“I’ve read the classical texts—Castellanos and Olivares, of course. They are not terribly descriptive. More philosophical.”
“Precisely. Very short on details. Have you ever wondered why?”
“It seems to me that they intend to be vague. Perhaps they wish to keep the process secret, just as they keep the portals a secret.”
“Exactly—I believe they wish to shroud the entire process in mystery. They may even intentionally mislead. The fact of the matter is, not a single published work can prepare you for the experience. I don’t wish to lay my failure at someone else’s door, but the remarkable distortion and misdirection of the literature was a significant obstacle. Everything I expected to be true was not true. I could not, in the moment, adequately compensate.” She frowned. “Perhaps if I’d counted on a tutor, a tutor who had been to the realm and could prepare me, I would have succeeded.”
Clem hesitated. “Forgive me for being blunt, but there is another consideration. What about the location of the portal? I understand that the Providence portal was lost some time ago,which means the only portal nearby is the Greater Boston portal. Do you know where it is?”
Wister waved a hand dismissively. “The portal will not be an obstacle.”
Clem looked at least partially satisfied; I suspected that if Wister had been willing to tell her the location at that moment, she would have given her thanks and then her good-byes with equal alacrity. For Clem, Wister Amsel was merely a means to an end.
But Wister did not know that, and to her this was no exchange of information. She sat back now, with an air of having come to a decision. “I can’t promise you will achieve your goal. But I can promise that I will teach you to avoid the mistakes I made.” She paused. “It’s all any teacher can offer. A shoulder to stand on, so that you can reach a higher ledge on the cliff face. I would be honored.”
“Thank you,” said Clem. “I’ll do everything in my power to make your time and efforts well spent.”
Wister acknowledged this with a brief bow of her head. Then she rose and walked over to the pile of books she had been assembling on the upright piano. “Time is short,” she said, lifting the small stack, “so I will only give you the essentials. Are any of these familiar?” She lifted the first book in her pile. “Memoir of Return,” she said, handing it to Clem, “andEspíritu atadoby Villaseñor, and finallyLead: A Workbook.”
“I’ve heard of the Villaseñor, but I haven’t read any of these.”
“Excellent. Read these for tomorrow, and we’ll begin at nine.”
Clem smiled. “I look forward to it.”
Sam: Criminal Enchantment
It is the same with thews themselves. A murdered woman cannot become a thew. What we do not know are the limits of culpability. Is a nurse who fails to administer the life-saving draught a murderer? What of the stable hand who carelessly fastens a saddle which results in a fatal fall? Or the cook who inadvertently passes her own illness on to others in the food she prepares?
—Eugenio Orrua Olivares,The Art of Securing a Thew
Thursday, September 13, 1888
The message on Clementine’s arms had left me no choice. More urgent action was needed. I thought I might, at last, send Maxwell to apprehend Simeon, but Commonwealth’s darling had been suspiciously studious. As with all qualities, studiousness is relative, and Simeon was incapable of sitting at a desk for hours at a time. But he did read through a paper that he’d paid his classmate to write for him, and then he spent almost forty minutes devising an illusion that would allow him to cheat on the philosophy exam, and then he journeyed to the library to plagiarize a page of text from an obscure journal. Although they were intended to obviate the need for actual studying, all these class-related tasks took time, and they kept him from engaging in other activities for which Maxwell might find cause to question him. I returned repeatedly to Commonwealth, thinking I would finally catch him, but he indulged only in his ordinary vices. I would have to find another way.
On Wednesday evening, Clem dove headlong into the books Wister had given her, emerging only briefly for dinner with Rosetta. She fell asleep after four in the morning with theVillaseñor volume for a pillow and woke at seven. Over breakfast, to Rosetta’s amusement, she kept reading.
At eight the doorbell rang. Rosetta moved to get up, but Clementine rose quickly from her seat. “I’ll get it, Rosie,” she said firmly. Clementine skittered down the steps and opened the door cautiously.
Constable Roy Maxwell stood on the sidewalk.
I considered him, attempting to see him as Clementine would, a stranger on her doorstep. He had an air of brooding melancholy about him. A great black coat, frankly quite unnecessary on this warm September morning, hung off his shoulders. He held himself very still, with an attitude that was neither imposing nor timid. Despite his youthful face, he had the bearing of a man who had abandoned childhood long ago and remembered none of the customs of that far-off place—whimsy, spontaneity, mischief. His face held an expression of practiced restraint, and his dark eyes regarded Clem with the same air of deliberate reserve. I was long accustomed to how his eyes bored into things, pensive and thoughtful, but it’s possible he seemed more menacing than observant. “Miss Quinn?” he asked politely, removing his hat.
“Yes?” Her voice betrayed nothing. She was still behind the door, perhaps imagining that she could shut it quickly should the need arise.
“I am Constable Maxwell, of the Salem City Marshal’s Office. I investigate criminal enchantment.”
Clem didn’t move the door. “I’m aware of the City Marshal’s Office.” Her indifference had grown a shade colder.
Maxwell examined her for the space of a second. “Very good,” he replied quietly. “I’m here to inquire about the events that occurred on Tuesday at the Salem courthouse. They werereported by Judge Richardson and confirmed by more than one official. And, as it happens, I myself was present. I’d like to investigate the alleged assault and, if possible, discover its author.”
“I see,” Clementine said. “The papers.”
“Precisely.”
“Who is it, Clem?” Rosetta called down to her, as she came down the steps.
“A constable investigating what happened at the courthouse,” Clem called back over her shoulder.
