The Witch in the Woods Read online

  Rather than argue and risk upsetting him on my first day, I respond with a simple, “Yes, sir.”

  He glances behind him, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. When he turns back, he wears a dazzling smile that nearly blinds me. “I think that’s all for now. Any questions for me?”

  Hundreds. I’m a curious woman by nature, and this job is so unlike any of the others I’ve had before. I still want to know who recommended my services and why it’s so important that I stay here. Though, now that I’ve seen the Jupiters’ home, I definitely understand their need for a live-in. This place could house four families comfortably and still have room for kin.

  He’s waiting expectantly for me to say something. And I realize that I have a very pressing question.

  “Is it just you and Mrs. Jupiter? Any children?”

  I’ve learned to ask. As one of Mr. Howard’s helpers, my role doesn’t always end with doing the washing up. A maid can quickly become a nanny when there are children in the house.

  Mr. Jupiter blinks slowly. For a second, he looks taken aback by my question, then sad, before he shakes his head.

  “I have many children,” he says in a strangely accented voice. A hint of the foreigner slips out with his admission. “They’re all gone now.”

  I nod. I know what he means. All my family is gone, too. Mama, my daddy… I even had a brother once. Hector. He’s been gone a long while, even longer than the others. I’m all that’s left now.

  Mr. Jupiter’s serious expression doesn’t last. Suddenly, his crazy eyes seem to sparkle as he grins again. “You should meet my son.”

  His son?

  Oh. I guess, when he said gone, he didn’t mean what I thought he meant.

  And then I realize what it is he just suggested. Oh, Lordy. He’s not matchmaking, is he? There’s no possible way. I’m the maid. He’s the master of the house. If he wants me for his boy, it’s not for any decent reason.

  I knew something was off. Dang it.

  I’ve been doing this kind of work since I was twelve. My mama cleaned houses from sun-up to sundown and she hadn’t cut me loose from her apron strings long before I was working alongside her. She did her best to protect me from the worst of the husbands. I was still a child the first time one of the gentlemen suggested I take his wife’s place for the afternoon.

  My hand rests on the clasp of my handbag. I’ve been propositioned more times than I could count. It’s lost me a job a time or two. I didn’t care then. Don’t care now. I’d be sorry to lose the wage Mr. Jupiter offered to pay me, but I only agreed to come here for work.

  In all my years, I’ve never once been the one for sale. I sure don’t plan on starting now.

  There’s no way he knows I have a blade in my bag for protection. My pleasant I don’t mean it, not one bit smile is still plastered to my face as I prepare to make my excuses and make my escape. And, still, he understands that he said something to upset me.

  “Just an idea, my dear. Boy’s our favorite, and you’re a lovely young woman. I meant nothing by it.”

  Yeah. Sure you didn’t.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Jupiter. I’m here to do my job. I’d thank you to remember that.”

  For a heartbeat, I think I might’ve pushed it too far. Once again, my mouth ran ahead of my mind, not that I blame it. I know the actions of some of the clients is to be expected—no matter how much we might hate it—but even Mr. Howard would agree that I need to stick up for myself.

  When Mr. Jupiter’s expression softens, a slight twinkle finding its way to his strange eyes, I decide that he understands.

  “Of course, Poppy. Now, for your job. I’d like you to start on the first floor: the parlor, the library, the ballroom. Don’t worry about the chandelier, we’re not ready to take the cloth down yet. When all that’s done, I’ll have you move on to the top floor and work your way back down. Eventually, the whole house can be done in a rotation. Sound fair?”

  I don’t trust myself to speak again, so I nod.

  In my head, I’m already halfway out the door and heading back to Harlem. I really thought that Mr. Jupiter was going to dismiss me. It’s nice to hear that, should I stay, at least I don’t have to worry about that huge chandelier quite yet.

  “There are four rooms on the top floor that my wife and I have set aside for the staff.” Mr. Jupiter reaches into his pants pocket, pulling out a brass key. He holds it out to me. He definitely thinks I’m not going anywhere. “This key is for the first room on the left. It’s your room, the one you’ll be staying in while you’re here. Go on, put your luggage away, get situated, and, if you’re ready to start, please do so on the first floor. It needs the most help.”

  I reach out to take the key. His hand brushes against mine. A sharp spark stings me where we touched. I yank my hand back. Mr. Jupiter clears his throat and moves away from the cart.

  He felt the buzz, too. I know he did.

  Neither one of us acknowledge it.

  “Oh. Poppy, dear? One last thing. We have a ballroom on this floor that we need for later this week. It’s not quite ready for guests yet, and I’d like it if you could tend to the the tables and the silverware once you’ve finished with the rest of the first floor. No rush, the party isn’t for a couple of more days.

  “Except, when you do get to the ballroom, you’ll see there’s a large standing mirror in the back of the room.” He hesitates, as if he wants to say something about the mirror, then decides against it. Instead, he just finishes with, “Please be careful around it. It’s very special to me.”

  Now that he’s giving me actual instructions, I feel a bit better about the whole situation. “I will, sir. Thank you.”

  He directs me toward the elevator since there’s no way for me to drag the full cart up two flights of stairs. My heart’s in my throat as he helps me fit the cart in the lift.

  If he tried to follow me in, I might’ve lost it. He doesn’t, though. After telling me that I should come to the kitchen and wait for further instruction when I’m done with the ballroom, he heads down the hallway just as the elevator doors close.

  The room he’s given me is gorgeous. It could fit three of my apartments in it easy, and still have room left for another dresser. The featherbed looks like a priceless antique, the thick quilt draped across it just as expensive. I have a crazy desire to climb in the bed and snuggle.

  I don’t. I remind myself that I’m here to do my job. So I take my two battered suitcases off of the cart, settle them on the side of the beautiful bed, and promise that, when I’ve been dismissed for the night, I’ll find out how soft the mattress is.

  Dragging the cart behind me—silently cursing myself for not leaving it on the first floor to begin with—I take the elevator down again. There’s no sign of Mr. Jupiter or his wife as I wheel the cart across the empty parlor. The wheels squeak against the glossy floor, the soft squeal echoing in the vast room.

  Because the parlor is hardly furnished, the chandelier is covered, and the floor is already done, I turn my attention to the first of the closed doorways. I find a sparsely furnished bathroom and make quick work of it. A bare closet is next. No surprise. With the Jupiters still moving in, they haven’t had a chance to fill up the house yet.

  The third door leads to the library he mentioned. One glimpse in this room—the first one I’ve come across that’s full—and I think I might understand Mr. Jupiter’s generous wage. If the rest of the house looks like this, I’ll be busy around the clock.

  Rolling my sleeves up my arms, I take a few seconds to tie my curls back with a handkerchief before grabbing the feather duster and getting to work.

  I’m on the second full wall, furiously dusting the hundreds and hundreds of books on the vast library’s shelves when I hear gentle footsteps coming from behind me.

  A sniff, and then—

  “So. You’re the maid.”

  In one of my old homes, the one where I did the washing up for the Wilkinsons, the missus loved to pretend tha
t I wasn’t there. It was a sign of a good maid, she believed, one who did the work without leaving any trace of herself behind. If she entered a room I was in, I didn’t even merit a smile or a ‘hello’. I was as much a piece of furniture as her chaise.

  The look Mrs. Jupiter gives me? It’s even worse than Mrs. Wilkinson’s disdain.

  I thought it was strange how Mr. Jupiter made a point to tell me his wife was beautiful. He wasn’t selling her short. Coming face to face with her, even with an icy anger twisting her features, the woman is gorgeous.

  And kind of young. She’s probably only a few years older than my twenty-eight. Certainly not what I expected of Mr. Jupiter’s wife.

  Though I should have, I guess. He’s not the first husband I’ve seen trade in for a newer model, like she was a Cadillac instead of a bride.

  “My husband brought you here.”

  I lift up my duster, holding it in front of me like a shield. “To do the dusting and the cleaning,” I agree. “He hired me for domestic work just last week and said I should start today.” When she continues to stare, I find myself adding, “He gave me a room.”

  “I see.” With a graceful walk that makes it appear like she’s gliding across the library, she approaches me. Her continued stare is off-putting, and quite a bit ominous. “You’re a pretty thing.”

  My shoulders tighten at her comment. I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered, so I settle on a non-committal, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  In my experience, when the husbands proposition the maid, it’s not the husbands that the wives get mad at. She might be young and she might beautiful, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t afraid someone might want to take her place.

  She’s wearing a lovely yellow dress that pairs perfectly with her chestnut hair. The skirt fans out gently as she waltzes around me.

  I gulp.

  “Did he mention any of his children to you?”

  That’s… that’s an odd question. I definitely wasn’t expecting it. Since I don’t think she plans on leaving me be until she says what’s she’s meaning to say, I decide to answer her. What harm can it do?

  “Yes. Your son. He says he’s your favorite.”

  Her face gets a pinched look. “His favorite, I’m sure. That boy is no son of mine.”

  I cringe at her response, and only hope she doesn’t notice.

  Good Lord. I’d like to think that this woman is cold-hearted enough to disown her own child, but I know better. The same thing happened with one of the first families I cooked for, back when I was still a girl working with my mama and I things were a lot simpler. Mrs. Clemens came home with a baby that was the spitting image of her husband, though she’d never been expecting. Their nanny gossiped with Mama how Mr. Clemens was a tomcat and this was just one of his kittens with some other stray.

  I remember thinking that the Clemenses were getting a pet and being disappointed when the fluffy kitten I’d been looking forward to seeing never appeared. Years later, I realized that the kitten was the baby and Mr. Clemens had a bad habit of not being able to keep it in his pants.

  One look at the set of her jaw and the ice in her gaze and I understand.

  Mr. Jupiter is just as bad as Mr. Clemens ever was. Mrs. Jupiter is fresh-faced. Young. If his boy is old enough that Mr. Jupiter thought of me, then I doubt he was married to this woman when the child was born.

  But I know the look of a scorned woman, a woman whose man can’t be faithful. I have a feeling that the missus is desperately in love with her husband, and Mr. Jupiter would go for anything in a skirt.

  Like my Sam did.

  I know the look of a scorned woman because I see one every damn time I peek in the mirror.

  He left, he said, because I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I gave him my heart, my loyalty, a roof over his head, clothes on his back, money in his pocket, and a shoulder for him to rest on.

  It wasn’t enough.

  I wasn’t enough.

  My heart breaks for this woman I don’t know. She might look at me like what happened to her is all my fault, but I get it. It’s just what I did, too.

  I lower the feather duster, tuck a stray curl behind my ear. “I’m just here as the help, ma’am. That’s all. If you don’t mind, I’ve about finished up with the library. There’s plenty more for me to do before dinner. I should get to it.”

  She purses her lips. I might have been a little forward, asking for permission to go instead of waiting for her to dismiss me. I can’t help it. I still can’t shake the feeling that something ain’t right in this house.

  With Mr. Jupiter, little warning bells were going off. Mrs. Jupiter? They’re ringing in my ears.

  And then she sniffs. “My husband wants you to end up in the ballroom. I know that. I’m sure you do, too. Let’s not waste anymore time, shall we? Just… go there now.”

  I don’t like the way she said that. Maybe I’m a little sensitive, but it seems like I’m being set up for something. Because Mr. Jupiter? He did mention the ballroom to me, stressing it like it was important to him.

  Reminding myself that I’m not a prisoner, that I can leave whenever I want and the only thing I would lose is some of my own time and a whole lot of money, I nod and load up my cart.

  I keep expecting something to happen.

  The ballroom is massive, like the rest of the house. At least twenty bare tables stand scattered throughout the room. A stack of freshly laundered linens is waiting for me when I wheel the cart inside. There’s cream-colored tablecloths and matching cloth napkins, plus silverware and glasses for at least a hundred guests if not more.

  The silverware is polished. The drinking glasses sparkle. I’m not sure what I’m expected to do in here since the ballroom has already been immaculately cleaned. There’s no sign of either Mr. Jupiter or his wife, so I have no one to ask. With a shrug, I figure they just want the room ready for when they have guests.

  Six chairs encircle each table. Taking my cue from that, I lay out a tablecloth and then set six places on every tabletop. It takes me more than two hours, and I spend most of that time waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Nothing happens. Nothing at all.

  Once I’m done with the tables, I turn my attention to the one fixture that’s out of place in the entire ballroom. Covered in an opaque sheet and tucked in the back corner, it’s loomed on the edge of my vision while I set the tables.

  I’m curious. Picking up the edge of the sheet, I lift my arm so that I can see what’s underneath.

  When it’s my hazy reflection glaring back at me, I realize this is the mirror I was warned about.

  Just like Mr. Jupiter said, it’s a standing mirror. Maybe five foot high, since I’ve got a couple of inches on it, and about half as wide. It’s the largest mirror I’ve ever seen, and considering how vain some of the other wives are, that’s saying something. Its frame is tarnished bronze, dark and detailed, and old. Very, very old.

  It’s priceless, or even more expensive. I’m almost afraid to breath too closely to it. No wonder he warned me to be careful around it. An antique like this probably belongs in a museum.

  And, as the maid, I’m expected to clean it. I have to, too. Even hidden, a mirror this fine needs to be crystal clear. The haze is a shame that I can’t leave in good conscience.

  I go back to the entrance and retrieve my cart. Wheeling around the freshly made tables, I park it in front of the mirror. As carefully as possible, I wind up the sheet protecting the mirror and stow it on the bottom of the cart until I need it again. Then, with an experienced gaze, I look over the supplies.

  I know immediately which one to use.

  My hand reaches for the familiar can. I’ve always sworn by the blue mist Windex. As if he somehow knew, Mr. Jupiter stocked up his cart with no less than six cans. This much Windex? I wouldn’t need to get more for at least a year.

  Popping the top, I give the can a shake as I move closer to the mirror.

  Be careful, Mr. Jupiter said.
All right.

  I hear the door open behind me. I refuse to turn around. I have nothing to say to Mr. Jupiter, and I’d rather not have another run-in with the missus if I can avoid it.

  Spraying the glass liberally with the Windex, I lean in, wielding my rag like I’m ready to go off to battle. Suddenly, cleaning the Jupiters’ antique mirror is the most important task I have, especially if it means that my focus on the job gives me a reason to ignore my new employers.

  There’s definitely a smudge. Something sticky on the glass. Wiping at it only smears whatever it is. Peering closely, I use the tip of my fingernail to scratch at it.

  Except it doesn’t work.

  Why?

  Because my dang finger somehow dips inside of the glass.

  I don’t understand it. I can’t explain it. But when I try again? There’s the smallest amount of resistance, then, with a sucking sound, the mirror swallows my pointer finger all the way up to my knuckle.

  What the—

  I’m so shocked by what just happened, I don’t notice it when another person fills the mirror’s frame. I’m cradling my hand, staring at the glass, trying to make sense of glass that’s not glass when you touch it.

  The nudge?

  It barely registers.

  The shove, though?

  That I feel.

  Part II

  Apollo

  “Easy, love. Easy. I’ve got you.”

  I want to push back. I’m not the kind of woman who will let anybody manhandle her like this, especially when I have no idea what is going on.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have closed my eyes as I fell. It was an instinctive reaction. There was no time for me to throw my hands up in the air to protect my face before it smashed into the glass. I closed my eyes, though, and I kept them closed even after I landed hard against—

  Someone?

  I don’t know how. It doesn’t make much sense. But I slammed into something warm, something hard, and immediately was grabbed.