Clem continued: “?‘Through my sister Iris, I have learned of the existence of a female enchanter who, more than thirty years ago now, made the only known attempt by a woman to enter the spirit realm. Her name is largely forgotten, but perhaps you have heard of her—Wister Amsel, of Keel House. She was, of course, incarcerated briefly, though eventually it was found that she had violated no laws in the attempt. Nevertheless, she never fully recovered her place in polite society afterward. She had been the last heir of the Croix family, which made its fortune in fur trading in the last century. Though her fortune is undiminished, she now keeps very different company, which I would beg you not to hold against her. Iris knows her well through what might be called women’s charity projects. She assures me that Miss Amsel, while eccentric, is morally unimpeachable. More to the point, she is extremely competent as an enchanter. Although she does not practice (not being permitted to, of course) and has allowed her name to vanish into obscurity, she is doubtlessly knowledgeable. Iris believes she could be persuaded to serve as a tutor, of sorts, as you prepare to venture into the spirit realm. And, vitally, she might share the location of the portal that she utilized.’?”
Rosetta gasped. “Of course! She will know a portal. What do you think, Clem?”
Clem smiled, clearly elated. “I think she is just what we need. Wister Amsel,” she said, as if practicing the unusual name. She glanced down at the letter. “Of Keel House. I am very keen to meet her.”
Clem: September 11, 1888
Dearest Mother,
We are victorious, thank the spirits. I am not found liable for fraud.
And, even better, the judge has seen fit (with some gentle provocation) to set me a test. If I “acquire” a thew by the end of the month, he will encourage Commonwealth to admit women. I recognize the time constraint, but you and I both know what he does not: we are running out of time regardless. Even better, a young man I met at Commonwealth, Walter Ainsley, has written, proposing an introduction to Wister Amsel, a woman enchanter who traveled to the realm decades ago. She will know a portal, Mother. If I can learn the location from her, we are halfway there.
Against all this triumph, there was one mishap. It’s possible that Cassandra meant “armor” in a more prosaic way. At the courthouse, I received another message, this time through pieces of paper folded into sharp points. They wrote across my arms.
Judge Richardson’s thew stopped them, so I don’t know what the intended message was. As the papers came near me, they uttered a litany of colorful insults, including “vile vermin” and “Spanish hag.” This enchanter has more vitriol than strategy, it seems.
Whoever he is, he will not stop me. We triumphed today and we will triumph again.
Your loving,
Clem
Sam: Wister Amsel
The majority of enchanters who fail to secure a thew fail because they cannot make progress through the realm. They are disoriented, they are overcome, and they never encounter a spirit, let alone find one that can be taken for a thew. Moreover, all powers of enchantment are nonexistent in the realm. Enchanters are mere men when they arrive.
—César Castellanos,Understanding the Realm of Thews
Wednesday, September 12, 1888
From the road, you would never suspect that Keel House is a settlement house, a refuge for poor and displaced women. The estate, which originally belonged to the eponymous Captain Keel, is both vast and well-kept. A low brick wall draped with ivy meanders in an asymmetrical path around the contours of the property. Oaks and beeches grow near the wall, casting a protective barrier of leafy shade. A pair of black iron gates leads to a circular drive of crushed white shell, and in the middle distance, a stand of birches leans gracefully out over a large lawn. Beyond it, the cliffs overlook the ocean.
When Iris Ainsley arrived with Clem and Rosetta, a few women in white aprons were visible in the kitchen garden beside the house, working on hands and knees in the dirt, and one of them straightened up, waving cheerfully with her trowel, as they approached. The main house, a brick monolith, had white trim and black shutters, all recently painted. A polished brass knocker shaped like a clamshell shone on the scarlet front door. Iris let the knocker fall three times.
A pleasantly round young woman opened the door. “Goodmorning, Iris,” she said. “Come right in; she’s expecting you.”
“Thank you, Gertie.”
Gertie glanced at Clem and Rosetta with friendly curiosity before disappearing along the corridor. I followed her quickly to explore the building. Only the entrance to the house maintained something of its original aspect, with two well-furnished sitting rooms. Beyond it, the ground-floor rooms had all been repurposed as workspaces: a laundry room, a sewing room, a weaving room, and a fourth equipped for carding and spinning wool. The kitchen looked onto a sizable back garden, now in September still loaded with sunflowers, pumpkins, and Concord grapes; a large, informal dining room adjoined it. On the upper floors, the rooms were shared bedrooms—two single beds in each. I could see women of all ages, some surely as young as fourteen and others with stooped shoulders and gray hair, working in every space: peeling potatoes in the kitchen, stitching hems in the sewing room, and beating rugs on a line outdoors. All told, there must have been thirty.
In one of the front sitting rooms, a solitary woman stood contemplating a bookshelf. She took one book down after another, amassing a pile on the upright piano beside her.
“Miss Amsel,” Iris said quietly.
She whirled around briskly. “Iris!” she exclaimed, a broad smile illuminating her face. She shook the younger woman’s hand warmly. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you.” She turned to the sisters. “May I introduce you to Clementine and Rosetta Quinn?”
Wister turned to Clementine and Rosetta, studying them with interest. “You must be Clementine,” she said, extending her hand to Clem without hesitation.
Wister’s face, weathered and tanned, held together aprominent nose and bright black eyes. She had a rugged bearing—stocky and upright, with assured and compact gestures. Her gray hair was cut short, and she wore a pair of thin, violet-tinted spectacles with gold rims. The hand she extended, also weathered, was strong and confident as it shook Clem’s. She wore a flax-colored tunic and white woolen pants over leather moccasins that looked hand-stitched. I had never seen a woman dressed in such a manner. But having misjudged Clementine twice based on her look of innocence, I now reserved judgment. Odd as I found these items of clothing, they seemed suited to her. Perhaps Wister had some need for them that I had not yet learned. Most strikingly, the black eyes that peered out from the creased face had a shifting balance of stillness and quickness that spoke of a lively intelligence. It was the face of a fox, sharp and stealthy.
“I am,” Clementine assented. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice.”
Wister’s eyes twinkled. “Of course. Your time is limited. Iris told me of your first week at Commonwealth,” she said, “but she didn’t mention that you already know more enchantment than most men do at graduation.”
Clementine was visibly surprised. “I think you overstate my knowledge,” she replied.
