A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (17 page)

“I think . . . it’s possible it was someone accused of being a witch, who was burned at the stake centuries ago.”

“Yes, I suppose that could be. I’ve heard of a few cases in which a spirit seeks sanctuary in the heartwood of a tree. Or in the case of hanging trees, when sleeping people are haunted by the pain of those killed there. But
becoming part of the wood . . . this person would have to have been very powerful. Have you spoken with the woodsfolk?”

“I haven’t. Oscar was my only go-between with them. Could you introduce me?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have that kind of power. Not anymore. I’m good with plants, but that’s a whole different world. Aidan would be your best source for that.”

“I know. But I can’t trust him. He’s trying to foist another creature on me for a familiar rather than helping to save Oscar. I don’t know what’s going through his head.”

“Interesting. He must not think it worth the price to bring Oscar back.”

“It’s not his decision; it’s mine. And Oscar’s worth the price.”

“But Aidan holds power over him. He’s still the one in charge of your Oscar, even though you’d like to think he’s
your
familiar.”

“How does he keep him beholden?”

“He must hold a marker of some sort. Probably some part of Oscar.”

“What do you mean, part of him?”

“How does one explain Aidan?” Calypso said, sipping her tea and looking out the window to the garden. “He’s not a sociopath. . . .”

Oh goody,
I thought.
At least there was that.

“But . . . he’s ruthless. He gets no joy out of hurting people, not like a psychopath, but he won’t pull a punch, either. He does what he believes is necessary.”

“Necessary for what?”

“To maintain control, his position of power. I don’t know what he’s after in the long run. I really don’t. Like most of us, I doubt he knows himself. But in the short run . . . he’s all about doing what’s necessary to maintain his position.”

I pondered Aidan’s motives as I looked through the window. Outside in the garden, I could see Bronwyn wandering through the tall tomato vines. She seemed to fit right in here, in her flowing tunic, flowers in her hair. I always thought she fit in perfectly on Haight Street, but looking at Bronwyn now, I realized that she would probably fit in perfectly no matter where she was. With the possible exception of the suburbs.

“So tell me more about Oscar. He’s a cross between a goblin and a gargoyle, you say? I’ve never heard of that.”

“He’s got gray-green skin, a monkeylike snout, big bat ears, humanlike hands but clawed feet.”

“Are his wings feathered, batlike, or segmented like an insect?”

“He doesn’t have wings.”

“No wings? You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I mean . . . wouldn’t I have noticed them?”

“Sometimes they’re subtle. They might blend in, get tucked in, sort of?”

I thought back. On the one hand, Oscar never ceased to amaze me. But I had held him often enough; surely I would have noticed such a thing.

I shook my head. “I really,
really
, can’t imagine I would have missed them.”

She rose and went into the front room, which was covered floor to ceiling in bookshelves. “Let me see . . . wings, witches . . . ah, here we are. Witch’s familiars.”

She thumbed through, looked in the index, and finally flipped it open and turned it around to face me. She tapped on a picture that looked rather like Oscar, though not quite. The skin was wrong, and the size was off. And it had nothing like Oscar’s ugly, adorable expression. But overall . . . I could see it.

“Anything like this?” Calypso asked.

“Very much like that,” I said.

“The cursed gargoyles—a sad case. I never knew it was true.”

“So you’re not only a botanist, but also an expert on gargoyles?”

“Oh, hardly,” she said, waving me off with a chuckle. “Though I do climb Notre Dame every time I’m in Paris, just to see all those marvelous creatures up there, overlooking the city.”

“Apparently his father was a goblin. When his mother shifted . . .”

“Oh.” Calypso blushed prettily and chuckled. “Oh, my, my,
my
. The mind does reel, doesn’t it?”

“I think it involved an egg and a faery circle.”

“Well, I should think so.”

“So, even though he’s only half gargoyle, you think he should have wings?” I thought of how Oscar had cackled when he saw the scene with the flying monkeys in
The
Wizard of Oz
.

“I’d be willing to bet on it. Wings are an
extremely
dominant gene.” She got up and poured more hot water into our mugs. “If they’re missing, there’s a reason for it.”

“You’re saying what exactly? That Aidan
took
Oscar’s wings?”

Calypso stirred a dollop of honey into her tea but said nothing.

“Why would he take his wings? That’s . . . horrifying.”

“That would keep him beholden to Aidan. Right?”

I had known Oscar worked for Aidan. And then Aidan “gave” him to me, which seemed wrong at some deep level. But . . . I guess I had come to think that Oscar really cared for me, that he was with me for reasons other than being forced to do so. This made him sound like a slave.

“How do I get his wings back?” I asked.

She let out a silent whistle, her eyebrows raised as if to say,
No way
. “Aidan doesn’t give up things like that. That’s his leverage. And if word got out that he made an exception in your case, or in Oscar’s, the others wouldn’t take him seriously anymore. You know how the magical world is, Lily. Lots of saving face, making symbolic gestures, putting out the right image.” She blew on her tea. “Frankly, I’m just as glad to be rid of the whole lot of ’em. Except for my plants, of course.”

While we were speaking, a long frond of the hanging fern wound itself around her arm. So slowly I didn’t notice at first, but now it had wrapped itself several times around and seemed to hold on in a loving fashion.

I spied Bronwyn strolling near the old-fashioned beehives, trying to peek inside one.

“I think I’ve kept you to myself long enough. I’ll bet Bronwyn would love to compare honeys with you. She has a special source up in the Oakland Hills somewhere. Just one more thing: Where do you think Aidan keeps those wings?”

“Lily, listen to me: You can’t go around stealing things from Aidan.”

“He stole them from Oscar.”

“Oscar probably forfeited them for some reason, in exchange for something. But be that as it may, stealing from Aidan is a definite no-no. I know you’re strong, but . . . you’re not that strong.”

“I’m getting stronger every day. And at the moment, I’ve got plenty of rage. So, does he have a warehouse somewhere? Where does he even
live
?” For some reason this last thought had never occurred to me. Aidan was so tied up with the Wax Museum in my mind, I never thought about him actually sleeping somewhere.

Calypso shook her head. “I’m not sure I’d tell you, even if I knew. And I really don’t have any idea.”

“No clue where he might hide valuable items? If Oscar’s not his only minion, he must be holding a lot of stuff somewhere.”

“It’s not always that kind of marker. Sometimes it’s a secret, or something much more subtle.”

“Okay, but . . .”

“All I can tell you is that Aidan always used to enjoy hiding things out in plain sight.”

“In plain sight?”

“He finds it . . . funny. Entertaining, I suppose. Now, shall we go talk about bees?”

* * *

An hour later we bid Calypso good-bye and climbed into my Mustang. Just as we were about to leave, Calypso mentioned she had decided to start offering botanical classes again.

“I’d love to take a class like that!” exclaimed Bronwyn.

“Me too,” I said, thinking how much fun it would be to talk plants and herbs for hours at a time.

“Funny you should mention that, Lily,” said Calypso. “I was actually wondering . . . Have you ever considered teaching?”

“Oh, I . . . uh . . . not really,” I stammered in reply.

“You have so much knowledge.”

“Oh!” gushed Bronwyn. “What a wonderful idea! Lily, you’d be
wonderful
.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m still learning myself. I don’t know what I could possibly teach to others.”

“How about methods of brewing and spell casting?” offered Calypso.

“Or how you carve and consecrate talismans? Or make spirit bottles?” suggested Bronwyn.

“I think you are more accomplished than you know,” said Calypso.

I could feel myself blushing. I knew a lot about plants, true, but Calypso could blow me out of the water, botanicals-wise. Still and all, I supposed she was right: Though I still had a great deal to learn, I certainly knew more than your average bear about charms and brews.

“I worry about teaching people just enough to hurt themselves,” I said. “Witchcraft can be dangerous, especially if someone attempts something and then turns out to have more power than they know. I say this from experience. Spell casting is all about intention and
effecting change; what if someone is great at intention but gets the details wrong and hurts herself?”

“When you and I grew up, this was all secret knowledge, and for good reason, to keep people from doing exactly that—hurting themselves or others,” said Calypso. “But these days, anyone can get access to this kind of information over the Internet if they look hard enough. The point of classes would be to train them properly, so they
don’t
hurt anyone. And you don’t have to teach the tough stuff, nothing that would be potentially harmful. Just casting spells of confidence and good fortune, that kind of thing.”

“Oh, Lily,” put in Bronwyn. “I really think you would be splendid.”

“Just think about it,” said Calypso with a warm smile. “I’ll start the classes up again in September, so you have a couple of months to consider.”

“Well, thank you. I’m flattered,” I said. “And thanks again for sharing all your information with me. I really appreciate it.”

As we pulled out, Calypso left me with one more remark: “Don’t underestimate Aidan, Lily. It . . . won’t turn out well.”

* * *

That night, Bronwyn, Maya, Duke, Conrad, and I approached the Academy of Sciences building. I was stunned at the size of the crowd. Clearly, I had underestimated the appeal of a frog-themed cocktail party for the residents of San Francisco.

“I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve been here!” said Bronwyn. “When my kids were young, we used to come all the time. Duke, you and I need to bring the grandkids and make a day of it.”

“That’s a deal,” said Duke. “Don’t think I’ve been here since my Miriam was a tyke. Place was different back then.”

“I take it it’s a new building?” I asked.

“Yes. It says here”—Maya read from a brochure she had downloaded from the Internet—“that one critic called the building a ‘blazingly uncynical embrace of the Enlightenment values of truth and reason’ and a ‘comforting reminder of the civilizing function of great art in a barbaric age.’”

The five of us gawked at the building.

“Huh,” I said.

“Can’t argue with that.” Duke nodded.

“Well written,” Conrad agreed. “Art as a civilizing function in a barbaric age. Dude.”

“Check out the sod roof,” said Bronwyn, pointing to the roofline. “Personally, I’m a little unclear on how that fits with Enlightenment values, but it sure fits in well with
my
values. Funny how the traditional ways are coming back in vogue, right?”

“‘Coming back’ might be a stretch,” said Maya. “Not a lot of hobbit dwellings in the Bay Area.”

“Hobbit dwellings?” I asked.

“Sod-roofed buildings remind me of Hobbiton.” She smiled. “Or have I been reading too much Tolkien?”

“No such thing as too much Tolkien,” Conrad said.

“I suppose it does look a little hobbitlike on the roof,” I said. “But this place is massive. I’ve seen sod roofs used in parts of Africa and rural Europe—eventually, if they deteriorate, they simply go back to the earth rather than into landfills.”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Bronwyn sighed. “Circle of life and all that.”

Her words brought to mind Sebastian Crowley. I’d said something similar to him, and the thought had resurfaced when Conrad and I were discussing the old oak tree. The circle of life, things returning from whence they came . . .

As crowded as the terrace in front of the museum was,
the space inside was still more jam-packed. We stood in a clump at one side, trying not to jostle others. Looking about, I took in the crowd, which seemed to be made up primarily of upwardly mobile professionals.

“Oh my,” said Bronwyn with a glance at Maya. “Look at all the handsome young men.”

“Thanks, Bronwyn, but I’m fine just as I am,” Maya said.

Ever since Bronwyn had started seeing Duke, she had become a world-class matchmaker. Maya and I had promised each other we would be patient with our friend’s newfound interest in our love lives, assuming that Bronwyn was motivated by wanting us to be as happy as she was. To Bronwyn’s credit, she was the first to say she had been happy to make her own way and was quick to acknowledge that a woman didn’t need a man at her side to be fulfilled. Still, she wanted to see all her friends in happy relationships.

“I’m just saying, if a person were young and single, they could do worse than to find another young single person at a gathering like this. Shared interests and all that . . .”

“Shared interest in frogs?” Maya was young but jaded, a forty-year-old brain in a twentysomething’s body.

“You don’t like frogs?” Conrad asked. “Dude, I
love
the little guys.”

“I’ve got nothing against frogs. I’m just not sure how much I could commit to the theme, conversation-wise.”

The crowd in the building kept getting bigger, and our group backed off, finding a little breathing room in a corner near the corridor leading to the stairway.

“Stand back, my friends. Duke and I are going to fight our way to the bar,” said Bronwyn, putting her arm through Duke’s. “You three go on and check out the exhibit—we’ll find you. Margaritas all around? Speak now or forever hold your sobriety.”

“A beer, dude,” said Conrad. “Any flavor.”

“We can all go,” said Maya.

“Nonsense,” Bronwyn said briskly. “In a situation like this, the fewer the better. And I have skills—I waitressed for years, remember? I could balance five drinks at a time back then. And Duke can do the pushing.”

Bronwyn and Duke headed off in the general direction of the crowd, while Maya, Conrad, and I followed the signs to the frog exhibit.

The exhibit was less crowded than the bar area, but not by much. Still, we had fun checking out the big, open areas, where all kinds of frogs hopped around on rocks and splashed in ponds and puddles. There were also huge glass enclosures, where rarer or more delicate specimens were displayed.

“Dude,” Conrad said. “That’s a lot of frogs.”

“Suppose there’s one here I could kiss and change into a prince?” asked Maya.

“If there is, I’m sure Bronwyn will send him your way soon,” I said.

“Check out that one. The bright orange ones have psychedelic properties,” said Maya, reading the exhibit brochure. “Listen to this, Conrad: See the little yellow-and-black frog over there? Apparently, it emits a certain chemical. If you lick its back, you’ll start tripping.”

“Dude! No way.”

“Way. Brochures don’t lie.”

“Did you know that witches used to brew up hallucinogenic herbal concoctions?” I said. “According to some historians, that’s how they ‘flew.’”

“So the whole riding broomsticks thing was only metaphorical?” Maya asked.

“The result of pharmacological use and abuse,” I said. “Or so they say.”

“Given the misery of the lives of a lot of women—
witches or not—back then,” said Maya, “you can hardly blame them for indulging in a little escapism.”

Conrad pointed out the horned toads, sitting almost motionless and blending in with the rocks and plants at the water’s edge. One large brownish one sat amid a number of ceramic toadstools. They made me think of the mushrooms at the base of Ms. Quercus. I knew mushrooms could spring up overnight, but could there be any significance to them appearing at the base of the tree?

After a few minutes, I noticed a young man staring at us from across the pond. Dressed in a lab coat, he appeared to be one of the academy scientists, and I realized I had seen him on that nightmarish day in the park: He was one of Lance’s colleagues. His heavy-rimmed glasses, pale face, and buzz-cut dark hair suggested he had stepped out of a poster of a scientist from the early sixties.

As I watched the man watching us, Lance Thornton walked up to him. Lance was a mess, with the same yellowish stains on his lab coat as the last time I’d seen him. As always, his eyes were large and unblinking. Poor fellow, I thought; what would it be like to go through life with one’s features arranged in a constant expression of astonishment? Rather similar to his research subjects, now that I thought of it. But surely that was a coincidence, rather like when dogs started looking like their owners.

“Lance,” I called out with a wave. “Hello!”

He shuffled toward us, trailed by his friend.

“Oh, uh, hello again,” Lance mumbled. “This is my colleague, Kai Hiccum. He was at . . . the tree, too. You know. That time.”

“Yes, I remember. I’m Lily. Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Dude,”
said Conrad, a few beats late, as usual. “Your name’s Kai? Awesome. I remember you from that day,
under the tree. What a
trip
. Just call me the Con. And, Lance, my man, how you doing?”

Kai was staring at Maya. Then, all of a sudden, he smiled. I hadn’t thought of him as handsome, but when he smiled, his whole face lit up.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “You don’t drink?”

“Our friends are braving the line at the bar for us,” I said, glancing over to the sea of people milling about the concession area. “The cocktails are a big draw, it seems.”

“I’ll go reconnoiter,” said Conrad, and disappeared into the crowd.

Kai chuckled. “I have a bottle of scotch in my office, if I can tempt you . . . ? Unless you have your heart set on cocktails.”

“Too strong for my blood,” said Maya with a definite shake of her head. “I’m more of a margarita gal.”

“Yes, I could picture you on a beach somewhere, margarita in hand,” Kai said.

Maya’s skin was a rich mocha brown, so it was hard to tell . . . but I could have sworn she was blushing.

“What a great way to bring in the public to the museum,” I said.

“Kai thought of it,” said Lance.

“While I’m happy to take the credit for the idea, all I said was that we have families with kids coming in and out all day long—I swear, divorced dads are our bread and butter,” Kai explained. “But adults on their own? Not so much. So I suggested we stay open late one evening, serve alcohol, and watch the grown-ups turn out.”