The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(82)

With no way to contact her missing parents, the final viewing of the body by family was left to Edwina and Ian. And Mrs. Dower, who’d kindly offered to wash and dress Mary’s body for burial. Edwina expected a small coalition of mourners within the hour, including Sir Elvanfoot before he caught his train north. Ian was going, too, but she chose to dwell on only one source of grief at a time and so put that out of her mind. The rest of the mourners were thought to consist of various neighbors who’d been prodded to attend by Mrs. Dower, who had suggested to Edwina it might be wise to set out cakes and tea and a spot of sherry in the shop for “them what’s kind enough to pay their respects to the odd bird, and no disrespect intended.”

Edwina worried it was a plain-looking sort of coffin. Wooden, but with a coat of black paint and gilded handles. The coffin sat in the middle of the shop atop the kitchen table that had been brought down from the living quarters. The display cases and counters had already been moved aside and covered with sheets, as were any visible clocks or mirrors, so that the small space felt appropriately shrine-like. Small cakes and tarts were set on trays as prescribed.

A photographer was due any moment to capture Mary’s final likeness. If Edwina ever did hear from her mother or father again, she’d like to have one last photo to show them of their daughters together, and so she planned to have Mary propped up with their heads resting together as they’d always been before the world turned upside down. Mrs. Dower had agreed that the midnight-blue dress from the hope chest was the appropriate somber attire for a memento mori photo.

And now it was time for Edwina to see for herself.

“Ready?” Ian undid the latches on the coffin lid, preparing to open it so Edwina could have a private moment to say goodbye before the others arrived.

Edwina nervously fussed with the crisp black crepe that had been attached to the bodice of her mourning dress before bravely nodding.

Ian pried the top of the coffin open on its hinge. Edwina stood beside him to gaze upon Mary’s face a final time and say goodbye. But even before the coffin was fully open, they both knew something was wrong. The distinct smell of river mud seeped out of the confined space. In a single effort, Ian pushed the lid all the way back.

At first, they couldn’t make sense of what they were seeing. Mary was attired as she should be, but her dress was soaked with muddy water, and strands of algae clung to her arms and neck. Her hair, which Mrs. Dower swore had been combed into a beautiful pompadour, was drenched and smelled of fish slime. And there, in Mary’s cupped white hands, which had been folded neatly over her middle, rested a blue orb with a vein of gold visible beneath a sheen of newly dried mud.

“Blimey, I never,” said Mrs. Dower, clutching her chest as she peered inside the coffin. “What’s happened to her? She were in a right proper state only this morning, she were. Saw to it myself.”

Edwina shivered from a dose of superstition. The orb appeared to have been inexplicably fished from the river.

Ian flicked open his watch, then shook his head when it gave him a negative reading. “Nothing,” he said, careful not to confuse Mrs. Dower with talk of ghosts and witches. The thought had occurred to Edwina as well.

Confused, she scrutinized her sister’s body from head to foot, trying to make sense of what was laid out before her. Then her eye spotted the corner of an envelope poking out of the lining of the coffin lid. Ian saw it, too, and retrieved a small card, the sort one might send with a bouquet of flowers.

“It’s addressed to you,” he said to Edwina, then opened the envelope with her approval.

He slipped the note loose of its sleeve, and they leaned together to read the handwritten note:

Dear Miss Edwina Blackwood,

A token of my esteem. Until we meet again.

Yours truly,

An Ardent Admirer

The signature, written in iridescent green ink, was smeared nearly beyond recognition from a misplaced drop of muddy water. Yet the indication was clear.

Someone had been watching her.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


As always, I need to thank a number of people for helping deliver The Raven Spell into the world. Without their guidance and expertise, it would be a much different book. To my wonderful agent, Marlene Stringer: thank you once again for believing in this story when it was just a single chapter based on what if. To my acquiring editor, Adrienne Procaccini: thank you for taking a leap of faith with me on a second series. To my editor, Liz Pearsons, who graciously stepped up to oversee the novel through production: thank you for doing double duty.

I’ve also been fortunate to work with many of the same developmental and copy editors on this series at 47North as I did with The Vine Witch, which made the work feel more like a reunion. To Clarence, Jon, Kellie, and Stephanie: your critical scrutiny of the work is what makes the words publishable, and I thank you all. You are word witches of the highest order! And to the people working behind the scenes—Kristin, Grace, Lauren, Leonard, and the rest of the team at 47North—thank you for all you do. And a final thanks to Shasti O’Leary Soudant for her spot-on cover concept.





APPENDIX


Borrowed Written Works and Poems in the Public Domain The Pirate by Walter Scott

“The Sick Rose” by William Blake “Ashes Denote That Fire Was” by Emily Dickinson “The Moon” by Robert Louis Stevenson Borrowed Nursery Rhymes in the Public Domain