Chapter 22 - Aunt Astrid’s True Motive

Mama continued: “Perhaps you have no need of her now, Johann, but remember—when you did not have your mother, you had your sister. Now she is the one without a soul in the world.”

Table of Contents:
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Recap: In the previous chapter, Johann the wizard lost his temper. We can’t blame him; he’s managed to maintain calm and civility through trials that would terrify most humans.

It’s no surprise that finding his wife in a mausoleum was the last straw. After the storm, though, there is often calm. Can there be reconciliation? Can they patch up their family?

Author’s Note: Check out my new Table of Contents if you’d like an easier way to find all of my articles!

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Mama was sleeping before the fire, under several blankets. Color had returned to her face; her lips were no longer blue.

The house had maintained a heavy silence after Papa cast Astrid away. Such had been the bustle that nobody paid attention to where she went. She was not in the parlor, so she might have gone to the sitting room. Maybe she was with Miss Fealy in the kitchen.

Marjorie did not care to stand up and check. She and Adam sat by their mother, while Bamoy the wizard stared exhausted out of a window at the spectral night beyond.

“What do they look like?” Adam asked, breaking the silence. “The spirits?”

Marjorie frowned. In her memory flickered the image of that ghostly couple, the ill-fated lovers who watched her balefully from the dark of the graveyard.

Her heart hurt to recall the sad way in which they smiled at her. They were together again, yes, but it was no blessing. Mr. Shelley had spoken of how unnatural it was for a soul to be wrenched from eternal rest.

Though the spirits held one another, could they feel a loving touch?

“They look like prisoners,” Marjorie admitted. “I thought I’d be afraid of them, but I saw how they suffer. They have been stripped of their dignity. They only frighten us by making themselves seen, but if you think about it…what else can they do? If I were a ghost, I would not wish for people to cringe from me. Yes, they are dead—but most of them aren’t like ghouls we hear about in stories.”

Adam considered this. It had only been a short while since she’d last seen him this closely, but something about him seemed older. He held himself with new alertness.

Marjorie wondered if he was asking the question because he saw, or sensed, more than he was letting on. Knowing him, it was not the time to pester; he would speak about it when he was ready.

Sighing, Marjorie reached for her needlework, which sat forgotten on the floor. Before long, the timepiece would chime two in the morning.

They all ought to go to bed, but none of them were tired. How much time had passed since Papa yelled at his sister? She knew it had been over an hour; her heart yet raced from the unexpected sight of his anger.

With fingers that trembled, she began work on an embroidered flower petal. Normally, she found distraction in the gentle art, but this night it was not enough.

Color had returned to her mother’s face, but none of them would relax until she showed a sign of consciousness.

As Marjorie pulled the thread up, she heard Mama stir on the couch.

“Johann,” came the voice, frail but familiar, a great relief to hear after the demon which had tried to imitate her.

Marjorie and Adam sat up, while their father scrambled off of the chair where he had been wrestling with thoughts known to no one but him.

Relief waved through Marjorie to see her mother awake. Nina Brahms looked well, albeit tired; her eyes were alert as ever.

“I want to talk to her,” said Mama. “Astrid.”

Papa ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Why?” was all that he managed, troubled.

The woman on the sofa might have been tired, but she hadn’t lost her sense of logic.

“Because I heard what you said,” she rasped. “And you’re wrong. I understand why you struggle to speak with her, Johann. She is directly tied with your darkest memories. But I sense she came for a different reason; it wasn’t only the book.”

Marjorie and Adam exchanged a glance. Directly tied with your darkest memories. Though she had learned more about her father’s past, she had only a vague notion of what those memories might be.

It had not occurred to her that Astrid might have had a different motive for turning up.

Mama continued: “Perhaps you have no need of her now, Johann, but remember—when you did not have your mother, you had your sister. Now, her husband has died. She is the one without a soul in the world.”

The wizard took a step nearer to his wife, gait heavy with exhaustion. Mama had spoken the words that he most needed to hear; no one else could have been able to say them.

Marjorie considered the matter. If Astrid had come for the book, she would have left after Papa returned it.

Since then, Astrid had used the book sparingly. It appeared she was more interested in fixing the mistake she made, cultivating a relationship with her brother’s family. She’d bought Marjorie a ballgown before knowing if she would be accepted.

Mama is right, Marjorie realized. There is more to it.

“I want to speak with her,” Mama repeated, “alone. Perhaps two women will understand each other.”

“Where is she?” Adam asked.

“I think she went to the Greenhouse,” Papa mumbled, after a pause. “She isn’t here; Miss Fealy is alone in the kitchen.”

Mama turned to Marjorie, warmth returning to her gaze. “Will you sit with Miss Fealy, dear?” she asked, propping herself up on one of the pillows that Adam brought downstairs. “Perhaps you can coax some answers. With kindness, anything is possible.”

Marjorie stood, looking dejectedly into the hearth.

It’s true, she thought. I never welcomed Miss Fealy into the house. Am I so poorly socialized that I cannot be gracious?

“What do you want me to ask?” she inquired, wiping her palms on her skirt.

“Ask,” Mama replied, “who she really is. For all we know about her, Margo, she might be your cousin—and you do not even know her first name.”

She might be your cousin. Marjorie almost flinched at the thought.

Miss Fealy could not be a blood relation; Aunt Astrid would have mentioned if someone else was in line to inherit the Grimoire. The whole time, she’d consistently held that the magical privilege belonged to Marjorie.

However, there was more than one way to have family.

“All right,” she agreed. “I will talk to her. Adam, keep Mama company.”

Adam merely smiled; it was clear he had intended to do so all along.

Marjorie set her needlework aside and went to the kitchen. Miss Fealy sat at the table, near a window. The curtain had been pushed aside, allowing weak moonlight to spill in.

Before her, next to an empty teacup, rested her novel; it was so dark that Marjorie could not imagine she was able to read. The hearth had grown weak, so it was practically useless.

Miss Fealy glanced up at the sound of Marjorie’s approach, but did not turn.

“Would you like some light?” Marjorie asked. “I don’t think the moon will provide help discerning the text.”

Miss Fealy hesitated before turning. Marjorie noticed that she was incredibly pale—perhaps due to fear. She was also very thin.

“Here,” said Marjorie, digging candles out of a drawer and setting them on the table. “You must be hungry. I haven’t eaten, and I don’t think you have, either.”

Miss Fealy mumbled something that sounded like “Don’t worry about me.”

“Well, I’m going to eat,” said Marjorie—though she had no appetite, she could think of no other way to engage Miss Fealy in conversation. “But I don’t know if I will be able to finish it all. We can eat together.”

Miss Fealy did not reply. Marjorie took the silence to be baffled acquiescence.

She occupied herself by gathering cheese and bread which was left over from breakfast. The bread had dried, but could be toasted enough, if they tended to the fire.

“I was wondering,” she said, in a voice she hoped sounded casual, “what your given name is?”

A pause. “Jane,” was the reply at last. “My name is Jane.”

Marjorie spotted a jar of strawberry preserves on one of the top shelves. It was the last one, usually saved for special occasions; she decided that making a new friend was a worthy occasion.

“Where are you from?” she inquired, reaching for the jar. “How did you meet my aunt?”

“I’m from Boston,” was Miss Jane Fealy’s short, timorous reply. “I met her at the millinery where I worked.”

Marjorie took the seat opposite from Miss Fealy’s, then reached forward to toss more wood into the fire. Once satisfied that the flames were waking again, she turned to her companion.

Miss Fealy eyed her warily. Marjorie wanted to tell her that there was no reason to fear. However, they lived in a house in a graveyard, a house where it was normal for spirits to spill through the door.

“I’m sorry you’ve become tangled up in this,” she said, as Miss Fealy closed her book. “We are usually better about welcoming guests, but as you can see, we’ve had complications since your arrival.”

“Yes,” said Miss Fealy. “I’m sorry.”

“None of it is your fault.” Marjorie hesitated. “But I wonder if you could answer some questions about my aunt. I want to trust her, Jane. I want to be friends with her, but it’s difficult, knowing so little about her.”

Miss Fealy’s eyes widened at the use of her name, Jane, but she seemed to relax at the informal nature of the conversation. Marjorie wished for her to feel not like a stranger, not like a ladies’-maid, but a friend—and, if she was in some way a relative, even by adoption, kindness was the way to begin.

“I’ll answer questions,” Jane said slowly. “But not all of them. She has secrets, and I keep them.”

“As it should be,” said Marjorie, smiling. “I only wish to know what she is like in her home.”

Jane sat up, clasping her hands on the table. She looked at Marjorie, debating whether she ought to comply and offer information. When at last she spoke, her voice was halting, but resolved.

“The truth is, Miss Brahms, that Mrs. Stonewall no longer has a home.”

Marjorie blinked with confusion at the revelation. “I—I see,” she said, though in truth she understood none of it.

Jane continued: “You see, Mr. Stonewall had two sons with his first wife. When he died, his children gave her a pittance for a widow’s pension and cast her out. Rumors of her being a witch were loud. The social circles she once thrived in would no longer accept her, and I expect they continued to slander her name after she came here.”

Marjorie had not known what to expect from Jane’s response; certainly not this. Her Aunt Astrid, well-dressed and confident, cast out of the place she had once been so proud of?

Could it be, then, that she had come here for another reason—not for the book, but perhaps in search of family?

“I see,” she managed again. “My mother is talking to her. Perhaps—perhaps an arrangement can be made.”

Jane exhaled, unclasping her hands, continuing to appear anxious.

Marjorie, seeking to change the subject to something lighter, inquired, “What are you reading?”

“David Copperfield,” was the reply. “Mrs. Stonewall bought it for me to read during the voyage, and—”

“Oh, I also love the work of Mr. Dickens!” Marjorie exclaimed, with a sudden thrill. Perhaps we are not cousins—but I am determined that we should be friends. “We have more of his books in the library, if you would like to see them!”

Bemused by Marjorie’s excitement, Jane only smiled.

“Very well,” she said, and though her voice was still small, it was no longer timid. “Thank you.”

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