Chapter 11 - Marjorie Meets Aunt Astrid

“My husband died last year. To answer your inquiry…” Astrid turned to the window, the sunlight bringing out her dainty, elegant features. “I sent an Elf into your house, Marjorie.”

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Recap: In the previous chapter, Marjorie accompanied her father the magician to make his deliveries at the town downhill. She was a happy witness to the fondness with which the townsfolk regarded him, as every person appeared overjoyed by his return.

Papa gave Marjorie some money to pay in advance for the assistance that she was going to offer him. She wondered what to spend it on until, later, she was invited to a ball that was to be held at the Widdingtons’ home. Papa had given her just enough to buy a gown; perhaps she would spend it on that.

It depended on what would happen in the night. They could not risk going to a party if an Elf was on the loose, set on tormenting them.

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Marjorie shouldn’t have been shocked by how many deliveries her father completed before his sack was empty. Nearly two hours had passed before he pocketed the last of his earnings.

As they turned away from the home where he’d sold the last of his tinctures, Marjorie found herself mulling over something she had noted throughout their trek. She mounted Marmie and waited until her father was also on his horse before deciding that, if she was his apprentice, she might as well ask her question.

“Papa,” she began, as they wound their way through narrow neighborhoods, “not that I consider medicine unimportant, but it seems to me that all you’ve delivered to the people…well, it seems ordinary. Cures for coughs and cures for stomach pain are important…”

She trailed off, not wishing to insult him.

“Ah,” Papa said with a dash of amusement, “you imagined that I am making more exciting things while cooped up in the greenhouse.” He looked at her, something severe in his gaze. “I know how to make things I would not sell unless there was no better option. Innocent as they sound, love potions can easily destroy lives. I can also brew a disturbing selection of poisons. I would not make those, on my conscience. I learned them only because one of my masters insisted it be part of my education.”

“Will I also learn to brew those poisons?” Marjorie asked, startled.

Papa hesitated. “There is no need for a young lady to possess such knowledge. I wish I didn’t know those recipes, myself.”

Not wishing to sour the remainder of their time together, Marjorie stored her questions away.

She urged Marmie around narrow corners and over a small bridge, where they were headed to the center of town. The best shops, where imports could be purchased, were situated at the heart of St. Clare’s.

The shopping center was wrapped in streets and buildings like a present. Though St. Clare’s was small, barely deserving of the title town, enough businesses had sprung up to signal its growth, in spite of the families migrating out every year.

Groups of shoppers stood on the streets, talking and laughing. They exclaimed with glee at the sight of Bamoy, then look with curiosity at his daughter. Most had not been this close since her baptism, which even she could not remember.

Though Papa did not have religious inclinations, Mama had wished for her children to be baptized at the local church. He assented, looking at it from a logical standpoint: a baptism would safeguard his children from rumors of them being Changelings. With this purpose in mind, he’d sent invites to half the town, inviting near-strangers to attend as witnesses.

Many of those witnesses now stood looking at Marjorie with pleasant surprise on their faces. She smiled shyly at them, but kept silent, for already there was a handful of people calling out to her father.

Marjorie steered Marmie to the side, glad to see the change in her father’s expression. It was evident that the positive attention was helpful for his confidence. She wished to take his hand and tell him, See? You haven’t failed. You’re still Bamoy.

Such words were unnecessary, as the crowd’s fondness was evident.

One of the townsfolk, an old man with an oval-shaped head, shook Papa’s hand enthusiastically. Marjorie vaguely remembered seeing him at Adam’s baptism.

The man babbled about something that he hoped the wizard would be able to brew.

“…was hoping that you would visit us soon,” the man was saying, “as I’ve got a bit of a situation, and it’s uncomfortable…” In lowered tones, he added, “I would prefer not to discuss it around ladies. Could you spare me a moment?”

Amusement sparkled in Papa’s eyes. “I can spare a moment.” To Marjorie, he added, “You know where the dress-shop is, my rose; go and have a look. I’ll meet you when I’m finished with Mr. Brown.”

Marjorie nodded and nudged Marmie in the direction of the dress-shop. She gave one of her coins to a boy dressed in rags and asked him to watch her horse. The boy nodded his agreement, looking at the coin with enthusiasm.

Dismounting, she approached the dress-shop and pushed the door open, breathing in the comforting scents of fabric and thread. Mannequins stood in a line against a wall; rolls of fabric stored on the shelves created a rainbow for her eyes to behold.

The store was quiet, with only one other shopper present. She stood perusing a row of gowns, her back turned while she examined the stitches.

Marjorie stepped inside and shut the door against the wind, causing a bell overhead to ring. The young lady at the counter looked up to smile.

“Good afternoon! Welcome to Mrs. Welch’s!” She put away the book that she had been reading and asked, “Is there something you are looking for?”

“A gown,” said Marjorie, shy in spite of the coins that jingled in her pocket. “I’ve been invited to a ball, and I’ve got nothing in my wardrobe for such an event.”

The shopkeeper did not look much older than Marjorie. Her golden hair was pulled back in an elaborate chignon—far more elaborate than Marjorie could have managed—but her sweet eyes put the customer at ease.

“You must mean Mrs Widdington’s ball! I’m also attending. We’ll find something to suit you,” said the young lady. “My name is Abigail Welch; my mother owns the shop. You’re Bamoy’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Marjorie saw the woman in the corner stiffen at the mention of Bamoy. Though she thought the reaction strange, she focused her attention on the young lady.

“Yes, I am,” she said with a curtsy. “I accompanied him today to make his deliveries.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Miss Welch, stepping around the counter. “My mother asked him to make something for her megrims. They’ve been particularly painful of late. I’ll give you a discount for that.”

Marjorie smiled and said, “Oh, you needn’t…”

“Consider it the thanks of our family,” was the reply. “My mother suffers so.”

Humbled, Marjorie could only nod. It was clear from Miss Welch’s words that Papa was greatly esteemed by the townsfolk. Most of them would likely offer discounts because of the medicines that he created for them. She hoped he was also aware of this, and that it would lift his spirits when he resumed his battle with the Elf.

“I am much obliged, Miss Welch,” said Marjorie, deciding it would be rude to continue protesting.

“Please, call me Abigail.” The young lady beamed. “I haven’t spoken to you before, and my older sister hasn’t, either. This must be your first ball. A lady’s first ball gown is important; it will leave a lasting impression on the partygoers.” Appraising Marjorie, she remarked, “With your skin tone and hair color, a shade of rose would do. Last night, I finished a gown that might be just the ticket. Would you like to see it?”

“Y—yes,” said Marjorie, struggling to imagine herself in something so elegant. “I’d like to see it.”

“Excellent. I’ll have to dig it up. Wait here, and if you like it, we’ll step behind that screen to make any necessary alterations.”

Abigail disappeared into a room at the back. Marjorie found herself alone with the other woman, who still had not turned. Though the stranger had been silent the entire time, it was impossible that she hadn’t heard the conversation. Her reaction at the name Bamoy had been strong.

Marjorie shifted uncomfortably before wandering to a rack displaying some elegant shawls. She did not know how long this cold weather would last, but perhaps it would be wise to bring one home.

If Abigail was offering a discount on account of Marjorie’s father, she might have enough left over for a shawl…

The finest shawls were made of white wool with floral patterns stitched on. Marjorie selected one with purple blooms embroidered at the hem. She held it to the light of the window, holding her breath. She, herself, was fond of embroidery. While she considered her work to be decent, it paled in comparison to this art. She could see that it had been created by an older, more practiced hand.

She noticed, as she examined the embroidery, that the woman had turned—and was looking at her.

Lowering the shawl, Marjorie searched the stranger’s face. There was something about the woman that made it difficult to turn away. It was a combination of happiness, sadness, and something else—something unnameable but captivating.

“I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” the woman said. Her accent—startlingly American—caused Marjorie to jump. “Did you say you were Bamoy’s daughter?”

Marjorie swallowed, nodding. “Would you like for me to bring him in?” she asked, mouth dry. “If there’s a medicine that you’d like for him to prepare, I’m sure he would be glad to. He delights in helping the townspeople.”

“No,” said the woman with haste. “No, I—I will speak to him myself, when I know what to say. It’s only that I never thought I would see you, Marjorie. You won’t recognize me, and you’ve probably only heard bad things about me, but I’m his sister.” Hesitating, she took a step forward. “My name is Astrid Gretel Brahms-Stonewall.”

Stonewall. Marjorie, through her pounding heart, remembered Mama speaking often of the old man that Astrid had married; his name was Stonewall, a wealthy architect called Charles Stonewall. He was the very man Marjorie spoke of earlier, asking whether he had died.

“Astrid?” It felt odd to her tongue to pronounce the name. Marjorie found herself battling the urge to rush back outside with her father. “W—what are you doing here?”

Astrid Brahms-Stonewall heaved a sigh, wringing her elegant hands. “I made a mistake, and you saw the effects of it last night.” She paused. “I don’t know that your father and I could ever make things up, but I regret what I did to him. I’ve sworn to undo my mistake.”

Marjorie stared at the woman’s face, forcing herself not to bolt. She could see a resemblance between this woman and Papa. They both had dark hair, though Astrid’s was pulled back and adorned with a gleaming, silver comb. They both had blue eyes, though Astrid’s did not have shadows underneath them like Papa’s. In his stress, he looked twenty years older than he truly was.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Marjorie managed, stepping back to take in the elegance of Astrid’s gown. It was made of deep purple silk. Purple, a color of mourning. The realization meant that Marjorie did not need to ask about Mr. Charles Stonewall. The color answered her question about whether he was alive. “What is it that you did to my father, and why do you want to help him?”

Astrid watched with a half-smile as Marjorie took in her gown. “Yes, I am a widow,” she said, answering Marjorie’s unspoken question so quickly that the young lady felt her cheeks flame. “My husband died last year. To answer your inquiry…” She turned to the window, the sunlight bringing out her dainty, elegant features.

“I sent an Elf into your house, Marjorie, hoping that he could find my grimoire and return it to me. Things…did not go the way I had planned. I know better, now, than to try and strike deals with wicked creatures. I also witnessed all of the spirits rising from their graves last night.

“If I could speak with your father, and if I am given my grimoire, I’ll find a way to undo the mistake that I made. Your father and I have some bitter memories, but he is a good man, and he does not deserve to have such a burden on his shoulders.

“I do not know if I can forgive him for having stolen what was mine—but he is my brother, and if he would accept my help, I would like to visit your house tomorrow morning. I’d like to meet your mother, too.”

Abigail emerged from the back room, sparing Marjorie from having to respond to Astrid’s declaration. She held a gown that was indeed rose-colored. Though red, it was not bright and obnoxious, but a tame, dusky shade that reminded Marjorie of old books and her father’s writing-desk.

“If you like it,” said Abigail, “step behind the screen, and I’ll help you into it. We’ll work out where to mend it, if mending is required.”

“I love it,” breathed Marjorie, Astrid’s words momentarily forgotten. “Oh, it’s so much lovelier than anything I’ve ever owned. I’m afraid that I cannot accept something so exquisite without paying in full. I can see how much work was put into it, and—”

Astrid interrupted, speaking to Abigail: “I’ll buy it for her. Expect me tomorrow with the money.”

“Yes, Mrs. Stonewall.”

“What?” Marjorie cried, her mind scrambling. “You—you needn’t—”

Astrid curtsied and, with a wink, made for the door before Marjorie could finish protesting. A gift, she thought, dazed, from the aunt that I’ve never met? From the aunt we’ve spoken of badly all this time?

Abigail did not comment on the exchange. Instead, she pointed to a screen in the corner and said, “Let’s get you into the gown. I’ve a feeling it was simply made for you.”

Marjorie followed her, heart pounding. She wondered if Astrid would find Papa now and try to speak with him, or if she would wait until morning.

Could Astrid really help them with the issue of the Elf? Could she send the ghosts back to their state of eternal rest? Marjorie hoped so.

Papa might be a revered magician in the eyes of the townsfolk, but he needed help.

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