A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (11 page)

It stunned me that Conrad, dear, vague, out-of-it Conrad, was the person closest to understanding the truth. Because
yes
, I did think that those nightmares had something to do with Oscar going missing. And with those strange visions that I’d had when I put on that cloak.

The cloak
. Could it help me somehow, tell me something? So far all I had seen was the memories attached. But if those memories were somehow related to Conrad’s nightmares, which were connected to the tree and to Sebastian’s murder, then . . . what? What did any of this have to do with Oscar’s disappearance? And how could I use it to get my pig back?

I didn’t know, exactly, but I was fixin’ to find out.

I had lied to my friends—I wasn’t headed to check with the city or to search Golden Gate Park. Instead, I hopped in the car and headed for the San Francisco Ferry Building, which housed the temporary offices of Aidan Rhodes, witchy godfather, occasional friend, and Oscar’s former master.

* * *

I parked downtown near the temporary Transbay Terminal and walked the several blocks to the Ferry Building. Along the way the city’s siren blared, long and mournful. I never got used to it—it went off every Tuesday and always put me in mind of old WWII movies about Londoners running for air raid shelters. One of these days I was going to ask a native why it blew. Probably it was some obscure local reason, like the way everyone thought Lombard Street was the crookedest street in the world when, in fact, Vermont Avenue between 20th and 22nd Streets, near McKinley Square, had even more switchbacks.

The Ferry Building stood right on the shore of the bay, at the base of busy Market Street, and was marked by a tall clock tower. Built long ago, it had been one of the busiest hubs in the country before the Bay Bridge was built, connecting San Francisco to the East Bay. Afterward, it had fallen on hard times. But following the 1988 Loma Prieta earthquake, a freeway was demolished and the dilapidated building was transformed into a series of kiosks and small stores specializing in local products, from oysters to honey to ceramics—all of which were extraordinarily attractive and phenomenally expensive. It was also known for offering plenty of interesting dining options, from trucks to stands to permanent restaurants. Whether early in the morning or right before they closed, I had never seen the Ferry Building less than packed with people and buzzing with happy energy.

A few months ago, Aidan’s office in the Wax Museum had burned down. It was a shame that the museum had to shut down for repairs—I was sure people lost jobs and money—but happily no one I cared about was hurt, and the neighboring businesses were saved. But since Aidan liked to be in the thick of things, he found temporary office space in the Ferry Building.

I was just glad not to have to brave a gauntlet of wax
figures in order to visit him. I had never enjoyed them, but now the nightmarish memories of those characters liquefying, their slippery wax flooding the floor and pouring down the stairs, burning our feet, their features melting and slipping . . .
ugh
.

Passing by flower vendors and mobbed food trucks was far preferable.

The offices were on the second-floor mezzanine, where an open walkway looked down over the crowds below. A security guard sat at a dais set up at the top of the stairs, but she was usually absorbed in whatever she was reading on her smartphone. I never paused, and she never tried to stop me.

Aidan’s was one of many nondescript offices, distinguished only by the pure white long-haired cat that often sat outside his door. But not today.

I lifted my hand to knock, but the door opened before I had the chance.

“Lily! It is always
such
a pleasure.” He spoke with warmth, as always. Aidan is impossibly good-looking, with brilliant periwinkle-blue eyes, gleaming golden hair, and just a hint of manly whiskers. Being near him, I found it hard not to notice his looks, but also his aura, which glittered so brightly even nonsensitive types tended to stop and stare when he walked by.

As always, I felt mixed emotions when in Aidan’s presence. To be absolutely honest, it was easier to dislike him when I wasn’t caught up in his aural spectrum. I wasn’t sure how to interpret the feelings I had for him; they were complicated, a muddle of kinship and fear, gratitude and wariness. And even, let’s face it, attraction. He had come through for me in the past, and I believed he was fond of me . . . in his way. But I wasn’t foolish enough to think he wouldn’t throw me under the bus if he needed to. Aidan wasn’t one to let anyone stand in his way.

And he was powerful in more ways than one.

“Oscar’s missing,” I blurted out. At my own words, I felt the panic rise like bile in my throat. A leather-bound book flew off a bookshelf and landed in the center of the room, narrowly missing him. “Sorry!”

Aidan looked alarmed. I wasn’t sure whether his reaction was due to the book or the news of Oscar missing.

“Come in, come in. Have a seat.”

He made a gesture to the security guard at the top of the stairs and closed the door behind me.

“You need to calm down,” Aidan said unnecessarily. “Someone like you could wind up taking down the bridge if you get too out of control.”

“You’re exaggerating.” I hoped.

A crystal ball crashed to the floor and the cat yowled and jumped to the bookcase.

Aidan raised an eyebrow.

I collapsed onto a red leather chair that seemed to be an exact duplicate of the one in his old office. In fact, the entire office seemed to be a re-creation of that former locale: the same plush furniture, velvet curtains, Oriental rug. Dark woods, sumptuous fabrics, all very Victoriana. I noticed his bookshelf was becoming increasingly crammed with a rare collection of volumes and ephemera regarding magical history.

“I thought your collection of books had burned?” I said, by way of distracting myself for a moment. I had to get control of my emotions if I wanted to be of any help to Oscar.
Oscar
.

“Indeed it did,” he said with a shake of his head. “Such a shame. But I’ve been working at rebuilding my library. It’s amazing what a person can find for sale on the Internet these days. Most people don’t even realize what they have.”

“Isn’t most of this information available online anyway?” I was no expert, but lately Maya had been
showing me just how much information was available via the Internet, if a person was so inclined. I didn’t much care for computers for the same reason that I didn’t carry a cell phone: I don’t trust all that energy charging over electronic wires, all those electrodes or ions or whatever, rushing around. I feared there were ghosts in those machines. But I had to admit, when the alternative was coming begging hat in hand to Aidan to look at his printed
Goetiea
, it was much easier to look up random demons by way of a search engine. Especially when I could just ask Maya to do it for me.

“Are you here to borrow something from my library?”

“No.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you know anything about Oscar disappearing?”

“When and where did he disappear?”

“This morning in Golden Gate Park.”

“I don’t know anything about it, no.”

“Do you have any way of tracking him?”

“I’m no psychic; you know that.”

“True, but you always seem to know where
I
am. . . .”

He smiled.

“I guess I was hoping for some witchy form of a LoJack chip,” I continued.

“Sorry.” He shook his golden head. “Tell me what happened.”

I gave him the short version, including acquiring the trunk with the suspicious cloak, learning about Bart’s supposed curse, and finding Sebastian under the tree.

“The woodsfolk must know something about this,” said Aidan.

“Oscar was trying to make contact with them right before he disappeared.”

“So he’s probably with them now. They have a way of taking people into their world temporarily. And time is different there, so he might think he’s been there only a few minutes.”

“But Oscar seemed to think he saw, or heard, something in the tree. He went up after it. I lost sight of him in the branches, and then he just . . . disappeared. Wouldn’t the woodsfolk have taken him down into the ground somehow?”

He nodded. “At the base of the tree, yes. And they prefer redwoods around here.”

“That’s what I thought. I really think something’s wrong, Aidan. There’s something about that tree. . . .”

“You’re telling me you think this tree is haunted somehow?”

“Not haunted per se,” I said, only realizing it as I spoke. “But . . . possessed, maybe? Is that possible? Oscar seemed to have a bunch of stories about trees seeking vengeance, that sort of thing.”

“Possible, certainly. As living creatures, trees can be used as stand-ins. Not possessed, exactly; they act more like holding cells. If a creature wasn’t able to maintain human form, for example. Or, if something were somehow captured and imprisoned.”

“Imprisoned. How would that work?”

“Typically, something essential about a creature could be fed to the roots of the tree, with the proper spell casting, of course. The tree could soak up the powers, essentially holding the creature within.”

“Until . . . ?”

He shrugged.

“What if the tree died, or was cut down?”

“The creature would die as well.”

Well, that seemed easy enough. Except . . .

“If . . . if Oscar is in the tree somehow, then if the tree is cut down . . . he would
die
?”

Aidan nodded.

I felt myself losing control again, my heart pounding.

“How is this even possible?” I demanded. “How would Oscar have been absorbed by the tree?”

“I don’t really know, Lily. And we’re still not sure that’s what happened. But I will look into it.”

“It’s
Oscar
, Aidan,” I said, and another book flew off the shelf. “I can’t stand to think of anything happening to him. . . .”

“And I just told you, I will make inquiries. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I suggest you try to fill in the history of that cape you mentioned and maybe get to know the cursed man.”

His familiar jumped on the desk, strutting along, and I leaned back. Noctemus and I didn’t get along that well. For one thing, I was allergic to cats. For another, I didn’t much like her attitude. Also, I feared we sparred a bit over Aidan, which I found rather disturbing. After all, I didn’t want Aidan like that, did I? And besides . . . Noctemus was a
cat
. It was just plain weird to be vying with a fluffy pet, familiar or no.

“Listen, Lily,” Aidan said, coming around to stand in front of the desk, half sitting on it in front of me. His voice was low and very gentle. “Oscar probably went somewhere to speak with the Good People. Like I said, time is different there.”

“How different?”

“There are stories of people reappearing after two, three centuries.”

I blinked. “You have to get him out, Aidan. I’ll do . . . I’ll do anything. Really.”

“Oooh, those are dangerous words, my rash little witchy friend. You should know that.”

“If Oscar’s with the woodsfolk, though, that means he’s okay, right? They wouldn’t hurt him, would they? I mean, isn’t he sort of one of them?”

“Sort of . . .” He pushed out his chin and tilted his head.

“And so you can go and speak with them, and they’ll release him. Right?”

“Just as long as . . .”

“As what?”

“As long as he doesn’t eat anything. It’s like Persephone and Hades. She was okay until she ate those pomegranate seeds.”

What were the chances Oscar would eat something if it were offered to him?

Another book flew off the shelf.

“Simmer down, Lily. We have no idea what happened—for all you know he might have simply wandered off, looking for new adventures. Did you have any indication he wasn’t happy?”

I thought back. “He was . . . bored sometimes. But he seemed happy enough. He likes my cooking.”

Aidan smiled. “I’m sure. But these creatures are quirky, unpredictable.”

“You’re the one who gave him to me in the first place.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t assume you, as a smart witch, would fetishize the poor little guy.”

“I just want to make sure he’s all right. If he doesn’t want to stay with me, well, that’s his choice.”

“Here’s someone who might be able to help fill in some of the history surrounding the curse and the cape.” He wrote something on the back of a business card. “Go talk to him. And in the meantime, for the sake of us all, try to stay calm.”

That was a lot easier said than done.

* * *

Once, when Aidan had given me the name and contact information of someone who could help me, I had hesitated. When I found him, he was a brooding man in motorcycle boots, scowling at everyone in the bar. He had intimidated me. But I had gotten to know him. Sailor. My Sailor.

So even though part of me, trained through a difficult childhood not to ask strangers questions about the magical world, still held back, another part of me decided to look up the name Aidan had written on his card.

And this time, it turned out I already knew the man. I had met him the other day at Bart’s apartment. I supposed it made sense that circles of acquaintances would start to overlap; after all, how many experts in witchcraft history could there be in the Bay Area? I found a pay phone and placed a call to Williston Chambers, professor of religion, UC Berkeley. He seemed happy to hear from me; he told me he had class in fifteen minutes but suggested I come by at four during office hours.

Before leaving the Ferry Building, I braved the jostling crowd—and the exorbitant prices—to stock up on the ingredients to make Oscar’s favorite foods: creamy mashed potatoes and five-cheese mac and cheese.
Never again
, I thought to myself, never again would I deny him
carbs in a misguided attempt to force him to eat vegetables. I also bought Scharffen Berger chocolate for chocolate-chip cookies. After all, wouldn’t want the cookie jar to be empty when he made his way back home.

I had just pulled into the driveway I rent near Aunt Cora’s Closet when I spotted an unmarked police car pull up to the curb. Carlos Romero.
Shoot
.

I had forgotten we had a date with a clothing conservator.

“You ready? She’s expecting me,” said Carlos, checking his watch.

“Um . . .” I had been itching to get back to the store, but this was more important. “Yes, I suppose I’m freeish. Just let me go grab my bag.” These days the medicine bag tied around my waist wasn’t sufficient. I never went anywhere without my portable witch-in-a-bag: bottle of all-purpose protective brew, tiny jar of cemetery dust, lungwort, and mullein. When things calmed down, I really should consider selling these bags over the Internet. I would make a fortune.

“Don’t forget the ledger.”

“Right you are. The ledger. I’ll be right back.”

Bronwyn was still watching over things at Aunt Cora’s Closet; as I’d feared, Oscar hadn’t wandered back into the store while I was away, and my remaining wouldn’t help. At the very least, I should go meet with the clothing conservator and see if she could shed any light on the things in the trunk. It was all tied together, somehow.

Also, Aidan’s promise made me feel optimistic. He was probably right—I had asked Oscar to arrange an introduction with the woodsfolk myself, and my familiar had tried to tell me how complicated it could be. For all I knew, he was hanging around with the Good People, swapping stories while negotiating terms. Or however this was done.

I would see Oscar again soon. I just had to keep believing that.

* * *

The conservator’s office was located in the Asian Art Museum, right across from City Hall. The museum was one of those countless Bay Area cultural attractions on my list of places to visit, but this was the first time I’d managed to get here. As usual when entering a museum or historical building, I was agog at the art and artifacts, but also a little overwhelmed by the sensations. As we passed an exhibit on the Indian royal palaces, I could hear whisperings and felt a brushing sensation flutter past my cheek, a breath on the back of my neck.

Museums are full of ghost-ridden objects, their spirits traveling through the ages; this is one reason some people find them to be energy draining. The ghosts are misplaced and don’t understand where they are, especially when housed in a strange new building. They reach out to attach to other human energies, feeling for understanding. It can be exhausting for people sensitive to such sensations. Like me. Unfortunately, ghosts latch on to me, sensing my strange energy, but I can’t understand them. It’s frustrating for all parties involved.

Carlos and I took the stairs up to the second floor and found Parmelee Riesling’s workshop and office right past a display of fine ceramics.

“You’re late,” she said upon opening the door. Riesling was barely five feet tall, round, with a dark brown pageboy haircut and huge round glasses that magnified her eyes, giving her a buglike countenance.

“I apologize,” said Carlos, checking his watch. I glanced down to see the time: It was three minutes past noon. Apparently, Parmelee was a real stickler for punctuality.

“Who’s she?” the conservator demanded, her eyes on me, piercing.

“This is Lily Ivory. She’s a special consultant to the department.”

“Humph,” she harrumphed, and turned to lead the way into her workshop.

I was still reeling a bit to hear myself described as a “special consultant” to the SFPD as we followed Riesling into the large, windowless room. There were four massive worktables, two covered in felt, the others in a slick plastic. Beside the regular lights, I noticed, were infrareds. Light was one of the biggest risks to delicate textiles.

“Don’t touch anything,” dictated Riesling as she led the way. “Your fingers carry oils, and oil goes on to trap dust deep within fabric. Roll up your sleeves—I don’t want anything to catch threads. No bracelets, necklaces, rings, tags, and anything else sticking out from your clothes.”

She looked over her shoulder at me and gave me a long once-over, raking me with dark gray eyes. Suddenly, she reached out and clutched my skirt, rubbing the fabric between two forefingers. “Midsixties, probably North Carolina, indigo dye lot on cotton blend. Nice example of simple American craftsmanship.”

“I, um . . . thanks,” I finished lamely.

“You should take better care of it; you’ve got dirt on your backside. Also, it’s inside out. And take off those bangles.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, cringing inwardly to hear “ma’am” come out in two full syllables. My Texas twang tended to return with a vengeance when I was nervous or dealing with authority figures.

“Aside from the obvious—no markers, food, or smoking—there must be no direct contact with pins, iron, wood, newsprint, newsprint paper, note cards, non–rag cardboard, unwashed clothes, plastic films, acidic tissue papers, labels, or Scotch Tape. They all have detrimental effects. What kind of consultant?”

I almost missed her question, so caught up was I in her monologue and everything I was seeing: mannequins dressed in historical costume, intricate silk embroidery, ancient needlepoint.

“I’m, a, uh . . . I own a vintage clothing store.”

“A what?” she said with a frown.

“A . . . vintage clothing store? In the Haight.”

She harrumphed again and muttered under her breath as she led us to a small room with yet another worktable, on top of which rested the contents of the trunk, each laid out separately on the table.

“What we have here is an example of nineteenth-century clothing of the merchant class,” she began. She spoke for another ten minutes straight without a pause. Carlos and I were receiving a crash course in the history and conservation of cloth, whether we wanted it or not. Then again without pausing to indicate she was changing the subject, she demanded: “Why have you brought this here, and why are the police so interested in a trunk full of junk?”

“We just wanted to be sure it really was junk,” Carlos said with a shrug. Unlike me, he did not seem particularly flustered by Parmelee’s officiousness. “So you’re saying there’s nothing here worth killing for, at least not that you can find?”

“There’s nothing here worth anything, really. Clothing of this age is always fascinating, but these are so far gone I won’t even allow them in the same room as the valuable textiles, lest mold spores or insects get loose.”

“Insects?” For the first time Carlos looked uncomfortable.

I smiled at the thought of seemingly fearless San Francisco homicide inspector Carlos Romero being afraid of insects.

“Nothing too scary, Carlos,” I whispered. “Mostly little moths.”

Parmelee fixed me with another of her scathing looks. “And beetles. Spiders . . . any number of possibilities.”

“But that’s normal, right? We’re looking for something odd, out of place.”

“The only odd thing I’ve found is some strands of velvet.”

“What would that indicate?” Carlos asked.

“That there was something else in the trunk. Something made of deep gold velvet. Given the age of the textiles, I would say it would have been an outer garment, a coat or cloak of some sort.”

Carlos fixed me with a look, which I steadfastly tried to ignore.

“Can you tell anything else about it?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Just seems odd it was taken when everything else was left intact. Also, I had an expert look at the trunk itself. It’s much older than these clothes. He dated it all the way back to the Puritans, and see here?” She pointed at a subtle design on the metal fasteners. “Apparently, that was the signature of a metalworker from New England.”

“New England? Whereabouts in New England?” I asked.

“Massachusetts.” Parmelee shrugged, unimpressed. “It’s old, all right, but in terrible shape. Its only real value would be to collectors of Salem mementos. Believe it or not, there are a lot of—”

“Hold up one minute,” said Carlos, a hand raised. “Salem? As in Massachusetts? As in . . . witch burnings?”

“They were hung, not burned,” I felt compelled to mention.

Carlos dismissed my clarification. “Whatever. You’re saying these clothes are from there?”

“Or that area,” said Parmelee. “This metalworker is a known guy, always left a signature. And Salem was, and is, a real town, you know. It existed long before there
were witchcraft trials and long after books were written about it. Those trials were an anomaly in the history of an otherwise unremarkable town. But . . . people get excited by the name and the history. So if you want to make money off this thing, I’d play up the possible Salem connection.”

Carlos nodded thoughtfully for a long moment; then his dark eyes slewed over to me. They held many questions and the knowledge that more was going on than I had let on.

“Who collects this sort of thing?” he asked finally.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Parmelee said. “Prior to my relocation to San Francisco, I spent a decade working on the Royal Collection at Hampton Court Palace and Kensington Palace, in London. I was lead conservator for the Princess Cassie Dress Collection and oversaw the conservation of the Ardabil Carpet. While there, I managed the largest textile wash bath in the world, constructed explicitly to handle the majestic sixteenth-century Belgian tapestries of the royal collection. I displayed Queen Victoria’s first official public gown as well as all those of Queen Elizabeth II, and the ancient wrappings of a three-thousand-year-old mummy.”

She paused and fixed us with the stink-eye. “All of which is to say: Witchcraft isn’t exactly my realm of expertise.”