I closed the book and set it back on the shelf, feeling a slight shock. A grimoire. A handbook of magic. I could feel Geilie's gaze boring into my back, and turned to meet a mixture of mischief and wary speculation. What would I do, now that I knew?
"So it isn't a rumor, then, is it?" I said, smiling. "You really are a witch." I wondered just how far it went, and whether she believed it herself, or whether these were merely the trappings of an elaborate make-believe that she used to alleviate the boredom of marriage to Arthur. I also wondered just what sort of magic she practiced—or thought she practiced.
"Oh, white," she said, grinning. "Definitely white magic."
I thought ruefully that Jamie must be right about my face—everyone seemed to be able to tell what I was thinking.
"Well, that's good," I said. "I'm really not much of a one for dancing round bonfires at midnight and riding brooms, let alone kissing the devil's arse."
Geilie tossed back her hair and laughed delightedly.
"Ye don't kiss anyone's much, that I can see," she said. "Nor do I. Though if I had a sweet fiery devil like yours in my bed, I'll not say I might not come to it in time."
"That reminds me—" I began, but she had already turned away, and was about her preparations, murmuring to herself.
Checking first to see that the door was securely locked behind us, Geilie crossed to the gabled window and rummaged in a chest built into the window seat. She pulled out a large, shallow pan and a tall white candle stuck in a pottery holder. A further foray produced a worn quilt, which she spread on the floor as protection against dust and splinters.
"What exactly is it you're planning to do, Geilie?" I asked, examining the preparations suspiciously. Off-hand, I couldn't see much sinister intent in a pan, a candle, and a quilt, but then I was a novice magician, to say the least.
"Summoning," she said, tugging the corners of the quilt around so that the sides lay straight with the boards of the floor.
"Summoning whom?" I asked. Or what.
She stood and brushed her hair back. Baby-fine and slippery, it was coming down from its fastenings. Muttering, she yanked the pins from her hair and let it fall down in a straight, shiny curtain, the color of heavy cream.
"Oh, ghosts, spirits, visions. Anything ye might have need of," she said. "It starts the same in any case, but the herbs and the words are different for each thing. What we want now is a vision—to see who it is who's ill-wished ye. Then we can turn the ill-wish back upon them."
"Er, well…" I really had no wish to be vindictive, but I was curious—both to see what summoning was like, and to know who had left me the ill-wish.
Setting the pan in the middle of the quilt, she poured water into it from a jug, explaining, "You can use any vessel big enough to make a good reflection, though the grimoire says to use a silver bassin. Even a pond or a puddle of water outside will do for some kinds of summoning, though it must be secluded. Ye need peace and quiet to do this."
She passed rapidly from window to window, drawing the heavy black curtains until virtually all the light in the room was extinguished. I could barely see Geilie's slender form flitting through the gloom, until she lit the candle. The wavering flame lit her face as she carried it back to the quilt, throwing wedge-shaped shadows under the bold nose and chiseled jaw.
She set the candle next to the pan of water, on the side away from me. She filled the pan very carefully, so full that the water bulged slightly above the rim, kept from spilling by its surface tension. Leaning over, I could see that the surface of the water provided an excellent reflection, far better than that obtainable in any of the Castle's looking glasses. As though mind reading again, Geilie explained that in addition to its use in summoning spirits, the reflecting pan was an excellent accessory for dressing the hair.
"Don't bump into it, or you'll get soaked," she advised, frowning in concentration as she lit the candle. Something about the practical tone of the remark, so prosaic in the midst of these supernatural preparations, reminded me of someone. Looking up at the slender, pallid figure, stooping elegantly over the tinderbox, I couldn't think at first of whom she reminded me. But of course. While no one could be less like that dowdy figure athwart the teapot in Reverend Wakefield's study, the tone of voice had been that of Mrs. Graham, exactly.
Perhaps it was an attitude they shared, a pragmatism that regarded the occult as merely a collection of phenomena like the weather. Something to be approached with cautious respect, of course—much as one would take care in using a sharp kitchen knife—but certainly nothing to avoid or fear.