The Witch in the Woods

  The Witch in the Woods

  a Mirrorside novella

  Jessica Lynch

  Contents

  I. Zeus

  II. Apollo

  III. Hekate

  IV. Cassandra

  V. Artemis

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Lynch

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  Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Lynch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Jessica Lynch

  For Lori.

  Maybe this will give you the nudge you need.

  The Other waits for you.

  Part I

  Zeus

  Harlem, 1954

  He doesn’t belong here.

  It’s the first thought that I have when I enter Mr. Howard’s office and find the silver-haired gentleman seated across from my boss. Tall and big, with shoulders so wide I don’t have have half a clue how he’s fitting in the tiny office chair, he takes up the entire space.

  The air crackles with tension. It reminds me of walking outside after a storm, following a lightning strike. The room is charged.

  I don’t want to go in.

  I’ve got no choice. Not if I want to keep my job.

  Howard’s Helpers is a small set-up, run in a ramshackle two rooms on the third floor of an aging building. The front room is where Betty answers the phones and, well, runs the business. Mr. Howard lords over the cramped back office. He only ever invites the girls in when he has really good news to share, or really bad news.

  From the hum in the air to the sweaty shine on Mr. Howard’s bald head, I can’t tell which one it is.

  Hell.

  They both turn to look at me as I step inside, my hands folded primly in front of me. I’ve got my apron on, my hair tied back. After this meeting, I have two more families to tend to before I can have a minute for myself.

  So long as I still have my job, that is.

  I gulp, then glance up to greet the two men. My gaze slides from the familiarity of Mr. Howard, going right back to the imposing stranger whose very presence has my nerves on edge.

  Who is he?

  The man is darker-skinned, but only when compared to the white Mr. Howard. Against my complexion, he’s a light brown at most. Deeply tanned. He’s not from around here, I can tell. Foreigner, maybe.

  I expect from the silver hair that he would be way older than he turns out to be. To my surprise, he’s barely older than my middle-aged boss, his rugged face handsome in his way. He smiles as soon as he sets eyes on me—

  Those eyes.

  I swallow my gasp when I notice what a strange color they are. They’re light, almost as light as his hair, a queer pale silver that shine out from his face. They flash and they gleam, almost like mirrors after I’m done with the polishing.

  Our gazes lock. My belly tightens and I immediately look toward the floor. Something about the gentleman has me twitching.

  And I don’t like it.

  “Mr. Howard, good morning. I received a message that you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, yes, Poppy. Please sit.”

  I stay standing. There’s only one empty chair and it’s right next to the stranger. His legs are so long that, even if I tuck myself inside the seat, I don’t think I can miss being touched by him.

  I won’t let that happen. I’ve already been on my feet for eight hours today, with many more hours to go. After all these years, all the jobs, I never notice the aches now.

  “I’m fine, sir. Actually, I’m running a bit behind. I have the Maxwells’ laundry and ironing to get done before six, and then a quick dusting over at the Davises. Betty said this wouldn’t take long.”

  Mr. Howard nods. “No, no. I know how full your schedule is. You’re one of my top girls. That’s why I’m so pleased to introduce you to a prospective new client.”

  It warms me a bit that Mr. Howard calls me one of his top girls. At least that means he’s probably not canning me today.

  That’s the good news.

  Bad news?

  The prospective new client hasn’t taken his eyes off of me since I’ve walked into this room. His head nods approvingly as his gaze bobs up and down, taking me in from the top of my wild curls barely tamed by an old handkerchief to the bottoms of the battered old shoes I rarely remove.

  It’s an appraising look. And it’s not my domestic skills he’s appraising.

  So that he’s aware that I see him doing it, I give him a small nod and a tight grin. “Afternoon, sir.”

  Man doesn’t have a lick of shame. He grins, one part lascivious, the other triumphant. Whatever he was looking for, I guess he found it in me.

  “I’m here to offer you a job.”

  That’s… odd. I’ve been with Howard’s Helpers for a handful of years now. Every family, every house that I’ve taken on has been assigned to me through Betty. If they’re satisfied with my work, I stay with them until Mr. Howard says otherwise. Then I get a new job from Betty.

  I’ve never had a gentleman come to me in this way. Sometimes one of the missus might give me a reference or suggest me to one of her friends, but even then they always go through Betty. It’s how Mr. Howard runs his business.

  Something’s not right.

  “Me, sir?”

  Not just any girl, I wonder, but me?

  Why?

  He nods, his silver eyes gleaming. “Yes. You’ve come highly recommended.”

  I can’t help myself. “By who?” I wonder.

  Mr. Howard’s shocked gasp fills the room. “Poppy!”

  I hunch my shoulders and not only because of Mr. Howard’s reprimand. I’ve always had a problem with speaking out of turn before I think better of it—I’ve lost a few houses this way—and I can sense from the way he’s all but licking the gentleman’s shoes that that outburst was a mistake.

  “My apologies, sir.”

  The stranger laughs. “Name’s Jupiter. And no need to apologize.”

  “Mr. Jupiter,” Mr. Howard begins, “I must say—”

  “You’ve done your part, Howard. You’ve brought the girl here. Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. It’s just that—”

  “I said thank you. You’ve done your part. I’ll tell you if I need you further.”

  By taking a deep breath, I just manage to hide my surprise at Mr. Jupiter’s dismissive tone. No one talks to Mr. Howard that way and gets away with it. I’ve seen him go nose to nose with some of the other gentlemen when they refuse to pay, or he feels like he’s protecting the reputation of his business.

  Whatever the reason behind his visit here—and I’m praying that it truly doesn’t have nothing to do with me—Mr. Jupiter has Mr. Howard right where he wants him.

  I dare a peek over at him. Mr. Howard’s lips thin as he presses them together. His eyes are all but bulging behind his spectacles as he rages in silence. I’m familiar with that look of his, like there’s plenty more he has on his mind, but his fear of this big man—and his obviously big wallet—keeps him quiet.

  I’m not the only one eyeing him, either.

  Mr. Jupiter spares a glance at my boss, a quick flicker across the desk, before dismissing him as easily. It’s like the other man is a bug waiting to be squashed. The buzzing is annoying, but tolerable, and while he won’t swat at him yet, he might if Mr. Howard pushes it.

  I know how he feels. There are plenty of times when, if I didn’t need this job so bad, I’d let Mr. Howard know just what I think of him.

  My teeth click together as I make sure my mouth stays closed. I’ve already tried him by speaking out of turn once during this meeting. Mr. Jupiter might be able to get away with it. I can’t risk it.

  Besides, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to withstand the client’s steely gaze and oozing arrogance if he turned them on me.

  “Poppy? Is that right?”

  “Poppy Miller.”

  “As I was saying, I’d like to take you on my staff. My wife and I recently moved into a three-floor brownstone on the Upper West Side,” he says, and I know then that my impression of his wealth and status was spot on, “and we’re in need of a live-in housekeeper to tend to the property.”

  I admit, he had me right up until he said he wanted a live-in maid.

  I turn to my boss, imploringly. “Mr. Howard, I don’t do live-in work. Maybe you want to ask Ellie or—”

  “No.” The sharp word is a rumble deep in Mr. Jupiter’s chest. He shifts his massive bulk easily in the uncomfortable chair, turning so that his strange eyes are locked on me. “It must be you.”

  Flinching at his tone, I tug anxiously on the edge of my apron and step back. “I… I don’t know.”

  The tiny quiver of uncertainty in my voice seems to get through to him.

  In an instant, he goes from imposing to charming. “I’m only thinking of you, dear. Your Mr. Howard tells me that you have no less than three houses that you keep currently. Between working triple shifts and all that traveling, I’m sure it’s taking quite the toll. Come work for me, Poppy. Free room and board, and I guarantee that you’ll feel like one of the family in no time.”

  He’s a persuasive fella, I’ll give him that. One appraising look and he already has me pinned. Less work?
Free home? The elusive promise of family?

  Maybe, once, I might have believed him. That naive little girl is long gone, though.

  A cynical city woman is left standing in Mr. Howard’s office. And she knows better now, even if it’s not always obvious.

  It’s true that I’m always working. I put in more than eighty hours a week, and not only because I have to if I want to keep a roof over my head. There are too many memories in the dank one-room apartment I call home.

  Everywhere I look, I see Sam. Can’t help it, either. He’s been gone close to four years now, longer than the time we were married by more than double. He left me, alone and struggling, without even a backward look.

  I wanted nothing more than to do the same. So I pawned my ring, took on more and more families to make up for my lack, and tried to move on.

  Since I’ve stayed in our old apartment and kept my job with Howard’s Helpers only a couple of blocks from my place, I know that I didn’t get too far.

  Question is: how does this gentleman know that?

  I shake my head, my curls bouncing with the emphatic sway. Before I lose my nerve, the apology slips past my lips. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jupiter, and I’m grateful for the opportunity, but I don’t think that I’ll be the right fit for your home.”

  And that’s when he tells me the wage he’s willing to pay.

  It takes two buses and close to an hour to make my way from Harlem into Manhattan. Everything I own is in the two second-hand suitcases I borrowed from Bea, the old dear who lives with her three children down the hall from me.

  Rather, lived. With the promise of at least a thirty day trial, I gave up my own place this morning.

  As a full-time domestic helper, I usually worked sixteen hours every day, rotating between three or four families at a time. Because I refused to serve as a live-in, I kept my own apartment, as small and meager as it is. Mr. Jupiter’s offer was just too good. If this job doesn’t pan out, I’ll be bunking with Bea’s youngest—if they’ll have me.

  Lord, I hope this pans out. The wage Mr. Jupiter offered me? After only a year on, I’d be set for the five that followed. I don’t know who recommended my services to the gentleman, but I’ll be eternally grateful so long as it’s real.

  I’ve learned long ago that when something seems too good to be true, that’s usually because it is.

  Mr. Jupiter referred to his home as a three-story brownstone. It is, I guess. What he forgot to mention is that his brownstone is like him: big and wide and awe-inspiring. It stretches more than half a city block, and rises higher than the other homes surrounding it.

  The beautifully sculpted garden in front seems out of place in the city, even if the Upper West Side is like a whole other world away from Harlem.

  Holy Jesus, he’s even got little winged statues in his garden, and slender sculptures flanking his gate. The sculptures are feminine, long ladies in simple dresses with beautiful if clearly tragic faces.

  I might not know much about art, but they’re exquisite.

  And I’m beginning to suspect that I’m in way over my head.

  To my surprise, the man of the house is the one who answers when I ring the bell. I wasn’t sure if, as the new maid, he wanted me to go around back. The building is so colossal, though, and I’m not that familiar with this part of New York, so I headed for the front door. After all, he’s the one who wanted to bring me onto his staff. I still have enough pride that I keep my head held high as I press the bell.

  Of course, I never expected Mr. Jupiter to answer the ring.

  He looms in the doorway, wide shoulders blocking me from entering as if he’s protecting his home. I immediately begin to make my excuses, but stop when he backs up.

  “Right on time, Poppy. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  That… doesn’t make much sense to my mind. If I’m right on time, why was he waiting? He knew what time I’d be here.

  He extends one of his big hands out, reaching for my luggage. He grabs one before I can react, and I tuck the other close. He’s treating me like a guest, instead of a domestic. It rattles me.

  He doesn’t notice. “Come in, dear. Come in.”

  Because I really don’t have any choice, I do.

  The parlor is big and empty. A chandelier draped with a cloth hangs high over my head and I’m already hoping the Jupiters have a ladder tall enough for me to reach. I’m not so petite myself, but the ceilings are vaulted.

  The floor below is glossy, shining in the sunlight streaming in through the large windows. Freshly waxed, I bet. I won’t have to worry about that for a while.

  Mr. Jupiter sets my suitcase on the floor. I do the same.

  “Stay here,” he says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  When he leaves me by myself, I figure he’s gone off in search of a butler or someone whose job it is to handle the domestic workers. I’m still amazed—and a bit suspicious—that the gentleman is doing it all on his own. First answering the door, then carrying my luggage inside. Then, when he returns a few minutes later, pushing a dining cart loaded up with a drug store’s worth of cleaning supplies, I’m even more alarmed.

  No. Something… something ain’t right.

  I can’t quite put my finger on what, though. Man’s friendly enough, I guess.

  Think of the money, Poppy. And think of the tiny swiss army knife in the handbag hanging off your wrist. If he gets fresh, I know how to take care of myself.

  It’s the one thing Sam taught me before he left.

  “This is for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We didn’t know what you would need to start taking care of the old place, so I went out and got some of everything.”

  It looks like he bought out the whole dang store. “I’m sure it’ll be more than fine,” I murmur.

  “It’s enough for the washing, the dusting, the airing out of the dusty old rooms. We’ve only just arrived ourselves, Mrs. Jupiter and me. For now, the house should be empty. I’ve hired other staff, but they won’t be joining you on the third floor until the rest of the house is furnished and cleaned. The third floor,” he adds, “is where the domestics will stay.”

  I look forward to seeing my room. If I’m being honest, the outlandish wage might’ve lured me to forget myself and take a live-in position with a new client. It was the offer of room and board—the idea of staying in a hustling, bustling house instead of my tiny apartment—that really enticed me to try.

  Mr. Jupiter explains that, apart from me, the only other domestic in house is the cook. Since the kitchen is her domain, that’s the one room I’m excused from tending to while he’s getting his house in order. Dinner would be promptly at seven, and I’m expected to join the family for the meal.

  That’s… different. I’ve talked to some of the other girls at Mr. Howard’s, and I’ve never heard of the maid taking her meals with the families. It was a sore point for Ellie at her last house since the missus insisted she fend for herself after hours.

  Ellie didn’t last long there. If I managed to pass this client off to her when I first wanted to, she would’ve thought she struck gold. Ellie is a whizz with ironing and can shine a window that’ll gleam even in New York City, but she does so love to eat.

  My stomach’s already in knots at the idea. I don’t refuse or let him think I’m already worried about sitting down to eat with his family. Instead, I nod, and wait for him to get to the point of what exactly he wants me to do for him.

  The longer it takes for him to start giving me my orders, the more I’m beginning to think this was a bad idea.

  Mr. Jupiter must be fond of the sound of his own voice. He keeps on talking, and I admit I might be tuning some of it out when he goes on to say something that catches my full attention.

  “Anyway, if you do happen to come across a beautiful woman before dinner tonight, it’s just my wife. She said she would be out all afternoon, but she tends to change her mind. She won’t interfere. She’s given her word.”

  I… I don’t like the way he says that. Why would the missus interfere? I’m here to do what the clients want. Is it interfering if his wife tells me how she wants her house cleaned?