ARIES
ARIES
WHEN HETTY RETURNED HOME, the sign had fallen again. Spying it lying in the bushes, she was tempted to leave it there.
Hetty almost did, but at the last moment she picked it up.
She was never one to give up on anything in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now.
She would make this funeral home successful. She’d be so busy with it that the ghosts of her past, either in the form of Esther or Nathan Payne, would never have a chance to haunt her.
The lid for the postbox was askew, and grimly Hetty wondered if her neighbor had come back and stuck something in there. Blythe never opened their letters, but Hetty more than once had noticed that letters suddenly appeared in the box long after the mail courier had come and gone.
Leaning the sign against the door, she checked it and found that tucked inside was this month’s Amateur Star Seeker.
“Finally!”
Hetty flipped through the pages. With each page turn she sought her name and the title of her essay. She hadn’t gotten a rejection letter from the magazine. That meant only one thing. Her article about using the stars to navigate across land had made it in.
However, neither her name nor her article appeared.
She turned the pages more slowly a second time when someone approached her.
A woman stood on the neighbor’s side of the steps. She blew her nose into her handkerchief very loudly, although her eyes were quite dry.
When the woman blew her nose again, Hetty lowered the magazine.
“Can I help you?” Hetty asked.
“Is this the funeral home?” The woman’s eyes drifted toward Hetty, the magazine clutched in her hands and the letters threatening to spill onto the ground. “Or am I at the wrong place?”
“You’re at the right place.” Hetty extended her hand only to realize she still held the magazine. “Is there something you need?”
“My uncle has passed away. I’m looking for the funeral home. I heard there is a new one?”
Eagerly, Hetty pointed to the sign lying against the wall. “Yes, this is the Rhodes Family Funeral Parlor, a Place of Celebration of Life, History, and Tradition.”
“That’s quite a mouthful.” The woman sniffed, and there was no sorrow in the gesture this time. “You might want to look into changing that.”
“Why don’t you come inside?” This was the first person to come to them for a funeral in weeks. She could endure this woman’s sour attitude as long as she needed to. “We can discuss matters far better that way.”
“I’d rather speak to your employer.”
“I run the funeral parlor with my husband.”
“That’s quite a bit of work for two people.”
“Not at all—it’s just a matter of setting the proper spells.”
“Spells?” A rather magnificent sneer filled the woman’s face. “You use magic?”
“For preservation—”
“Why not embalming? I want the very best for my uncle.”
“That’s very different,” Hetty protested. “Embalming is what I meant—”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Of course not—I only meant that it’s a separate thing that we do—”
The woman shook her head. “Why offer it as a separate service, then?”
The question caught her off-guard, as it was intended, but Hetty had a great deal of practice in keeping her features bland and smooth.
“I only wish to point it out,” Hetty said finally.
“What other things are separate?” the woman demanded.
Hetty started to list them. She got halfway through that list before a crow and his three babies dropped onto a nearby ledge.
They looked at her rather sternly, and in that moment Hetty realized she was wasting her time.
She was never going to get this client. This woman had come eager to pick and prod as if this were a jumble sale at church. Even if she wasn’t, the woman’s words had been clear from the start: They weren’t her first choice. They were only a last resort.
“There is something else I need to show you. Wait here.” Hetty picked up the fallen sign. “It’s part of a special service. It’s a ceremonial aspect. It allows us to highlight the passing of one soul leaving this world for the next.”
Hetty opened her front door and then slammed it shut behind her. There was a moment of stillness before the woman began banging on the door.
“You won’t be burying my uncle!” the woman yelled.
“Go on,” Hetty yelled right back. “You were considering other places anyway!”
“And I will!” The muffled voice came through the door, shoving its way through the cracks. “Some business you have. You’ll be closing if I have anything to do with it!”
“Don’t flatter yourself!”
Hetty slid backwards against the door, and pressed her hands against her face. The sign clattered onto the floor, and her mail tumbled about like fallen leaves. She fell with them, sinking to the floor with her skirts pooled around her.
She wasn’t sitting there for long before she heard footsteps.
“In the history of terrible ideas,” Benjy’s voice floated above her, “there is Napoleon’s march into Russia, books on phrenology, and the interaction you just had.”
Hetty lowered her hands to find her husband crouched before her, equal parts amused and sympathetic.
“I tried.”
“I heard.” Benjy picked up the fallen sign. “Why don’t I make a new one? I can even change the name.”
“What’s wrong with this one? Rhodes Family Funeral Parlor also implies we are a family-run place, which makes us appear nice and friendly.”
“As opposed to what? That we aren’t?”
“You make fun, but sometimes people need a reminder.”
“There are better names.” Benjy placed the sign out of the way. “Now, besides the third most disastrous thing in the world, what have you been up to? I went looking for you earlier, but you were gone.”
“I took a walk and found a person tied to the hex in the tunnel we found.”
Benjy blinked. “How did you manage that?”
“Wise Sammy told me all about it,” Hetty said.
“Wise Sammy?” Benjy scoffed. “You know better to trust anything he says, especially after he had one too many sips of Narcisse.”
“The proof of his words was the hex on his person. He was down there the night of the Barclay Street fire and got caught in a hex. But the most interesting part is that he was guided by a stranger. A stranger that he could not describe in any manner.”
“We’re talking about Wise Sammy,” Benjy said again.
“I trust he was telling the truth. The way he described it, it sounds like a rather intricate spell. Wise Sammy could tell me nothing about the man. The words weren’t coming to him.”
Benjy sighed. “A spell like that is nothing but trouble. Why was Wise Sammy in the tunnel anyway?”
“He was selling stolen magical goods. He had things from Penelope’s shop and probably others.”
Her husband grimaced. “I guess we’ll have to find out, then. This makes it a case. Anything else I should know?”
Hetty thought of the crate upstairs in their spare room, but she didn’t want to talk about it now, so she grabbed a suitable substitute off the floor.
“The Star Seeker came today.”
“Really?” Benjy sat down on the floor next to her. “Is your article in it?”
Hetty shook her head. “I was so hopeful I would be accepted this time. I should have known better. I read that article to everyone, and they didn’t like it much. I shouldn’t have sent it.”
“You really can’t be that upset about it.” Benjy flipped through the magazine. “This is just the first one you sent. Maybe the next one will do better.”
“Maybe?” Hetty sat up at hearing that. “You’re supposed to be more encouraging than that!”
“Is that a rule?” Benjy asked, still flipping through the pages, but the twitch of his lips betrayed that his word choice was on purpose.
“It is, or do I need to remind you of the story about the husband who lost the keys to his home?”
“I think I can guess the end. But I have another story for you.” From his pocket Benjy pulled out a pamphlet and held it for her to read.
“ ‘Authentic Statements Regarding Buried Treasure in the Delaware Valley,’ ” Hetty read aloud. “What is this?”
“Something from Rosie to make me forget about the books she borrowed from me. It was tucked in the box she brought. The Clarke Papers.”
“I heard about this.” Hetty nodded. “It’s all people could talk about lately. I thought someone had published a book with secret love letters.”
“And that didn’t interest you enough to find out what it was!” Benjy exclaimed.
Hetty shrugged. “I’m only interested in one love story. Everything else just pales in comparison.”
“In your humble opinion.” The gentle smile on his face undermined the rebuff in his words.
Hetty tapped the pamphlet. “Tell me the story behind this. I can tell it’s not about love letters, but it has to be something interesting for you to bring it to my attention.”
“It’s five printed pages of an extraordinary tale. You can read it later, but the main points are the following: A white man digs up sapphires and precious jewels in North Carolina and comes up here to bury it before joining the Lost Cause. The writer claims it’s real, told to them by someone who had been there that night. It’s only being printed now, since all parties are long dead. The writer has tried to find it over the years, but admits defeat and hopes others will have better luck finding the treasure.”
“It’s a good story.” Hetty nodded. “But I’m not sure I can believe in treasure buried somewhere outside the city. Wouldn’t someone have found it by now?”
“As far as I know they haven’t. It’s protected by something stronger than any magic.” Benjy turned the page.
Instead of words, numbers filled the page that made no more sense to her than ancient Greek. But still, Hetty smiled.
She understood his interest now. Ciphers, codes, and other puzzles always drew his curiosity. The treasure could very well be pieces of glass painted blue and he’d still be happy.
Unable to hide his excitement, Benjy continued, “According to the pamphlet, the location can only be found once the cipher is solved.”
“This looks like your area of expertise,” Hetty said to her husband. “How soon do you think you’ll solve it?”
“Me, solve a complex cipher that has gone unsolved for years, for a treasure that may or may not be real?” Benjy exclaimed. Then he shrugged, turning back to the pamphlet. “I just need a day or two.”
“Is that all?”
The doorbell rang above their heads.
They jumped up, Benjy quickly picking up and moving the sign, their mail, and anything that could be in the way.
“Don’t look too pleased,” Benjy whispered as he left the hallway. “It could be a client.”
Hetty stuck out her tongue at his retreating back. Then, smoothing her skirts, Hetty opened the door.
But the moment she did, she knew it wasn’t a customer.
A young woman stood on the doorstep. Her hair was neatly tucked into a bun, and golden tan skin was flush with a bit of pink from the walk in the summer heat. She was very short, with the grace of a dancer. In a light green pinstriped dress, she might have been mistaken for being much younger than she truly was, if it were not for her sorrowful brown eyes.
But this was no stranger. This was Evelyn Wong.
Last month, someone had pushed a laundry worker into a steaming vat of wash water. It was a common accident in such places, but the man had fallen in with a knife in his back. The death was clearly murder. But the police didn’t care, not even when more deaths started occurring, because the dead were all Chinese. Hetty and Benjy only heard of it by chance because one of Penelope’s cousins, Jobelle, ran a laundry business of her own. When an employee of hers died, she went to Hetty and Benjy, and their questions led them to a little restaurant where Evie, eager for excitement since moving here from California, was happy to assist them in finding answers.
But that was a story for another day.
Hetty was more interested in the story Evie had for them now.
Evie tucked the card in her hand into her pocket and bowed her head slightly in greeting. “I’m glad I had the right address. I thought I was lost, but then I saw the birds roosting on your roof. There are quite a few.”
“I make sure they’re welcomed. Come inside so we can talk.”
Hetty was about to call for Benjy, but he stood behind them already.
“Greetings,” Evie said to Benjy. “I’m pleased to see your broken arm has healed nicely since I last saw you. It’s not good to break bones so close together.”
Benjy absently rubbed his arm. “Luckily it was the same spot. What brings you here? Murder or death?”
“Neither, but there is a mystery for you to consider,” Evie said.
As this was a conversation better had when comfortably seated, they settled in the parlor.
“Something odd is going on on Race Street,” Evie began. “You know how my Uncle Bobby is experimenting with Sorcery?”
Hetty nodded. Evie had introduced them to several uncles, older men that weren’t necessarily related to her but were friends of Evie’s older brother. Of the group, the man they were told to call Uncle Bobby had been in Philadelphia the longest.
“He’s been purchasing things. Wands, spellbooks, and the like. The law doesn’t prevent the Chinese from practicing Sorcery, but given certain attitudes I can’t say it’s a good thing he is.”
“We sympathize,” Benjy said. “But we can’t do anything about that.”
“It’s not that he’s buying these things, it’s what he bought. I don’t have it with me, but he’s got in his possession a spellbook about Celestial magic.”
“No such thing exists,” Hetty said as Benjy added:
“Maybe you’re confusing it with an astronomy textbook. There’s been cases in which white scholars tried to use star charts to attempt our spellcraft.”
Evie shook her head. “I looked through it. They weren’t star maps. And there were instructions. How to form the sigil, what it will do, and the effects.”
“It’s fake,” Hetty said, stubbornly refusing to engage with the idea. “Someone made it all up.”
“A book is a book, and that can’t be faked.” Benjy leaned forward, his eyes locked on the span of wall before him. “But the ideas inside. They can be dangerous. That’s why you are here, isn’t it? The spells described in the book, they are mostly spells to harm others?”
“Every spell listed,” Evie said softly. “Every spell listed in the book leads to pain. Some of the body. Some of the soul. Uncle Bobby saw them and right away he started talking about how terrible Celestial magic was—and other things.”
Evie cleared her throat, her face growing a bit pink over the things she wouldn’t say outright.
“He didn’t call it Celestial magic, did he?” Hetty asked, noticing the hesitation that ran through the other woman.
“He called it something I won’t repeat. But it worries me, because Uncle Bobby never said such things before. Should I have brought it with me so you could see it for yourself?”
“No, it’s fine. You said enough. I believe this book exists,” Benjy said. “I have no doubts there will be a spellbook made of star sigils someday, but this is not the book. No one who knows a thing about our magic would make a spellbook like this, unless their aim isn’t to teach magic but to malign it.”
“Done on purpose?” Hetty asked. Then hearing the sound of her own words, she shook her head. “Of course done on purpose! Evie, where did your uncle purchase this?”
“Not at a shop. He gets his things from vendors who travel through. I don’t know more than that. Or even how long the book’s been around.”
“It can’t have been for long. I would have heard about it.” Benjy turned to Hetty, and there were concerns in his eyes that he wasn’t voicing, to keep from distressing Evie.
Going around town were rumors of a forthcoming magic ban. Philadelphia had a large Black population, which made the visibility of Celestial magic commonplace in the streets. It was not a coincidence that the expansion of voting rights brought on talk of magic bans. Voting, just like magic, held prestige. The latest bans talked about restricting public displays of magic, limited the sale of brewed magic, and required any magic lessons being taught in schools to have the approval of the city council. The proposed ban, even if enacted, wouldn’t change much. But such bans were never about the actual rule of law but about the symbols they evoked.
This spellbook passing itself as a source of Celestial magic was certainly related. Something false to stir up fears that the spells being worked in the street were dangerous. Even though star sigils, just like any sort of magic, could be used for any purpose.
“I’ll bring it to you next chance I get,” Evie said. “I can ask Uncle Bobby, or maybe take it when he’s not around.”
“It’s not that book alone that’s the problem.” Benjy shook his head. “It’s others like it.”
Evie’s face fell a bit, and Hetty hastened to add, “He means we were going to look for other books. That copy alone won’t be enough. But you described it very well. And we’ll certainly be able to find more thanks to you.”
“I’m always happy to help,” Evie said.
“This mystery-solving business is rather fun, even if it’s a bit dangerous at times. Come around the restaurant whenever you can. My brother has a few new recipes he’d like for you to try.”
“How can we say no to that!” Hetty replied.
Although Hetty saw the younger woman off in high spirits, when Hetty returned to the parlor Benjy was still staring at the wall rather pensively.
“How do we stop people from printing such books?” he lamented.
“The same way we do anything,” Hetty replied, “with stubbornness.”