The Eleventh
Eliza waited until her friends had walked out into the night. From her large window overlooking the Crenshaw House entry, she saw the lights of their candles and lanterns bounce merrily through the darkness, as if unaware that anything could be wrong in the world.
She snuck out of her room and closed the door quietly behind her. Crenshaw House was dark and perfectly still. She took a moment to get her bearings in the wide hallway before tiptoeing down the runner carpet and onto the wide oak stairs. Her fingers lightly brushed the polished banister as she scurried down the steps. The first floor was deserted, but she could see a shaft of light beneath the door to the kitchen. Cringing at every creak in the old floor, Eliza moved slowly and cautiously toward the light, her ear tilted toward the ceiling to catch any noise, any sign of life, from Miss Almay’s room. Just outside the latchless kitchen door, she paused. Whoever was inside was humming, and the tune was low and mournful, like a funeral dirge. A chill of fear raced through Eliza and she stood for a moment, her hand on the door, her breathing shallow and raspy.
Thinking of Catherine, Eliza screwed up her courage and pushed the door open on its hinges.
Helen sat at the table, her back to Eliza, her blond braid down the back of her blue shawl. She was polishing silver methodically as she hummed.
“I delivered your message to Harrison Knox, Miss Eliza,” Helen said.
Eliza nearly collapsed. How did Helen know she was standing there? She hadn’t made a sound. And what message was she talking about?
Helen turned around slowly. “He won’t be waiting for you. I let him know you couldn’t be there, as you were to be otherwise occupied.”
Eliza’s mind swam as Helen blithely returned to her work. She took a tentative step into the room and was surprised when her weakened knees held her.
“What . . . how did you . . . ? Did you read his message to me? How did you know I couldn’t go to him?”
Helen simply arched one eyebrow as she rubbed a serving fork with her rag.
“What do you know?” Eliza asked, walking boldly over and standing next to Helen’s chair. Her skin pulsated with uncertainty and fear, but she wasn’t going to let Helen see that. “How much do you know?”
The polishing continued, as did the awful tune.
“How did you know it was me at the door?” Eliza demanded.
“Oh, that.” Helen placed the spoon she’d been working on down on the table, along with the rag. When she looked up at Eliza, her expression was far more normal—amused and lightly teasing. “You, Miss Eliza, have a very peculiar gait.”
Eliza’s shoulders relaxed, and instantly she felt foolish. Of course. Her mother had always scolded her for loping around like a boy, and after a couple of weeks of living among the other girls, she knew none of them had her plodding steps. She pulled out the chair at the head of the table and rested her hands in front of her.
“I need your help,” she said.
“I know,” Helen said, picking up a fork and inspecting it in the candlelight. “You need me to help you bring her back.”
Eliza’s heart thumped.
Helen breathed on the fork, and Eliza could have sworn that the rust stains disappeared before her eyes. Still Helen lifted the rag and polished it anyway.
“None of your spells work on me,” she continued, laying the fork alongside the other gleaming utensils. Her eyes flicked to Eliza’s locket. “Not a one. I’m under the protection of a charm that makes me immune to witchcraft.”
Eliza sat and stared. “A charm?” she blurted stupidly.
“Yes,” Helen said as she polished a teaspoon. “I know what those books of yours can lead to. I knew the girl who last owned them.” She placed the teaspoon down on the table and slowly turned to look at Eliza. “She was killed by her craft.”
Eliza felt as if Helen had just plucked one of the forks off the table and jammed it into her heart. “Killed? Like Catherine was?”
“No, not quite like that,” Helen said thoughtfully. “This girl, she let the magic consume her. It became an obsession . . . an addiction . . . and it took over. After she died, we tried to burn those books so that it would never happen again, but it didn’t work.”
Eliza sat up straight and swallowed hard, attempting to focus. “What do you mean, it didn’t work?”
“We threw them in the fire, and they came out an hour later without a mark or a scratch,” Helen explained. “They were untouched, Miss Eliza. Unscathed.” She pushed the silverware away, her eyes hard. “You’re fooling with a power that is not to be trifled with. That is why I have tried to send you those messages all this time. Tried to tell you to turn back when you were about to get yourself into trouble. But you don’t seem to want to listen.”
Eliza’s heart dropped into her toes. “That voice I’ve been hearing . . . that was you?”
“Yes, Miss Eliza,” Helen said, going to work on a serving spoon. “But like I said, you didn’t want to listen.”
Eliza was stunned, an awful hollowness growing inside of her gut. A feeling that she had started something she could not control. A feeling that if she didn’t end it now, it might grow and expand and swallow everything she held dear.