CHAPTER 13
A Cauldron
Hints that unexpected opportunities could soon emerge.
“Incorrigible,” Anne muttered as she stirred her tea in the family parlor, her teeth chattering so hard that the spoon rattled against the side of the cup. “Utterly incorrigible.”
Violet wanted to reply, but she was still trying to catch her breath after the trudge back to the Crescent Moon. The three of them had only needed to walk a few blocks, but the wind was merciless, slipping into the gaps of their scarves and causing gooseflesh to pebble along the delicate skin of their necks.
As soon as they’d stepped through the front door of the shop, the house had shivered at the sight of their rosy cheeks and trembling shoulders and lit the stovetop in the kitchen so that they could brew themselves a warm pot of tea.
Now that their damp woolen cloaks were dripping from pegs in the kitchen, the Quigleys were attempting to tuck their chilled toes as close to the fire as they could without having to rise from the comfort of their seats. The house had wrapped the quilts sotightly around their legs that it was impossible to move anyway, leaving the sisters no choice but to sink deeper into the familiar fabric and relish the scent of ginger that rose in steamy tendrils from their cups.
“Was he really so unpleasant?” Violet asked after she took her first sip and felt the spicy sweetness warm her throat.
“He was beyond unpleasant,” Anne replied, the words so full of annoyance that the house tried to inch her chair a bit closer to the fire, where some of the iciness in her voice might have a better chance of thawing. “I’ve never met such a rude man in all my life. And he doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest about completing Mr. Crowley’s Task.”
“But what did he say, exactly?” Beatrix asked, obviously confused that someone could be so coldhearted when it came to matters of their own flesh and blood.
“Nothing. That’s precisely the problem,” Anne sighed in exasperation. “Only that he wouldn’t help.”
“But he should want Mr. Crowley’s Task to be finished,” Beatrix remarked, the furrow between her brow deepening even further. “If the other witches learn that the Crowleys refused to help in such a serious matter, the scandal of it could cast them out of the coven entirely.”
“He’s keeping secrets,” Anne said, her voice growing stern as she hit her spoon roughly around the edge of her cup. “I’m sure of it.”
“What do you think they could be?” Violet asked.
“I can’t say for certain,” Anne replied. “But I’m going to find out.”
The determination in their tone made the mirror above the mantle rattle.
“Our Mr. Crowley wasn’t accommodating either,” Violet reminded her. “But he eventually grew to trust us enough toshare the truth. Perhaps it’s a family trait and his nephew will follow suit.”
“We’ll figure out how to save Mr. Crowley and Philip with or without his help,” Anne declared so sternly that Tabitha cracked open one eye from her place in the basket of yarn to see what all the fuss was about. “Did you learn anything about the building across the street?”
“It’s a bookshop,” Beatrix replied in the same reverent tone used when speaking of sacred spaces.
Violet remembered what she’d seen as they followed Brigit out of the back room, though, and rushed forward before Beatrix could say another word.
“I think there’s more to be uncovered there,” Violet said, a note of excitement creeping into her voice as the passion that had flickered out within her seemed to catch a spark.
“What do you mean?” Anne asked as she leaned closer.
“I saw something carved into the doorframe,” Violet explained, her heart beating a bit faster as she thought of the moment her eyes had caught on the wood.
“What was it?” Anne asked, setting her cup and saucer on the end table so that she could lean forward.
“Their names!” Violet answered. “Capricious and Philip. Next to lines that just barely reached my rib cage. They must have been children when they made the marks.”
“So there is a connection after all,” Anne said with a nod. “You didn’t get a chance to see the apartment above the shop, I take it?”
“Not yet,” Violet answered. “But I have a feeling that Crowley’s nephew isn’t the only one keeping secrets. There’s something waiting to be found there too, I know it.”
“Is there anyone we could speak to who might remember Philip?” Beatrix asked hopefully. “Someone who can tell us about his life and how long he might have lived in the building?”
“Mr. Crowley never mentioned that he had any family,” Anne said with a shake of her head, recalling how her friend had spoken of Philip as if the two of them were the only ones who existed in the refuge they’d managed to create all those years ago. “And it’s been so long now that I doubt anyone would remember.”
Time, after all, was a strange creature. In the present moment, it might seem like the impressions left behind will last forever, but even memories that are etched in stone wear away with every rainstorm when there is no one left to tend to them.
