VenCo(39)

“Keep them busy,” Seth agreed. “It’s why I try to have Margaret constantly with child.”

Sarah barely restrained a snort. It was infuriating to hear men talk when they thought no woman was around to hear them.

“Son, you haven’t yet told me what they want from us,” Daniel said.

“They’ve requested a show of allegiance.”

“To Europe?” Daniel sounded outraged.

“No, to the Lord and the Lord’s cause,” Seth answered. “They want us to be the voice in the Americas that lets the fiends know we are onto them, that we are standing guard and will not allow another wave of witches to crash upon our good shores.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. As if witches had ever gone away.

“And what will they have us do?”

Sarah heard the sound of paper being unfolded, then Seth’s voice. “This kind of spoon is the latest trend on the Continent and could be a new venture for us, something to put us on the map.”

“A spoon?” Daniel blustered. “We already have spoons in the catalogue!”

“A souvenir spoon,” Seth said. “One that can be sold as a token of the city of Salem but will have a dual purpose, reminding the harpies we are onto them, while also reminding people of their hideous nature.”

“That image is grotesque. So much so that I cannot imagine them selling.”

“Remember, Father, people are titillated by fear. And, like it or not, Salem is known for witches. Our customers will love it.”



“Annie Hawthorne,” Sarah called out, approaching the bar of the pub nearest the Low household. “I am in need of a drink.”

The bartender turned, slowly drying a thick glass with a thin cloth. She had a pleasant face, bright green eyes, and a wide, white streak in her dark hair, and she was easily a foot taller than most women. When she smiled, a gold tooth shone in the corner of her mouth.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Sarah Mansford. One drink, coming right up.”

“Thanks, Annie,” she said in a low voice as the woman poured her a glass of ale. “I’m actually most in need of a Tender. I have news.”

The witch and the Tender leaned in close and spoke at length. They discussed the Low trip, the mission to produce the Salem Witch Spoons, and how magic people were once again under attack, or would be soon.

“It is said that the coven that will bring us back to our rightful place is still far off,” Annie lamented. “Will this renewed interest from the Lows and their ilk change the trajectory?”

Sarah tapped the wooden bartop. “That is why we need to act. We have to ensure the coven can come together, that they can find one another no matter what. This message must get through the years, even if our mouths are silenced. Even if the Benandanti catch wind and use the latest campaign to hunt on a larger scale. We need to attach the message to something, an object of sorts, so that it can be found no matter what is to come.”

“An object?” Annie repeated, pouring a tray of ale for the rowdy tables around them. “What object are you thinking of, then?”

Sarah smiled with good mischief. “I think the Lows are about to create one that could be of use. Repurposing a thing of one intent to the exact opposite intent is in itself a powerful spell. It’s perfect.”

They made plans to meet when necessary and began the work of both procuring the object and developing the spell. When Sarah could get away to the pub in the following weeks, the Tender passed on information as she got it—warehouse shift schedules, cargo routes, when the shipments might be alone and vulnerable. As a Tender, her job was to gather, to provide, to make the connections a witch might need to carry out her work. Each time they met, they talked until the candles sputtered and the bar emptied. And they ended their meeting with small sips of whiskey from glasses they clinked together with the merriment of people plotting a damn good conspiracy.



Some months later, Sarah moved quietly through the wet snow, the moon shining blue on the frozen ground. She slipped into a wooden warehouse near the docks and blew on her hands before lighting the lantern she found hanging inside the door.

She wended her way through the pillars of wooden crates, each stamped with the logo for Low & Co. Jewelers. When she found the stack she was searching for, she set her lantern down and produced a crowbar from under her cloak, which she used to pry open the nailed lid. From the crate, she carefully extracted seven shiny souvenir spoons, each embossed with the name of the city and a hideous old hag carrying a broomstick. She unhooked her cloak and laid it on the floor to use as a surface for her work.

From a pouch tied about her waist, she brought out shards of bone—the chalk and DNA of women who’d walked before her on this land, some who died for their beliefs, others who evaded scrutiny and lived to old age. She placed these at the corners of the cloak. The pouch held other offerings: herbs, a vial of viscous liquid that seemed lit from within, the tail of a rabbit, and other items unidentifiable to the untrained eye. When she had it all arranged, she knelt and went to work.

It took most of the night, but just as the sun was sliding through the warehouse windows, throwing stripes across the floor, she walked among the Low & Co. stacks, using her crowbar to pry open random crates, then inserting one of her seven spoons. She barely had time to gather up her things and hide in the shadows before the morning crew arrived.