Chapter 13 #3
“There were three siblings by all accounts,” I continue. “Cordelia, who was the oldest, the middle sister, Constance, and Cornelius, who was the youngest and the only boy.”
“We know about Cornelius,” Tristan interjects. “I have a copy of his book, Crawshanks Guide to the Recently Departed.”
“Really?” I reply in surprise. I didn’t realise he’d written a book. “I’d love to have a look at that sometime.”
“Sure.” Tristan nods. “Or I could probably get you a copy. Madame Viv, the current owner of the bookshop, is related to him. She said he never sold a copy other than the one I have. All the rest of the small print run are sitting in boxes in her storage room.”
“Vivienne is descended from the middle sister, Constance,” I explain.
“Ordinarily, neither of the daughters would have inherited, but Cornelius never married or had children and was by all accounts somewhat unstable. And Cordelia… Well, there isn’t much information available on her, but I did manage to uncover an asylum admittance form with her name on it. ”
“What?” Tristan looks up from my study of the family tree.
“It looks like her father had her committed not long after she had a child out of wedlock, a boy. The child was sent away to be raised by his father’s family, and Cordelia’s father, Elmer, had her committed.
Constance and her husband inherited the Whitechapel property.
It was her granddaughter Genevieve who established the bookshop on the ground floor of the building in 1883. ”
“Wow,” Tristan mutters, staring back down at the paper again. “That’s a lot.”
I shrug and turn away from Tristan, my stomach churning as I talk about the people I’m descended from, something Tristan and the others still have no idea of, and that’s the way I want to keep it.
I’ve been very careful not to put my name on any of the paperwork, and as far as any of them know, Vivienne never had a child.
Needing to distance myself from it now, I move across to the workbench and glance along the shelves, pulling down jars and bottles and setting them on the workbench.
Time to help Tristan’s dad.
“There’s still a lot to find out about the family, but I first went back further on the building itself.
It was built in 1822,” I say over my shoulder to Tristan as I pull out an old-fashioned set of brass weighing scales.
“The building and the one next to it was originally one residential property purchased by Elmer Crawshanks in 1829 when he and his wife and children returned to England from India. Elmer was a colonel in the British Army and then later held a governor’s post.”
Dusty snorts. “Sounds like he belongs on Sesame Street. Who names their kid Elmer?”
“The Victorians, apparently,” Tristan replies.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I doubt the portal existed before the building. At least, I’d like to think someone might have noticed a portal to another plane of existence just sitting out in the open.
So, I’m working on the assumption that the portal was opened either by accident or on purpose sometime in the mid to late nineteenth century.
It could have been Elmer, I guess, but my gut is telling me it has something to do with those three siblings. ”
“You could be right,” Tristan muses.
“Why don’t you have a look through what I’ve found so far while I get on with this?”
Tristan nods and takes a seat at the desk.
“What’s G.Y dirt?” Dusty asks, her eyes narrowing as she reads one of the jar labels.
“Graveyard dirt,” I reply.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“What?” I shrug. “It’s extremely potent. It was harvested at the full moon during the midwinter solstice.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dusty mutters.
“Not my religion.”
“Not mine either.” Dusty grins. “I worship at the altar of glitter balls and platform heels.”
“Sounds…sparkly.” My mouth twitches in amusement.
“Maybe you’re not so stuck up.” Dusty studies me. “So all this magic crap is real, then?”
“Yes, all this magic crap is very real.” I give her a small smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to concentrate.”
“Sure thing, Sabrina.” Dusty holds her hands up and backs away with an amused smirk. “I’ll just hang out with my boo. You won’t hear a peep out of me.”
I can’t help it, I snort. “I’ll believe that when it happens.” I turn back to the worktable and start laying out several squares of burlap.
“How’s Bruce doing?” Tristan asks Dusty quietly when she settles onto a chair.
She frowns. “Not great. He’s sleeping a lot and looks awful. Being so close to the doorway is draining him, but he can’t leave it. I don’t know what to do.”
“We’re doing everything we can right now,” Tristan says sympathetically.
“Danny will figure out what happened to him, I know he will. Bruce being related to the Crawshanks family partly explains his connection to the bookshop and the portal. We just need to figure out the rest of it. Maybe if we can figure out how the portal was opened, we can figure out how to close it permanently and block it? That way, nothing can come through and Bruce will be free to make his own choices.”
“I hope so.” Dusty blows out a long breath. “I hate seeing him like this.”
He shoots her a reassuring smile before turning back to the paperwork.
Ignoring the pair of them, I concentrate on my spellwork, measuring and adding items while murmuring quietly under my breath.
The air is warm and moist like a tropical rainforest. It smells of damp loam and flowers, pleasant and heady.
“Tristan,” I call quietly when I find him sitting with his eyes closed, a serene smile playing on his lips. “Come here, please.”
Opening his eyes, he pushes out of the chair and crosses the room to stand beside me. He looks up at me with a kind of dreamy lassitude, which is a side effect of my magic. With an apologetic smile, I reach out and pluck a few strands of hair from his head.
“Ouch.” He rubs his scalp with a wince. “Stay away from my bikini area,” he mutters sourly, and Dusty lets out a cackle behind him.
“Wow, you really do sound like me.”
“What are you doing?” He scowls at me. “I was feeling all comfy and warm, then you try to detach half my scalp.”
“Sorry.” I can’t help the chuckle; he looks so cute when he’s annoyed. “I forget being around real magic for the first time has that effect on some people. You’re like a sponge, just soaking it all up.”
“What do you need that for?” He nods at the hairs I yanked out.
“This.” I pick up the ends of several silken threads of different colours that I’ve pinned to the table and weave them into a complicated braid, entwining Tristan’s hair with the strands. My hands begin to glow as I murmur again. Once I’m finally finished, I knot each end.
“This will protect your father as he moves around the home, as long as he keeps it on,” I explain.
“And those?” He nods toward the four burlap squares which I’ve filled with various things and tied with string, making them into little pouches.
“These are hex bags,” I mutter, lifting each one carefully and placing it inside my worn brown leather satchel.
“Powerful magic. We’ll conceal them in the four corners of your dad’s room and nothing of supernatural or paranormal origin will be able to cross the threshold or manifest within its boundaries. ”
“Really?”
“Really.” I nod as I hook the strap diagonally across my body. “Now, let’s go see your dad.”