Bitter Spirits
Page 75
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Good grief. She’d never traveled first-class. And Greta handled this? The woman probably cursed her name the entire way to the train station.
Aida was so confused—last night Winter had been shouting at her like an angry bull about going to New Orleans; now he was practically shoving her out the door. “I’m overwhelmed,” Aida admitted, gripping the train ticket.
“Ja, I can imagine,” Greta said. “But consider that all you lost were material things, easily replaced, and you now have comfortable, safe place to stay for the remainder of your time in city.”
“I suppose you’re right. Where is Winter?”
“Hunting down people who did this to you.”
Aida’s stomach twisted.
“Enough of all that, let’s get on with the fun stuff,” Astrid said brightly. “Changing screen’s in the corner.”
“Yes, by all means,” Greta said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “Astrid will now demonstrate what a girl with no sense and an open charge account can do.”
• • •
Winter stood in the hallway looking through the burned-out hole where Aida’s apartment door once stood. Nothing was salvageable: clothes and luggage, charred; hiding place for her savings, nothing but ashes; and the locket, now melted into her bedside table.
“That was kind of you to arrange repairs,” Velma said at his side as she looked on.
How they’d ever get rid of the acrid burnt stench was beyond him. “Both Aida and Bo are fond of the owners. Can you do anything?”
Velma surveyed the damage for a long moment, the picture of poise in an elegant chartreuse coat. The brim of her matching hat hid her eyes from him. “What did you have in mind?”
“Some sort of tracking spell?”
“To lead you to the men who did this?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m that good. You’d have a better chance finding them by chasing leads.”
“The witnesses saw a truck and two men. One of them said the men were Chinese, the other said they were white. Neither could identify the truck model.”
“So no leads, is what you’re saying.”
“No leads, and I already talked to the police. They’ve got nothing, either. There’s nothing you can try?”
Velma tugged the cuffs of her cream-colored gloves, tightening the fit. “I don’t know a spell that can track them and return logical information concerning their whereabouts. I can, however, light a fuse from this point that will burn until it finds them.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can work a curse on them. Punish them. But before you agree, hear me out. This is nothing to play around with. A curse deals out the same amount of punishment as the wrong they did. Eye for an eye. And once I set it in motion, there’s no stopping it. I might end up killing these two men, and frankly, that’s not something I want on my conscience.”
“Well, my conscience is happy to take responsibility.”
“Not that simple,” the conjurer said, squinting up at him with sharp eyes. “Curses have a way of causing new rifts. If this is connected to the secret tong you’re talking about, and they have a powerful sorcerer on their side, it might make some waves. You might be setting something in motion that won’t stop until someone else gets hurt—or killed. So if I do this, either you or Aida have to bear the blood-debt. Anything I send out will come back to one of you, not me. Do you understand?”
He didn’t, exactly. But if cursing them sparked a war, then at least all this bullshit would be out in the open. He was tired of shadowboxing. “I take full responsibility—not Aida. She’s a bystander. All the blame should fall on my shoulders.”
Velma nodded. “So be it. I’ll need to collect some ashes.”
• • •
Between shuffling in and out of clothes for the better part of the day, Aida unabashedly gobbled down a mid-afternoon breakfast of toast triangles piled with soft, buttery scrambled eggs, dill, and smoked salmon—Magnusson fish, Astrid proudly clarified. Fresh orange juice and strong coffee washed it all down.
And when all her new belongings had been sorted into piles—keep, return, alter—she settled on a raisin-colored casual dress to wear. Astrid took her on a tour of the house, traipsing through dozens of rooms brimming with objets d’art collected from exotic places—including a sitting area dubbed the Sheik Room, outfitted to look like something out of Arabian Nights.
She met Winter’s mostly Swedish staff: a cook; three maids; a woman whose entire job was handling the laundry,who she later found out was Benita’s mother; a handyman; the driver she’d seen before, Jonte; and keeping watch over all of them was Greta. They eyed Aida with great curiosity. Some spoke little English, and Aida listened in amazement as Astrid vacillated between English and Swedish with ease.
Under Greta’s supervision, Astrid also showed Aida how to operate the elevator and the intercom system installed on each floor. Led her through the kitchen, formal dining room, and downstairs library. Walked her out to see Winter’s cars, where Greta asked her to write down her work schedule for Jonte, who assured her he’d be ready to chauffeur her back and forth from Gris-Gris.
Astrid talked a mile a minute to Greta as the three of them stood in the driveway next to a cream two-seater Packard coupe with its convertible canvas top down. A beautiful car. Far more feminine than Winter’s hell-colored Pierce-Arrow. Aida gazed at her reflection in one of the car’s side mirrors and tuned out Astrid’s chattering.
Aida was so confused—last night Winter had been shouting at her like an angry bull about going to New Orleans; now he was practically shoving her out the door. “I’m overwhelmed,” Aida admitted, gripping the train ticket.
“Ja, I can imagine,” Greta said. “But consider that all you lost were material things, easily replaced, and you now have comfortable, safe place to stay for the remainder of your time in city.”
“I suppose you’re right. Where is Winter?”
“Hunting down people who did this to you.”
Aida’s stomach twisted.
“Enough of all that, let’s get on with the fun stuff,” Astrid said brightly. “Changing screen’s in the corner.”
“Yes, by all means,” Greta said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “Astrid will now demonstrate what a girl with no sense and an open charge account can do.”
• • •
Winter stood in the hallway looking through the burned-out hole where Aida’s apartment door once stood. Nothing was salvageable: clothes and luggage, charred; hiding place for her savings, nothing but ashes; and the locket, now melted into her bedside table.
“That was kind of you to arrange repairs,” Velma said at his side as she looked on.
How they’d ever get rid of the acrid burnt stench was beyond him. “Both Aida and Bo are fond of the owners. Can you do anything?”
Velma surveyed the damage for a long moment, the picture of poise in an elegant chartreuse coat. The brim of her matching hat hid her eyes from him. “What did you have in mind?”
“Some sort of tracking spell?”
“To lead you to the men who did this?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m that good. You’d have a better chance finding them by chasing leads.”
“The witnesses saw a truck and two men. One of them said the men were Chinese, the other said they were white. Neither could identify the truck model.”
“So no leads, is what you’re saying.”
“No leads, and I already talked to the police. They’ve got nothing, either. There’s nothing you can try?”
Velma tugged the cuffs of her cream-colored gloves, tightening the fit. “I don’t know a spell that can track them and return logical information concerning their whereabouts. I can, however, light a fuse from this point that will burn until it finds them.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can work a curse on them. Punish them. But before you agree, hear me out. This is nothing to play around with. A curse deals out the same amount of punishment as the wrong they did. Eye for an eye. And once I set it in motion, there’s no stopping it. I might end up killing these two men, and frankly, that’s not something I want on my conscience.”
“Well, my conscience is happy to take responsibility.”
“Not that simple,” the conjurer said, squinting up at him with sharp eyes. “Curses have a way of causing new rifts. If this is connected to the secret tong you’re talking about, and they have a powerful sorcerer on their side, it might make some waves. You might be setting something in motion that won’t stop until someone else gets hurt—or killed. So if I do this, either you or Aida have to bear the blood-debt. Anything I send out will come back to one of you, not me. Do you understand?”
He didn’t, exactly. But if cursing them sparked a war, then at least all this bullshit would be out in the open. He was tired of shadowboxing. “I take full responsibility—not Aida. She’s a bystander. All the blame should fall on my shoulders.”
Velma nodded. “So be it. I’ll need to collect some ashes.”
• • •
Between shuffling in and out of clothes for the better part of the day, Aida unabashedly gobbled down a mid-afternoon breakfast of toast triangles piled with soft, buttery scrambled eggs, dill, and smoked salmon—Magnusson fish, Astrid proudly clarified. Fresh orange juice and strong coffee washed it all down.
And when all her new belongings had been sorted into piles—keep, return, alter—she settled on a raisin-colored casual dress to wear. Astrid took her on a tour of the house, traipsing through dozens of rooms brimming with objets d’art collected from exotic places—including a sitting area dubbed the Sheik Room, outfitted to look like something out of Arabian Nights.
She met Winter’s mostly Swedish staff: a cook; three maids; a woman whose entire job was handling the laundry,who she later found out was Benita’s mother; a handyman; the driver she’d seen before, Jonte; and keeping watch over all of them was Greta. They eyed Aida with great curiosity. Some spoke little English, and Aida listened in amazement as Astrid vacillated between English and Swedish with ease.
Under Greta’s supervision, Astrid also showed Aida how to operate the elevator and the intercom system installed on each floor. Led her through the kitchen, formal dining room, and downstairs library. Walked her out to see Winter’s cars, where Greta asked her to write down her work schedule for Jonte, who assured her he’d be ready to chauffeur her back and forth from Gris-Gris.
Astrid talked a mile a minute to Greta as the three of them stood in the driveway next to a cream two-seater Packard coupe with its convertible canvas top down. A beautiful car. Far more feminine than Winter’s hell-colored Pierce-Arrow. Aida gazed at her reflection in one of the car’s side mirrors and tuned out Astrid’s chattering.
