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I nearly drop my cup. “What, Cyrus?”
“Cyrus! Thank you, my dear. That would’ve bothered me all day.”
“The engagement was broken off when we moved,” I hurry to explain. She doesn’t need to know about Cyrus’s unwelcome appearance in New Oldbury or his ridiculous proposal and letters. “I haven’t seen him since then.”
“No?” She furrows her gray brows, tilting her head in deep thought. “But didn’t he go to Emeline’s burial? I could have sworn your mother wrote something to that effect in one of her letters. That was kind of him, wasn’t it?”
“Oh,” I say weakly. “Yes, I had forgotten. Very kind. Aunt Phillips, do you think I might be shown to my room now? I’m afraid the journey here has quite worn me out.”
Aunt Phillips looks startled. “Did I say something wrong? I was only asking because—”
“No, it’s fine,” I assure her with a thin smile. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
* * *
As I lay in an unfamiliar bed that night, the sounds of Boston surround me like a long-forgotten lullaby. Carts rumble down the hill and the clatter of horse hooves echo through the narrow street. Somewhere two men are shouting over each other, then abruptly break off into laughter. It’s a far cry from the nocturnal sounds of New Oldbury where the only traffic is that of the stealthy foxes and the beating of owls’ wings. I strain my ear for the sound of ships in the harbor, canvas sails crumpling in the wind, bells alerting the sailors of curfew. I picture them returning drunk and sleepy to their swaying hammocks. On Washington Street my favorite bookshop is quiet and dark, books lined up in precise rows of thick, uncracked spines as Mr. Brown turns the lamps down for the night. The grocers down in Faneuil Hall will have long since taken in their wares, chucking any spoiled apples and onions to the barefoot beggar children. Aunt Phillips will be snoring away downstairs, foot propped up in front of the fire, no doubt dreaming of gossip and fresh scandals.
In New Oldbury I imagine Mr. Barrett sitting at his desk, running his hand through his hair, a frown catching at his lips as he reads my letter for the fourth or fifth time before crumpling it up and throwing it away.
And then there is Emeline. Lost, alone, scared, unable to rest.
* * *
The next morning as soon as I can reasonably be excused from helping Aunt Phillips dress her foot, I bolt to Mr. Brown’s bookshop where I buy the first volume of a new book on his recommendation:Ivanhoe. He promises that it’s full of knights, castles and “all those things that seem to so capture the imagination of young women in particular.” He accepts my money with a wink and a promise from me that I’ll be back for the next two volumes.
Just as I’m about to leave, I turn back and he looks up in surprise. “Is there something else I can help you with? Perhaps you’d like the second volume now?”
On an impulse, I ask, “Do you have any books on witchcraft? That is, specifically its history in Massachusetts? The Salem trials and such.”
A bushy gray brow shoots up behind his round spectacles. “Witchcraft? Well now, let me see.” He crosses his arms and leans back behind his desk, deep in thought.
My cheeks burn and I wish I hadn’t asked, but now he’s on the case and I know there’s no stopping him.
Mr. Brown springs up and in a moment he’s rifling through an overcrowded shelf, pulling off volumes, inspecting the titles and then discarding them.
“Aha!” He coaxes a slim little book off the back of the shelf and hands it to me.“Tales of Witchcraft, Sorcery, & Other Macabre Happenings in Olde New England.”He looks at me and gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Doing a bit of research, are we?”
My cheeks burn hotter. “I... It’s just a passing fancy,” I stammer. “Really more of a fancy of Catherine’s,” I lie. “I promised her I would look for a book for her while I was in Boston.” I certainly can’t tell him the real reason I’m desperate for information is because of the black mark on my family’s history, and that Mary Preston’s visit and cryptic warnings have been churning in my mind for weeks now. There is something wrong with Willow Hall—or me—and I need answers.
But he hardly hears me as he makes his way back to his desk and begins to wrap it up in brown paper for me. “Not such a popular subject these days,” he says without looking up. “Now it’s all haunted castles and wicked highwaymen and the like.”
When I realize he’s making a joke about the books I usually come in looking for, I let out a little laugh and relax.
He hands me the package and I add it to my other book. “Let me know what you find with your research,” he says.
I promise that I will, though now that I’m in Boston, far away from the spirits and strange happenings of Willow Hall, it doesn’t seem so urgent anymore.
* * *
Once outside with a crisp ocean breeze at my neck and my new books under my arm, I can almost forget about my reason for being in Boston in the first place. Winding along the familiar streets and feeling the cobblestones through my leather soles it’s like the past five months never happened. I pretend that we still live in our brick house with the ivy climbing up the front, and that when I go home Emeline will pull me into the library, demanding that I read to her from my new books. Mother will be smiling in the way she used to, her gentle brown eyes lighting up when she sees me and Emeline curled up together by the fire. Ada will bring in chocolate and...
I’ve just reached Acorn Street when I stop dead in my tracks. Oh no. No no no.
His back is to me as he leans down to kiss Aunt Phillips on the cheek, but I would recognize that neatly combed black hair and slender, trim figure anywhere. He hasn’t come in a carriage—I suppose his father had to sell that—but he looks well enough in his double-breasted coat and polished Hessians. Aunt Phillips clasps his hand as she says something, and then smiling, ushers Cyrus inside.
I stand there, turning the books over in my hands and biting my lip. I could go somewhere else, wait for him to leave. Maybe back to Mr. Brown’s and browse for an hour? Or to the docks and watch the ships come in?
As if in answer, a fat, icy raindrop falls onto my neck, worming its way down my back, followed by another and another. If I found out Cyrus could summon storm clouds at his whim I wouldn’t be surprised. Grumbling, I shield my books under my arm and plunge inside to see what my ex-fiancé could possibly want now.