In A Witch's Wardrobe Read online

  But this time, I could have sworn I saw the image of a woman sleeping amid vines and briars and roses. As I watched, she reached out to me… . I raised my hand to the mirror… .

  “Lily?” For the second time that evening, Aidan laid his hand upon my arm to stop me. His voice was low but adamant. “What are you doing? You should know it can be dangerous to place your palm against a mirror. Especially in a place like this.”

  “I… I thought I sensed something. Do you see anything in the mirror?”

  “I see you. And you do look lovely.”

  I looked around for a logical explanation for the strange reflection. But all I saw was the faded gold gilt and chrome of the theater’s popcorn stand, the jade green of the bas-relief sculptures that ringed the ornate lobby, and a throng of costumed people milling about.

  “I could have sworn I saw… a woman sleeping among vines. Remember the fairy tale of Briar Rose, or Sleeping Beauty?”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up: “Relax, Lily. Old theaters are full of ghosts. You probably caught a random, rogue glimpse of an old stage production.”

  “But—”

  “Lily! Yoo-hoo! Over here!”

  Susan Rogers sprang up from her chair at one of the many round tables that ringed the grand lobby and waved. Some time ago, Susan had written an article about Aunt Cora’s Closet for the Style section of the San Francisco Chronicle, when she was helping to outfit her niece’s wedding party in vintage attire. In no small part because of that article, business at Aunt Cora’s Closet had boomed. Since then, Susan stopped by the store often, and we had become friends.

  After a round of introductions, I noted Susan’s handsome blond escort was at least a decade her junior. Age differences seemed to be slipping away, changing like everything else in the open-minded Bay Area.

  “You look amazing,” Susan gushed, holding my hands in hers and assessing my outfit with a practiced eye. “Absolutely smashing. How about me?”

  She did a little pirouette, the shiny satin skirt of her 1930s full-length gown fanning out as she twirled. She wore feathers in her hair and a deep pink boa around her neck, which wasn’t at all appropriate to the era but looked just right on a woman as vivacious as she.

  “You are gorgeous, Susan. I knew that dress would suit you once it was tailored,” I said.

  “Champagne, ladies?” Aidan asked.

  Susan and I nodded and took our seats at the table as our escorts set off toward the bar.

  Near the grand piano, a petite woman in a beautiful crimson gown had taken control of the microphone and was speaking about the importance of preserving Art Deco buildings and “our way of life.” Meanwhile, a full orchestra was tuning up on the exposed mezzanine that overlooked the entry hall, and there were loud cries of delight as guests greeted friends and oohed and aahed over one another’s costumes.

  It was a glittery, cacophonous bash.

  I strained to hear what all the woman in red was saying, then watched as the tenor who had been singing tried to take over the microphone.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Theatrical types,” Susan scoffed. “I never bother listening to these speeches. I mean, I think it’s important to contribute to the preservation of historic buildings. But, frankly, I’m here for the dancing. Aren’t you?”

  I smiled, inwardly doing my best not to panic. All last week, after we’d closed, Bronwyn had tried to teach me ballroom dancing in the aisles of the shop. I was a singularly unimpressive student. Dancing, I had decided one day as I flopped down in an overstuffed chair near the dressing rooms, was like math or music—either one had a talent for it or one didn’t, and I definitely did not. Maybe I forfeited the dancing gene in favor of one of my witchy talents: brewing magical potions, calling on my ancestors to affect reality, communicating with the occasional nonhuman creature. After years of solitude, I was only now coming to realize just how challenged I was when it came to normal activities, such as dancing or making small talk. I didn’t have much of a singing voice, either, as my ersatz witch’s familiar was more than happy to remind me.

  “I thought I might just sit and watch,” I said. “I’m not well versed in the dances from this era.” Or any other.

  “I’m sure Aidan knows them.”

  Of course he did. Aidan knew everything.

  Susan fixed me with a look, her eyes narrowing. “You can’t sit out all the dances, Lily. We’re at a ball. It’s kind of the point.”

  I must have paled because Susan’s insistence turned to concern.

  “Lily, honey, are you all right? Where’s that champagne? It’ll help you relax. Liquid courage and all that.”

  “I’m not what you’d call ‘gifted’ in the rhythm department,” I confessed. The only real dancing I’d done was drumbeat-inspired stomping around the fire while spell casting. Somehow I didn’t think that counted. “I can’t dance. I mean, at all.”

  “Don’t be silly. Everybody can dance, Lily. Just follow your partner—and what a partner he is.”

  The band started up a 1940s West Coast Swing, and couples poured onto the dance floor, jitterbugging and fox-trotting. Big and small, old and young, they smiled and glided and laughed.

  “Here they are, back with drinks,” Susan singsonged as our handsome escorts wound their way through the costumed crowd.

  I pasted on a smile. Suck it up, Lily, my inner voice lectured. You’ve done a lot more embarrassing things than dance in public and you’re still here. Need I remind you about the time you went camping with those students in the Swiss Alps and—

  “Gentlemen!” I said brightly. I took the champagne flute Aidan handed me, took a big sip, and placed the glass on the table. “Let’s dance, shall we?”

  Susan threw me an “atta girl” grin, and Aidan, looking bemused, held out his hand to lead me to the dance floor. Happily for me, the swing dance had ended and the tenor was now crooning a slow, romantic ballad.

  But when Aidan held me… the singer, the dancers, even the decorations faded away. Aidan softly counted out the beat as we moved in unison: “One, two, rock-step.” Squeezing my hand ever so slightly when I was supposed to turn, he guided me around the dance floor.

  “You’re doing wonderfully,” he murmured, and steadied me when I stumbled. “I had no idea you were so graceful, Lily. You’re a natural.”

  “I am not,” I replied, though his flattery succeeded in relaxing me a tad.

  “You know I never lie…”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “… about dancing,” he amended with a crooked grin. “Anyway, there’s no such thing as a woman who doesn’t know how to dance. Only men who don’t know how to lead.”

  “I like that philosophy.”

  “I thought you might. On the dance floor it’s the man’s job to make the couple look good. The woman has to do only two things: enjoy herself and look pretty.”

  I laughed. “Bold words to utter in the Bay Area.”

  He shrugged and his smile was dazzling. “I would never suggest such were the case elsewhere in life.”

  I relaxed a little more and started to enjoy myself. My hands tingled where they touched Aidan’s, and the rest of my body… well, that seemed to be responding to more than desire. Was Aidan doing more than leading me through the dance steps? Could he be assisting me with some kind of magic? Or was I simply so keyed into his energy that the steps seemed effortless, natural? Either way, it took my breath away.

  Though I trusted Aidan not at all—for good reason—an undeniable attraction flowed between us. It was a revelation to be with someone who wasn’t afraid of my powers—someone who admired them and, if anything, desired to meld them with his. But then I reminded myself that I didn’t know Aidan well, not really. Among other things, I still hadn’t figured out what happened between him and my father years ago, beyond the fact that they had once worked together. Which, given the little I knew about my father, boded very ill indeed.

  “You see, Lily?” Aidan
said, gazing down at me. “You just have to have a little faith. This sort of thing suits you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. Being here among these revelers, dancing in a man’s arms, felt like a step toward the well-adjusted life I craved—as long as I ignored the fact that Aidan and I were powerful witches. “By the way, I need to talk to you about Sailor.”

  “Who?”

  “Very funny.” Sailor was a friend—sort of—and a very grumpy psychic who had recently gone out on a limb for me. In return, I had promised to try to free him of the Faustian deal he had made with Aidan years ago.

  “You really want to spoil the mood by talking business?”

  “You need to release him from his obligation to you. He’s miserable.”

  Aidan chuckled and shook his head.

  “Why do you keep him beholden to you? He wants his freedom.”

  “Sailor doesn’t know what he wants.”

  “And you do?”

  “Better than you. Better than he knows himself. Without a focus, Sailor’s the type to get into serious trouble. You should have seen him when I first met him. Why do you think he was so easy to influence?”

  That had never occurred to me.

  “And don’t be afraid that I’ll exert total control,” continued Aidan. “He’s not my puppet, Lily. Have you forgotten about the charm he has, the one that limits my power?”

  “You know about that?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And it’s okay with you?”

  “It’s essential. It would be disastrous for both of us if I had complete power over him. Much too tempting.” He smiled, and his voice dropped. “I’m no saint, as you know well.”

  I took a deep breath. Aidan smelled of pine needles and earth. Not Christmas tree pine, but more something from an ancient primeval forest, the kind inhabited by woods folk: faeries and brownies and elves. He was tall enough that even in heels my eyes were at the height of his jaw, which sparkled with a hint of golden five-o’clock shadow. I was tempted to rise up on tiptoe and brush against those whiskers, to see if they were prickly or soft.

  But that beautiful face held secrets. Too many secrets.

  His face came close to mine. Then closer…

  The music stopped. I stumbled.

  Aidan smiled. “Would you like to sit out the next one?”

  He laughed at my vigorous nod, and we returned to the table. But before I could sit, Susan stood, grabbed my hand, told the men, “Gotta run and powder our noses—girl talk!” and pulled me after her.

  We headed toward the stairs.

  “I adore the ladies’ lounge on the lower level. Let’s go there. Isn’t this place incredible? It was built back when people really knew how to design things.” Susan’s conversational style often did not require a response. Some people probably found it annoying, but I thought it was charming. “Back in the day, a restroom was a place where a lady could actually rest—to escape the menfolk and gossip, I suppose. Speaking of which… are you and Aidan an item now?”

  “Of course not.” I gripped the rail as we descended the great sweep of stairs, worried about my heels and distracted by the swirl of beautiful gowns all around us.

  Attending the Art Deco Ball was not an easy gig for someone in my line of business. I was beginning to feel like I had Vintage-Clothes-Related Attention Deficit Disorder.

  “Check this out,” said Susan when we reached the ladies’ lounge at the bottom of the staircase. The outer chamber was a large yet intimate room encircled by gilt-framed mirrors, each with a narrow glass shelf and delicate wrought-iron chairs in which to sit and apply makeup. In each corner sat a pair of upholstered armchairs, and along one wall was a brocade chaise longue. A doorway led to the actual lavatory, with stalls of gray-and-white marble, hung with mahogany doors.

  There was a line of women waiting for a stall to open up, so I sat down before a mirror to fuss with my hair. I took my comb from my vintage Whiting and Davis mesh purse before realizing that the complicated chignon made combing my hair impossible.

  “Excuse me… would it be too much to ask if I could borrow that?”

  It was Miriam, the young woman I had met on the front steps. Her dark gold tresses had escaped their pins and half tumbled to her shoulders.

  “Oh, of course. Here, let me help you.”

  I caught her hair up in the comb as best I could, but I was clumsy—I didn’t grow up playing “day at the hairdresser” with friends. Still, I did what I could with the heavy mass, twisting and gathering it. As I fussed with the long silken locks, I took the opportunity to concentrate on Miriam’s vibrations. They felt chaotic, as if detached from their source. It was decidedly odd. Once again, I felt a strong sense of familiarity, though I still could not recall our ever having met.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked.

  Her gaze met mine in the mirror. “Of course.” But her words rang hollow, and her eyes were too shiny.

  “You’re Miriam, right?” I asked.

  After a brief moment of hesitation, she nodded.

  “I’m Lily Ivory. You seem so familiar… . Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so… . Oh wait! On the stairs earlier?”

  “Yes, but I meant another time, maybe.”

  “I don’t think so.” She shook her head and gazed at her reflection, patting her new chignon. “Thanks for the help.”

  “You’re welcome.” As I dropped the comb into my bag I noticed a few strands of Miriam’s hair were entangled in the teeth. I didn’t bother removing them.

  Just then a stall opened up, so I grabbed it. As I was washing my hands, I overheard women speaking in the outer room.

  “Now, that’s what I call lounging. You think she’s all right?”

  “Probably just had too much champagne. Girls today never eat.”

  “Excuse me—are you okay?”

  With a sense of foreboding, I rushed out to the lounge.

  Chapter 2

  Miriam lay upon the chaise, her eyes closed, the silk dress splayed out around her. She had the odd stillness of one who wasn’t merely sleeping.

  “Wake up, sweetheart.” An elderly woman gently shook Miriam’s shoulder. “Are you all right? Would you like us to find your escort?”

  The women stood back when I approached, as though I were a physician who would know what to do.

  I knelt beside her. “Miriam?”

  My heart caught in my throat at the sight of her. Bright red flags of color on her cheeks stood out against an unnatural, ashen pallor. I placed a hand on her brow and felt her neck for a pulse. It was weak, thready. But it was there.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I said over my shoulder.

  As one of the women pulled a small cell phone from her beaded purse, Susan appeared.

  “Lily? What can I do?”

  “See if they have anyone on duty—a first-aid person, maybe. Oh! And tell Aidan I need him.”

  “Aidan has medical training?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  As I brushed Miriam’s hair away from her face, the orchid corsage pinned to her collar caught my eye. Lovely pale pink flowers tinged in violet formed a perfect contrast to the sea green of her dress. A few trumpet-shaped flowers formed a pale background. But as I looked closer, I spied beneath the foliage a bit of black ribbon, the glint of needles, and an ugly tangle of black thread. And I smelled… cigarettes?

  This was no normal corsage. I concentrated on editing out the perfumes of the women in the lounge and detected the slightest hint of something putrid. Masked by the fragrant orchids, it was a subtle aroma no normal person would notice.

  I was reaching to unpin the corsage when a commotion at the door announced Aidan’s arrival.

  “Lily, come away from there,” he commanded.

  “She needs help,” I said.

  “The EMTs are on their way,” he said. “Come. It’s none of our affair.”

  “But—”

 
“Miriam!” The woman’s gray-haired escort appeared in the doorway before running in to kneel beside her. “What’s wrong with her? Miriam? Talk to me, sweetheart.”

  Just then a plump, middle-aged woman carrying a first-aid bag joined the fray. She checked Miriam’s pupils before applying a blood pressure cuff to her arm.

  Miriam’s escort passed large callused hands through his hair. “Is she all right?”

  “We don’t know anything yet, sir,” said the woman, who seemed overwhelmed. I had the sense she was more prepared to provide Band-Aids for blistered heels than cope with actual medical emergencies. “Her blood pressure is low… . The paramedics are on their way.”

  Gripping my arm, Aidan pulled me out of the lounge and urged me down the corridor. He guided me behind a red-and-gold velvet curtain marked PERSONNEL ONLY.

  “What is wrong with you?” I demanded, yanking my arm out of his grasp. “I might have been able to help her.”

  “What is wrong with you? You saw that cursed corsage. I know you did,” he said. “This sort of thing can cast serious suspicion on a witch, Lily. What do you think the Oakland PD is going to make of something like this? This isn’t San Francisco, where you can call on your buddy Carlos to protect you.”

  “Oh, please—you really think the Oakland cops are going to accuse me of witchcraft? In this day and age?”

  “I doubt they have the imagination. But they might suspect you of poisoning her, Ms. Botanical Specialist.”

  “That’s absurd. I’ve never met her before in my life.”

  “Never underestimate the folly of the average cowan,” said Aidan, using the derogatory word for nonmagical humans.

  I shrugged. “Besides, I have you to protect me.”

  He gave me an enigmatic smile.

  “Hey, you’re supposed to be the Grand Poobah of Bay Area witches. Do you recognize Miriam or the hex? What do you think is going on?”

  “I’d say she got on somebody’s bad side or ran afoul of a witch.”

  “I have to help—”

  “You ‘have’ to do nothing of the sort.”

  “Aidan—”