Holiday Magick (6 page)

“And oak leaves,” added Elisabeta, the dark fringe of her lashes veiling her eyes. “For when you desire your man but he is somewhat…lacking.” The girls had had no idea what that meant, but had taken copious notes, nonetheless.

Esther had soon grown adept at creating charms, so much so that, when Elisabeta was expelled (fluttering your eyelashes at your teacher is not advised, especially when his wife is the headmistress), the other girls had naturally turned to her. In no time she had found herself mixing herbs for every purpose under the sun, from removing warts to improving grades.

Esther had retained her reputation as one adept in the old ways after she had left school, but thankfully her father didn't listen to such women's talk. Instead, he assumed his daughter always bought herbs and flowers to use in the kitchen or to decorate the home. Certainly, his own flesh and blood would never engage in such scandalous behavior.

When Jessamine had first approached Esther for a love spell, she had naturally agreed, though the manner of the spell had rendered her somewhat perplexed. In due time, Esther had remembered the valentine that had so offended, and decided that a similar approach was in order for Edward. Her father had agreed to order lace doilies and crepe paper, and in no time, Esther had constructed a truly hideous, yet utterly fashionable, valentine.

However, when it came time to spell the valentine, Esther again found herself stumped. First, she had tried to spell the entire card, but smoke from the incense had quickly discolored the paper lace, and the crepe paper hadn't taken well to the heat. She had tried herbs, oils, all manner of things, but nothing seemed to work. Something had to carry the charm, that much was certain, yet Esther couldn't divine what that something should be. Obviously, spelling this delicate paper just wouldn't do; she needed to find another way to attach the charm.

With a sigh, she retrieved the valentine she'd received from Mr. Childress. She had eventually taken it from her closet and stowed it away in the bottom of her wardrobe, not for sentimental reasons but for research purposes. Yes, only for research. Esther entertained notions of marriage as much as the next girl, but to him? That dried-up husk of a man? With a shudder, she returned to the work at hand.

It was nearly crushed to nothing, having spent these many months wrapped in rags beneath Esther's least comfortable boots. Esther donned a pair of kid gloves before carefully unwinding the rags, then stared at the detestable creation. It was just as awful as she had remembered, save that the cherubs had faded a bit. She pulled the glove off her right hand, and lightly let her fingertips glide across the outer edge.

Nothing.

So the lace isn't spelled
. Esther was relieved that this other witch—whoever she may be—didn't have knowledge of a technique Esther was unaware of for placing spells upon the lace. Methodically, she traced the faded red hearts, the cherubs' faces; she even traced the outer edges and the back of the card. Still, there was nothing, no tingle, no warm feelings of affection toward the sender, none of the usual aftereffects of magic.

Perhaps the charm only lasts so long, like a fragrance
. Esther began to wonder if her own charms had a similar expiration date, when she spied the quotation.

Even if she hadn't detected the charm upon the card, Esther would have scoffed at the badly rendered quote. So trite, so banal…As she completed her list of the quotation's failings, her fingertips brushed across it, and it nearly scorched her with the electric charge of magic.

Of course! Spelled ink!
Esther took a moment to berate herself for not having thought of such a simple trick earlier. When one does not have a personal item of the beloved's, the lover need only mix a few drops of their own blood into the ink, then carry the missive to his or her potential mate. Esther deliberately did not imagine Mr. Childress's countenance as he bled into a vial of ink, nor consider what he was thinking when he had done so. Vile man.

Shortly after Esther's discovery she sent for Jessamine, eager to share in her discovery. She spent the better part of the day chasing Jessamine about the drawing room with a vial and a hatpin. Eventually, she gave up and rang for afternoon tea.

“Really, Essie,” Jessamine admonished, “what were you thinking? As if I could send my blood to Edward! Why, the very thought of it is vile. No lady—no
proper
lady—would ever conceive of such a thing!”

In reply to which, Esther only smiled and asked Jessamine what she would like with her tea, then quickly jabbed the hatpin into the heel of Jessamine's palm. “Essie! What are you doing?”

Esther quickly put the vial underneath the wound, and applied pressure until three ruby droplets had plunged into the black ink. “Now, Jess, that wasn't so bad, now, was it?” Esther soothed. The blood thus procured, Essie withdrew the inkwell and offered Jessamine a crisp linen napkin.

“I suppose not,” Jessamine admitted as she blotted her hand. “You could have warned me.”

“You knew very well what I was after.” At that moment, the maid entered and began laying out the tea service. “Now, let's have our tea, and afterward we shall adjourn to my study. Dear Jess, the best is yet to come.”

In due time the tea was consumed, and the girls adjourned to Esther's study, away from the prying eyes of the maids. Esther advised Jessamine that, to strengthen the charm, she should write the inscription on the valentine in her own hand.

“What shall it be?” Jessamine murmured. “What few words can possibly capture the feelings I have for Edward?” Jessamine was silent for a moment, staring forlornly out the window while Esther forced herself to keep her scathing comments unsaid. “What about Shakespeare?”

“No!” Esther blurted. Dear Lord, she never wanted to hear the Bard's name mentioned ever again. “I mean, everyone uses Shakespeare. Why don't you try for something a bit more personal?” Esther approached her bookcase, and selected a well-worn volume. “Why not Plato?”

“Plato!” Jessamine exclaimed. “How would that dusty old Greek be more personal?”

“He's one of the classics.”

“As is Shakespeare!”

“But, dear Jess, we can do much better than that.” Esther reluctantly replaced the volume of Plato's writings and trailed her hands across the spines. She loved her books, the soft leather bindings, the scent of the pages and ink… “Why not something from Spenser?” she suggested, her fingertips having alighted upon
The Faerie Queene
.

“I think I'd like something a bit more modern,” Jessamine said with a pout. Esther refrained from mentioning that Shakespeare had been dead for centuries, and continued to peruse her bookshelf.

“Perhaps Byron?” offered Jessamine. Esther's expression was sufficient to silence the lovesick girl.

“Ah! What about something from Scott?”

They selected a quote from
Ivanhoe
, and Jessamine practiced it a few times with standard ink. Once she'd gotten her script elegant but not too flowery, she inscribed the quotation on the center of the card. They sipped sherry while they waited for the ink to dry, and then Esther proclaimed the spell complete.

“Oh, Essie!” Jessamine proclaimed as she flung her arms about Esther's neck. “Thank you so much! I'll make you a bridesmaid at our wedding!”

After Jessamine left, her way to Edward's heart clutched in her dainty hand, Esther refilled her sherry glass (something she normally wouldn't do in the middle of the day, at least not when Father was home) and gazed at the leavings of her valentine creation. When she went to Father's shop for supplies, she was dismayed to learn that paper doilies only came in bundles of one gross, and colored crepe paper in a stack so thick Esther despaired she'd never use it all. Now, as she gazed at the bits of lace and spools of ribbon strewn across her desk, she wondered if she hadn't divined a way to make her own fortune.

Esther persuaded her father to order additional supplies from the Continent, spending her small savings on the new venture. While she waited for the materials to arrive, Esther perfected her watercolor techniques. There would be no cut-rate pastels on her cards! No, hers would feature elegant doves, a ribbon stretched between their beaks, delicately rendered bouquets of roses and lilies, and other refined symbols of love.

After the much-anticipated packages arrived, Esther quickly completed a few mock-ups for her father's shops. After all, he'd thought all along that she was doing this as a business venture. Well, she was, but not the sort he imagined. Her delighted surprise when her brother, the salesman, returned from his latest business trip with five thousand dollars' worth of orders contained a modest amount of triumph.

Of course, this led to the problem of constructing five thousand dollars' worth of valentines. Knowing that she couldn't employ her servants for such precise work, Esther contacted a few of her more refined former classmates, some of whom had even known Elisabeta. Whether they made the connection between Esther's paper hearts and the dark beauty, Esther neither knew nor cared.

What Esther did do was learn each girl's strength, and put her to work doing the tasks most suited to her. For instance, Lillian could cut out a heart that was neither too plump nor too lean, and her edges were never ragged. However, the girl couldn't paint to save her life, and was a terror with a pot of glue. So Lillian would cut out the basic form, Victoria would paint a pre-approved design in the center of the card, and Josephine added the lace and ribbons. If the finished product met with Esther's approval, she would script a loving quote in her own hand, sometimes with charmed ink, sometimes not, and carefully stow the valentine in a sturdy crate. Soon, Esther and her all-woman assembly line were sending love tokens all across the country.

“I always had faith in you,” Father declared, his eyes moving quickly across the ledger as he calculated and recalculated profits. “You have certainly inherited my entrepreneurial spirit!”

“Only because of your teachings, Father,” Esther demurred. Little did he know that her entrepreneurial spirit owed more than a bit to her gypsy roommate. Every night, Esther lit a candle for Elisabeta and wished her well, wherever she might be.

It had been the banging that woke Esther. She had retired early with a cup of chocolate and a good book, and wondered what fool's errand was so important that it couldn't wait until morning. Shouting, and Jessamine's shrill voice calling her name, drew her from her bed.

“Jessamine!” Esther exclaimed from her vantage point at the top of the stairs. “Whatever has gotten into you?”

“Me? Me!” Jessamine shrieked, now waving her arms in a very unladylike manner. “This is all
your
doing!”

“
My
doing?” Esther gathered her shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders and descended the stairs. “Jess, I haven't even seen you in weeks. Not since—”

“Not since this!” With that, Jessamine shoved a wadded-up handkerchief at Esther. It contained a now-crumpled valentine, the very one she'd crafted for Edward. “Not since you gave me this horrible, wicked monstrosity!”

“Oh, dear.” Esther's heart softened toward her wild-eyed friend. “Did he give it back to you? Had Edward fallen in love with another before he received it?”

“He gave it to me, yes, and he loves
me
quite completely, no thanks to you,” Jessamine snapped. “As do his landlady, and his coworkers, and even the postman.” Jessamine unceremoniously dropped into the hall chair, worn out by her antics. “The postman!”

“Mr. Fullerton's in love with you?” the maid inquired, bewildered. “But, he's been married for nigh on thirty years!”

“I know,” wailed Jessamine, “but he touched it. Everyone who's touched it loves me. They won't rest until they have me.”