Chapter Twenty-Four
TWENTY-FOUR
Bishop and Julius meet us after lunch, and we divide our small force again. Julius and Rufus will send messages to Oliver and then gather supplies while Bishop and I visit my aunt’s old friend.
Finding Beatrice is easy enough. I’ve never visited her in Glasgow, but in London she operated an apothecary shop.
Lenora always considered that dangerous ground—not because she feared being recognized as an actual witch but because a woman openly dealing in medicine will always be looked on with suspicion.
It’s been that way since before the witch hunts, the village healer being a figure of concern because she took paying work from male doctors.
These days, it’s harder to drive women out of business by shouting “Witch!” Other methods are required to keep them in their place, and in the sphere of medicine, it’s the specter of poison.
Who knows what these ladies could be concocting behind closed doors.
Surely they also deal in poison for getting rid of husbands.
Personally, I’ve always said that if husbands are so afraid of being poisoned, maybe they could take steps to ensure their wives don’t want to kill them.
Like treating them with a basic modicum of respect and civility.
But no, that is preposterous. Far better to keep them away from anything that could be slipped into their tea.
For many years, women couldn’t even purchase rat poison.
They needed a male servant to do it for them.
One would think that law had been presaged by a flurry of rat-poisoning deaths.
It was not. There might have been one or two, which made men fear that if women hear of those deaths, they’ll all run out, en masse, to buy rat poison.
Proof, again, of just how many husbands think they’ve given their wives reason to murder them.
Things have improved in my lifetime, but not enough for Lenora to consider opening a proper shop.
Of course, she never needed to—she had more than enough clients in the supernatural world.
Beatrice runs a shop because her witch skills are middling, which isn’t surprising given that she’s a former Coven witch.
She’d actually broken with her Coven over the shop, which they’d categorically refused to let her operate.
She left them and did as she pleased, and at some point, met my aunt, who needed special ingredients Beatrice could supply.
I remember visiting her London shop with Lenora.
It was in the sort of neighborhood where one might expect to find a witch selling herbal remedies.
A dark little hole of a place too close to Whitechapel for Lenora’s liking.
She’d understood why Beatrice set up there, though.
There was a steady supply of women in need of ointments, salves, and other “feminine” necessities.
Also, the location allowed her to operate beneath the Coven’s radar.
Beatrice’s Glasgow shop is different. It’s as picture-perfect as where I’d eaten lunch, in a lovely neighborhood with shops catering to women who had more than a few pence in their pockets. In fact, there’s a jeweler right next door, where I pop in to replace my lost hair clips and pins.
It might seem odd to find a witch’s shop in such a neighborhood, but upon seeing it, I realize the wisdom of the choice.
It’s operating as a “ladies’ apothecary,” but not the sort catering to the feminine health needs that Lenora specialized in.
The front window is filled with the sorts of “remedies” that prey on women’s doubts and insecurities and vanities.
Creams to erase wrinkles and sunspots and freckles.
Ointments to make skin soft and supple and glowing.
Salves to combat hair loss and salves to discourage unwanted hair.
It’s perfectly suited to this street, full of ladies looking to spend their extra shillings and crowns on something special.
While I’m sure Beatrice sells other “womanly remedies” behind the counter, she’ll be very careful about that.
To the outward eye, this is a frivolous shop for frivolous ladies.
I walk in on Bishop’s arm, and I spot Beatrice right away. She’s a small woman in her late forties, and when I last saw her, her dark hair had been shot through with gray. The gray is gone, presumably dyed—if her product is youth, she must sell youth.
She’s speaking with a customer trying to decide between wrinkle creams, though the woman can’t be any older than me.
Through the reflection in the window, I notice Beatrice glancing over, but it’s not me she notices.
It’s Bishop. I can’t say I blame her. I teased Rufus about attracting attention, but that’s because his size and less fashionable attire made him an intriguing bit of scenery for bored ladies.
Bishop’s muscles are better hidden, and his attire is the height of fashion, as always.
He’s attractive in an arresting way that is undeniable.
You look, and then you can’t stop looking.
I continue examining the jars at the window display, my back to Beatrice as she suggests that the woman buy both wrinkle creams and see which she prefers. The customer does exactly that, and when she is gone, Beatrice walks over to us.
“May I help you find something?” she asks.
I turn, and she stares for several seconds. The last time she’d seen me, I’d been barely eighteen. It’s only when I smile that she claps a hand to her mouth.
“Cordelia,” she says.
I lean in to kiss her cheek. “It’s so lovely to see you, Bea. It’s been far too long.”
“What are you…?” She looks from me to Bishop and trails off, as if she’s forgotten the rest of that sentence.
I clutch his arm tighter, beaming like a besotted new bride. I am a new bride, of course, and also quite besotted, but I’m trying for something more starry eyed and innocent.
“We are on our honeymoon,” I say. “This is my husband, Bishop Daniels.”
“Bish—” She coughs, as if to hide her sputter. “Did you say Bishop Daniels?” She looks him up and down. “Oh.”
“You have heard of me?” Bishop says mildly.
“Your … reputation precedes you, sir.” Her gaze shoots to me. “Things have … changed at home? With Lenora?”
“I presume that means you know my heritage,” I say. “Who my father was.”
She trots to the door, where she puts up a sign saying the shop is closed. Then she bustles Bishop and me into the back room, where she checks and locks both the doors into the shop and out the rear door.
“I understand you may be angry with your aunt, Cordelia,” she says. “But she did what she thought was best.”
I want to pursue this. Some deep part of me needs to pursue this. But I can’t, in good conscience, continue as if Lenora is back in London, waiting for me to come to my senses and return.
Or maybe it’s not conscience that keeps me from doing that. It’s because I’d feel as if I were disrespecting my aunt’s memory to gain information.
“Lenora is dead,” I say softly, taking her gloved hands in mine. “My father murdered her.”
I have to grip Beatrice’s hands to keep her from falling backward. I tell the story as succinctly as I can, which is never going to be truly succinct, but I leave out everything that doesn’t concern her.
“So when I said I was on my honeymoon, that isn’t entirely true. I only wasn’t sure whether anyone might overhear. An assistant or such.”
“It is only me. You can say whatever you like.”
“Thank you. I am married.” I reach to squeeze Bishop’s hand as he stands silently beside me. “Happily, regardless of the circumstances. But we’re in Scotland securing the help of the Caledonian Pack. Hamish has set Bishop on a task, and we are—That part is unimportant.”
She’s leaning forward, avidly listening, disappointed when I stop.
I continue, “What I need, being a new bride, is several ingredients that will ensure I do not get with child at a very inconvenient time.”
“Of course, my dear.” She pats my hand. “I have a potion mixed, but I know you and your aunt prefer to make your own.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Which is no offense to you, and I’m sorry if it ever seemed that way. You know how Lenora could be.”
“Very sure of herself.”
“Indeed. But both my aunt and mother believed that if we are using a potion on ourselves, it will be more effective if we make it ourselves.”
“Very wise.”
She opens a locked door into the smaller area where she keeps her stock.
“I can gather what you need,” she offers.
I smile. “I’ll do it. If you have time to talk, I’d rather we did that. First, though, I will take a draught of that batch you have ready.”
Her eyes dance as she glances over to where Bishop patiently waits.
She lowers her voice. “In a hurry for your wedding night? He is a fine-looking young man. And a werewolf?” She sighs.
“I know Lenora had her prejudices, but I will admit, whenever I have a chance at a werewolf for a night, I always take it.”
I laugh under my breath. “I don’t blame you.”
She opens a cupboard and takes out a small bottle.
It’s properly marked, and I make sure of that.
I also sniff it. My acute sense of smell has always helped with this.
As a potion-maker, Beatrice isn’t as gifted as Lenora had been—she rushes the process—but this is a simple recipe, and the dose smells fine.
It will activate within a few hours, one advantage of magical medicines.
I drink the draught and then begin to talk as I choose ingredients to make my own. “You knew about my father.”
“I did.”
“And what did Lenora say? About why she wouldn’t tell me I’m half werewolf?”
She waves a hand. “Oh, this and that. You know her.”
In other words, Beatrice doesn’t know. I can guess at Lenora’s motives, but there’s still the little girl inside me who wants to be able to talk to her mother and aunt and hear them explain in their own words.
“Did you also know about her family? The Levines? That they have a cabal?”