Memories, Magic, and Mayhem

Enjoy a preview of my quirky Regency reimagining (with dragons)!

The Chapter with Hair Tonic

Mrs Cecilia’s Hair Tonic
Staves off Grey
Reverses Baldness
Enhances Curls
{Use as directed. Excessive application may cause headaches, fits of laughter, and baldness.}

A Hair Tonic Label ca. 1808

When Penelope Sedgewick set out that morning, she did not expect to spend thirteen hours sharing an attic stairwell with half a dozen spiders. However, as she was determined to report on the furtive movements of her client’s husband, she planted herself on the ninth stair (after dusting it, of course) to peep periodically through a hole in the adjoining wall.

Had she known that the middle-aged merchant would do nothing naughtier than add sugar to his cup before pouring the tea, she would have brought a book. Now and then, she paused to observe the gentleman as he switched between reading, dining on the tavernkeeper’s scrumptious pasties, and stoking the fire. How dull.

She had hoped to satisfy his wife’s suspicions—that his weekly disappearances were spent with a steady mistress or caught up in a string of torrid affairs. Alas, no. It would appear that this gentleman spent every Thursday reading and nothing more. Her client would be disappointed. Ladies with ample time and a lack of affection for their husbands do wish to feel slighted from time to time. (Or wish to justify their own trysts with the footman. Mum’s the word.)

Penelope would have been happy to oblige. She would have loved nothing more than to discover that he led a double life as a stage actor or that he spent his afternoons as an assassin; however, it was not to be. Her investigations rarely uncovered anything that could be labelled as indecent. Instead, they often culminated in the mundane—addictions to charms, the illicit trade of magical items, and gambling.

As the gentleman was evidently not meeting a mistress, Penelope wiggled her toes and stretched her legs with care, easing out the pinpricks and waiting until sensation returned to her left foot. What sort of sleuth would she be if she successfully snooped for half the day only to be discovered when she tumbled down a flight of stairs?

She rose, yet the tramping of feet in the hall brought her to a halt. Her heart did not resume a more sensible rhythm until the door to the room adjacent to her hiding place whined in protest as it swung open and collided with the wall beside her. Penelope lowered herself back onto the stairs to wait, brushing the cotton breeches and linen shirt she had adorned to disguise herself as a boy of fifteen.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting tea?” A gravelly voice roughened by decades of shouting down inebriated patrons slid through the paper-thin walls. The tavernkeeper’s wife, she suspected. A cursory glance through a wide crack in the boards confirmed as much.

Two days prior, Penelope had selected her hiding spot. The narrow stairwell crammed between the inn’s finest rooms had seemed ideal for spying on a disappointingly dull husband, and her hopes had been satisfied. However, the goings-on of the second room were none of her concern. She intended to turn away. And she would have, had not a familiar voice met her ears. “And two ports. None of that bathwater you serve the gents when they’re foxed, mind you.”

With care, Penelope slid closer to the crack in the wall. Through the slit, she spied her assistant, Walt, or as her mum had addressed her when she had stolen sweets as a child, Miss Verity Walters. In spite of her sensible ensemble—a pale blue cotton dress with a brown waist-length coat—Walt had the bearing of a Greek goddess who had hopped out of a painting to take an evening stroll: black coiled hair, a fine figure, and eyes that attempted, and often failed, to disguise a propensity for mischief that would impress a village-worth of wayward boys.

She plopped into the wingback chair near the fire, draping her legs over its arm. The scrunch of the hostess’ nose, visible even in the dim light of a fire, informed Penelope that she preferred Walt not to treat her furniture with such incivility. “I’ll have my daughter bring it up.”

Walt nodded her approval. “And if a young man asks for me, send him my way.” From her reticule, she withdrew a polished pipe, which she began to pack with tobacco. She lit it. Soon its sweet fragrance wove through the cracks in the board, replacing the odour of must.

For the benefit of her spider co-inhabitants, Penelope raised an eyebrow. Though it was none of her business, to say she was intrigued would have been putting it mildly. Who was her assistant meeting in a tavern miles from her rooms? But no, Walt was her friend (and perhaps her only true one at that). She would not violate her trust.

Hence she slid the attic stairwell’s door ajar a smidge, preparing to leave, only to draw it closed again when a couple distracted in an amorous embrace stumbled into the hall. Her second escape attempt was thwarted by the delivery of a tray to Walt. The third was halted by a patron collapsing against the entrance to her hideout. His ear-splitting snores nearly drove her to withdraw her pistol. However, as she had not shot at anyone in nearly three months, her weapon remained in her pocket.

A half-hour later, after the man had moved on, she rose once more. She adjusted her cap, ensuring it still hid her raven bun. Then she rumpled her clothes a bit so she would not appear too tidy, and reached for the door. However, Fate, it would appear, had a wicked sense of humour. At that precise moment, two sets of footsteps echoed in the stairwell that led to the tap room below.

“You’ll find her behind the third door on the left.”

Two slightly inappropriate terms and one word that would scandalize even a rake were mumbled under our heroine’s breath. She had been quite determined not to spy on her friend. Really, she had. Which is why she would only glance very, very briefly through the slit at the young man, not much older than a boy, entering the—

The door to the attic stairwell swung open. There, lit by the lamp she held, stood the tavernkeeper’s wife. At the sight of Penelope disguised as a boy peering through a crack in the wall into a room inhabited by a lady, her expression passed from surprised to outraged. Rather than bellow, she spoke in the sort of whisper-shout usually reserved for mamas scolding their children during Sunday services. “What are you doin’ here?!”

An amateur would have mumbled a pitiful reply; however, our heroine was no amateur. Instead, she padded noiselessly down the stairs, slid near to the woman, inhaling a mixture of smoke, yeast, and sweat, and whispered conspiratorially, “Who is that woman?”

Used to the antics of drunks and cheats, she levelled Penelope with a stare. “And what’s that to you?”

Penelope leaned closer before answering in a clipped accent she had perfected after a fortnight inhabiting an impoverished rookery in South London. “That young man’s the son of a peer of the realm.” She winked and tapped the side of her nose before continuing, “Who I’ve been paid to keep an eye on.”

Not quite convinced, the tavernkeeper’s wife lifted the lamp to her face. Most sleuths would have been concerned about discovery given how the woman’s sharp eyes surveyed every pore and stray hair. However, as Penelope resembled a pixie, with her heart-shaped face and petite stature, she was not concerned, not in the least. This was one disguise she had mastered without the aid of magic.

A spindly hand shot out from the woman’s apron, seizing Penelope’s arm like a vice and yanking her into the dimly lit hall. “You know what I think? I think you’re one of those lads who look through keyholes and windows hoping to catch an eyeful of something they oughtn’t’ve.”

Droplets of spittle landed on Penelope’s face. It took every ounce of her self-control not to wipe it away with the lace handkerchief stuffed in her pocket. “Honest, ma’am. I’ve been paid to keep an eye on him.”

“’Course you have.”

As subterfuge had failed her, Penelope elected to resort to a time-honoured tactic practised by sleuths and grandmothers: bribery. “Of course, if you were to . . .” Her eyes shot left then right, feigning to search for eavesdroppers. As the hall was uncluttered, swept, and polished, without a place for a speck of dust let alone a person to hide, she inched closer still. “. . . look the other way . . .” Her free hand withdrew a two-bob bit from her pocket. “. . . I could be on my way.”

Not one to turn down ready money, the tavernkeeper’s wife snatched the coin from her hand. Her chin jutted towards the stairs that led to the tavern. “Mary Jones. That’s her name.”

It was not, of course. Interesting. So while the woman would look the other way, she would not betray a regular patron. At least not for a couple of bob.

Once Penelope was free of her talons, she did not bow. Instead, she scurried away as a proper wayward lad might. Halfway down the hall, her escape was interrupted by the creak of a door swinging open behind her.

Walt strolled into the hall, pipe bobbing on her lip. “See that he’s fed a hearty breakfast. He’ll be on his way tomorrow morning.”

While the women exchanged a few words and coins, Penelope slid towards the stairs at the end of the hall, hoping to avoid discovery. Waves of boisterous laughter mixed with chatter rose to greet her as she stepped onto the first stair.

She passed the fifth step when a PSST! at her elbow nearly caused her to tumble downwards. How Walt had slid noiselessly down the hall and materialised at her side confounded her. Even in the amber haze of the enclosed passage, her assistant’s eyes beamed with delight. Inwardly, Penelope groaned; she would not live this bungle down for quite some time—if ever.

As the women fell in step with one another, Walt nudged her. “Whatchoo doing here?”

“Investigating a scandalous affair.”

The embrace of the tavern greeted them. Men huddled in groups about the fieldstone fireplace, or at worn but tidy tables, cradling their drinks. Their camaraderie, evident in their relaxed expressions, tempted Penelope to pull up a stool and spin a yarn or two. However, as she did not want her aunt to suspect she had not spent the evening tucked into her bed reading, she decided to hurry home.

A handful of patrons nodded a greeting to Walt, who nodded back. “So did you follow the couple here?” she asked.

“No. There is no couple.” Penelope side-stepped a gentleman whose face glowed the shade of a tomato as he gestured wildly, sloshing his drink. “Just a gentleman who loves to read in silence, away from his wife’s chatter, and harbours a taste for scrumptious pies.”

“Well, they are delectable.”

Just as the pair passed beneath a carved candelabrum suspended in the middle of the room, Walt spun around, narrowly dodging her employer, to cut a hasty path in the opposite direction.

As she was in disguise, Penelope thought it wise to continue towards the front door while surveying the room. A whistle danced on her lips. One face after another appeared either too drowsy or too content to pay her much mind, let alone elicit trepidation.

That was until her gaze landed on a knot of men near the door. At the centre stood a weedy man with hair sprouting every which way, his eyes trained in Walt’s direction. A look of rage contorted his already displeasing features so much so that he resembled a rabid dog with mange.

“YOU!!!!” he bellowed. In unison, a dozen heads snapped in his direction.

Without turning round, Penelope heard Walt’s boots thump across the wooden floor towards the rear exit. A knowing look was exchanged among the men. Four drinks thudded on the pine tabletop, their contents sloshing over the rim before the men toppled the table as they rounded it to give chase.

{Narrator’s Note: A libellous rumour has spread that Walt fled because she was no match for four men. Such a falsehood cannot persist. She was more than equal to the task. In fact, she would have enjoyed a brawl; however, her personal code of honour prevented her from kicking arse when she had been in the wrong. Thank you very much.}

They might have caught up with her, had not Penelope’s extended foot snagged an oak-sized man and sent him careening into his friends. Like tenpins, the pack toppled over one another. Wood splintered. Cups became airborne. Men shouted. And our sleuth? Well, dear reader, she slipped through the front door without a hair out of place.

Two turns and a shortcut through the stable yard put her on a collision course with her assistant. With more dexterity than one would expect from a lady sporting a high-waisted gown, Walt sprinted around the corner.

“Whatever was all of that about?” Penelope began to jog alongside her, away from the shouts ringing through the empty lanes. Brick homes dotted the path, their fruit trees casting shadows across the packed earth. The moon danced overhead as wispy clouds threatened to ruin the streak of fine weather they had been enjoying.

Making a sharp left, Walt steered them towards the heart of Alderwood. “I might’ve sold the skinny one a bottle of what I advertised as acne eraser.” They ducked beneath a low-hanging tree draped across a narrow passage between two gardens. Mint bordered the path, its sweet perfume tempting passersby to pluck a sprig or two.

Penelope strained her ears, willing them to perceive the footfall of their pursuers. Nothing, except the rustle of leaves. They paused in the shadow cast by a dilapidated barn. “And was it?”

“Nah.” Walt’s eye darted up and down the lane. Her employer noted the mischievous thrill in her voice. “It was a hair-growth tincture mixed with sugar water.”

Penelope ought not to have grinned; to do so would encourage her friend’s habit of sowing mayhem. However, a wry smile might have peeked out momentarily. “Send an errand boy to his house with a couple of shillings and an apology. Then, I shall disguise myself as a wanton flirt. When I appear at the tavern and compliment his facial hair—”

Walt chuckled. “It’s not just on the face.”

The ladies shared a grin, though it did not linger. A shift of the wind scattered a darkness across the lane; not the sort that cast shadows, but a pall that gripped hearts. Instinctively, the pair drew their coats tight across their chests.

Bathed in pitch, a knowing swept over Penelope. It set her nerves ablaze, urging her to flee. She touched Walt’s elbow, gently, so as not to startle her. Since her assistant had keen senses of her own, she understood.

Noiselessly, they slid around the side of the barn, still clothed in darkness. The lane was empty, yet they eased behind a handcart to observe.

It was not the clatter that rose over rooftops nor the stirring of a mare across the way that demanded her attention. No, as Penelope crouched, swathed in inky shadow void of starlight, it was a building that awoke her gift. Looming above a sea of overgrown grass stood a brick building, long and broad. A bird dived through the gaping hole in its sparse, blackened roof. Despite its age, not a vine or a shrub climbed its walls. Even the grass dared not approach it, and gave it a wide berth.

Penelope knew this building, of course. There was not a shack nor lane she had not explored, mapped, and catalogued in the whole of Alderwood, as well as the surrounding county. However, she knew this building instinctually. Her ability to sense magic told her that this place, this unremarkable derelict building, had known power. To her sniffer senses, it reeked of rancid oil and rotting vegetation.

In all of her nearly twenty-eight years, she had never encountered a place like it. The remnant of whatever tale it held within its brick walls fanned out like smoke, choking her senses.

Until that moment, she had avoided this lane at all costs, rushing past it when necessity demanded. Yet tonight, as Walt’s eyes roved up and down the lane, a foreboding leeched into her bones.

They waited. Penelope’s hands curled into fists as she fought the urge to flee. The reverberation of distant cries, separated from them by time, not space, vibrated in her chest. Had not Walt jerked her head in the direction of a field and darted into it, Penelope might have screamed. She had never, not once, felt such a heavy premonition.

As she followed Walt’s lead, each step carried her away from that place, loosening its vicelike grip on her senses. At twenty yards, the fragrance of the wet earth greeted her. At thirty, the breeze whisked away the lingering tension. And at forty, she wondered at her weakness, that a place should stir such terror in a rational woman. Ridiculous. Best to shove such intrusive ponderings behind the lists of nautical terms she had memorised on a lark.

“All’s clear, I’d wager.” Walt stretched her arms skyward and yawned.

Penelope ran an outstretched hand over the waist-high grasses. “Indeed.”

The pair meandered for some time. Though conversation was scant, they were not the sort of ladies who needed to while the evening away with prattle. If either spoke, they spoke with intention (to inform or poke fun), not to fill the silence. When they arrived at a crossroads, where one lane led to town and the other towards Penelope’s estate, they paused.

“I think I’ve made enough mischief for one evening.” Walt lit her pipe. “Best be off.”

“Truth be told, I think you have made enough mischief for ten lifetimes.” The corner of Penelope’s mouth lifted. “And I suspect you have not the least inclination to give up the practice.”

Her assistant cocked an eyebrow. “Look who’s talking, Miss I-dress-as-a-boy-to-spy-on-gentlemen-and-my-assistant. Hmmm!”

With that, she pivoted and strode towards town, carried onward by the sound of Penelope’s laughter.