that place. It opens at eleven, every day of the week. Want me to run and buy you an LP? I didn’t even know you had a record player.”
“I don’t, actually. I was just wondering. Thanks for staffing the door.”
“Happy to do it.”
I looked up and down the street. Still no sign of Wind Spirit or Renee. But others were beginning to arrive; from both directions, women—young, old, and in between—wearing matching dresses were walking toward Aunt Cora’s Closet. It was a sight to see.
“Dude,” said Conrad.
“Dude,” I echoed in agreement.
Soon the shop was crowded with chattering partygoers. Most were women; other than Xander, only one brave man had taken us up on the invitation and wore a sort of late-1970s jumpsuit that matched the one his daughter wore. The two of them stood together, beaming with pride. I welcomed several Aunt Cora’s Closet regulars, as well as Haight Street neighbors.
“Here comes Renee,” said Maya quietly. She had sidled up to me without my noticing, so intent was I on the arrivals.