Weddings and War

1 – Tuesday, December 4, 1888

I’m wrapped up in yards of silk like a spider’s meal, just waiting to have my soul sucked out of me. The current hazard to life and freedom exceeds any demon I’ve fought. Just a few days ago, I was shoeless, up to my knees in water and clay, and about to be executed. After being given an unexpected reprieve, what prompted me to agree to such a dangerous course? It is my belief that the most treacherous role ever invented is that of bride, especially one for whom the proposal progresses to marriage in less than a month.

“Stop squirming, Stella,” Paula Simpson, my seamstress, says around some pins in her mouth. “I need your cooperation if I’m going to finish this on time.”

“You aren’t the one who has been trussed up for roasting,” I say, tugging at the neckline of my wedding dress to be. “And I’m sure you could have found something scratchier to make this blessed thing out of—maybe burlap or nettles,” I grouch as I scratch at my side that was scarred in adolescence by a demon. I’m not normally so sour. My mother, bless her black heart, taught me to be kind to those around me even when I’m unhappy. Normally, I am—or I’m at least cordial. But my intendeds—yes, plural—are pushing our wedding along like a flood down a canyon. I have no more say in anything than a bit of flotsam tumbling over and over.

“I told you that after I stitch it up and pull out the pins, it will feel smooth,” Paula insists. “Now hold STILL!” she barks.

“That is stunning, Stella.”

“Yes, ma’am, it are beautiful.”

This coming from the two people I feel are least likely to ever become married—Karie Taylor, Boston’s most notorious lady of ill repute, and Mikey Byrne, my right-hand girl, who’s so young she hasn’t reached beyond the tomboy stage.

I’ve saddled them with the unenviable task of being my maid of honor and bridesmaid, respectively. So, they have to pretty much go with me everywhere and pretty much do everything I do. They are getting fitted for their dresses next. Then I can poke fun at them. Especially Mikey, who I don’t think has ever worn a dress in her life.

“Sure it is,” I grump. “Who ever dreamed up this torture?”

“Miss Stella, you really are purdy. You will make a wonderful bride,” Mikey says in her street accent.

“Are you sure that train is long enough?” Mother says as she circles me like a vulture, pointing out things that need to be changed. Paula’s hand clenches tighter on the fabric. I’m not sure if she is more aggravated at my squirming or Mother’s kvetching.

“Trust me, Mother. It’s fine,” I add, with the strong desire to not spend any more time as a dressmaker’s dummy than I have already.

Senior Mistress Witch Josephine Romero continues. “Daughter, you are marrying into the aristocracy. You can’t just go in your shift.” With derision, she obliquely refers to my wedding to my long-deceased first husband—Aaron. She has never forgiven me for my union to a teamster. Come to think of it, I’m not sure she has ever used his name. I doubt she even considered my first marriage legitimate. “You must project the proper decorum for such a union.”

Scorn tinges my reply. “You want me painted and decorated like a new coach?”

“You are finally getting it,” she exclaims. Mother is often oblivious to my sarcasm. My bridesmaid and my maid of honor are very quiet. They know that my mother and I often rub together like steel and flint. The fires we ignite can burn the unintended.

“You know I’m not marrying for the position. I’m marrying Henry and Adrianna for love, not because he is a viscount.”

“No, I’m sure you aren’t, and I’m happy for you, daughter. But more importantly, I’m proud of you.”

I give off a heavy sigh. I don’t know where and why my mother became so focused on status. Given her druthers, she’d marry me off to Prince Fredrick III, who had just recently graduated to trousers.

“Daughter, I have to meet with the florist to go over the flower arrangements. Shall we meet at the bakery at four?”

I look down at Paula. She nods.

“That’s fine, Mother. But I don’t know why we have to sample all of those different cakes. I mean, it’s just a cake. Anything would be fine.”

Even turned away from her, I can hear mi madre’s gritted teeth in her tone as she says, “I should have just brought Yolanda.”

Mikey stifles a chuckle with both hands.

Yolanda Simmons happens to be my acerbic cook and housekeeper. To think that she would be more tractable than me stretches anyone’s credulity. She’d order my mother to stir the stew while Yolanda made the wedding cakes herself.

With another sigh, I admit, “I’ll be on my best behavior, Mother.” One would think she is scolding me as a twelve-year-old rolling a hoop through the house with my adolescent burgeoning earth witch powers.

“Indeed. Until then. Ladies,” she offers with a half curtsey before striding out the door, her short blond hair bun bouncing almost as much as her bustle.

Silence reigns for several seconds until we can see Mother handed into her carriage and driven away. Her exit makes it feel like the emotional mass of a Clydesdale has left the room. All four of us let out a collective “Whew!” We all giggle at our similar thoughts.

“Miss Stella, I not sure I didna have it better without a mama!”

I smile at her and start to reply until Karie says, “You may be right, Mikey. But think about it. You and I would have given anything to have one.”

My two best friends and confidants grew up without a mother. I grew up without knowing who my father was. Being minus a parent was one of the things that bonded Karie and me in Harbor Primary School.

“Alright, I’m done here,” Paula orders. “Ladies, pull those blinds and help me lift this dress over her head.”

The threesome surrounds me and lifts the hem of my pieced-together dress. Mikey, who’s short, struggles to lift it high enough to get it over my head. “Gently,” Paula directs my friends. I try to wriggle around to help, but Paula snaps at me. “You, hold still. I’m not going to have you ruin hours of work with your fidgeting.”

I sigh and tell myself to remember the prize at the end of this rocky road.

The trio settles the well-pinned white dress down across a divan. Paula says, “Excellent. Thank you.”

Standing there in just my underthings gives me a chill. It is winter in Boston, after all.

“Stella, do you have to wear that damned metal girdle? I could make this much tighter if you didn’t.” Paula refers to the mass of metal that winds around in the approximate shape of a corset, covering me from my oversized bosom down beyond my overly broad hips. It would be more accurately considered banded armor from a bygone era. As an earth witch, I have the power to mold stone and metal to my will. This is one of my personal creations.

Mikey hands me my blouse. As I pull it over my head, I answer. “Paula, that has saved my life more than once. Wedding or no, I’m going to wear it.”

“But isn’t it heavy? Heck, just wearing a cloth one with whalebone stays is stifling,” my seamstress says.

“It was at first,” I admit. “But after months now, I don’t really even notice it.”

Paula shrugs. “You always did dance to your own drummer.”

I pull my overall dress on, the one Paula designed for me. I thought more women would be wearing the durable denim outfits. But instead, I just get stares as I walk down the streets.

“Understated,” Karie adds. “Very understated.”

“That shore is right. I mean, who marries two people?” Mikey asks with her own smile.

“We all agree that Stella is different,” I say in the third person with a wrinkled nose. “Now, can we get on with things? I have more than a few chores to finish to get even my small portion of the wedding going.”

“Sure. Let’s get Mikey up here to get her fitted,” Paula says.

“Excuse? Fitted? Fer what?” Mikey asks.

“Your bridesmaid dress, of course,” Paula insists.

Mikey backs away, putting two hands up between her and my seamstress. “Ain’t nobody said nothin’ about no dress.” Her eyes dart to me. “I ain’t wearing one. I ain’t no lady.”

“Mikey, you agreed to be my bridesmaid. Maid. That means girl. That means a dress.”

“No. I’d rather be out on the streets again ‘fore I put on frillies.”

“But Mikey—” Karie starts.

“I said no, and I means it,” she says, edging for the door.

“Honey, you can’t go to the wedding wearing that,” Karie soothes. It causes Mikey to look down at her breeches and button-up shirt.

“Why not?”

Drama. Drama. And more drama. I sigh. In my most diplomatic voice, I ask, “Mikey, what is it about a dress that you object to?”

“Boys.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Paula asks for all of us.

“Boys think dresses can just be lifted up to give ’em looks at our legs or bloomers.”

The poor girl. She lived on the streets of Boston, and I can imagine. She’s probably right. That is exactly what the boys and men would do, if not a lot worse.

“I ain’t gonna wear nothing to give ’em a chance,” she adds.

Karie and Paula exchange a knowing glance that says, “Someday soon, she’ll want a boy to lift her hem.” I share in their belief. At maybe thirteen, Mikey—or should I rightly say Michelle Byrne—hasn’t quite reached that point in her life where boys are interesting.

“What if Paula makes a pair of pants that looks like a dress?” I say. “That way, any boy that got a foul thought in his head couldn’t lift it even if he wanted to.”

My seamstress looks at me askance, gaping at my assurance. I know she can come through. I’ve given her more than one challenge in recent years.

Mikey, for her part, relaxes at least a part of her defensive stance. “No dress?”

“No,” Paula says, buying into my impromptu plan.

“But it will look frilly,” I insist. “You will look just like Miss Karie.”

I didn’t choose Mikey as my girl Friday because of her looks. It was because of her smarts and street wisdom. She all but jumps at this new idea. “I don’t mind the frillies so much as being defenseless. I’ll do that.”

“I’ve already created the basis of a dress to fit you. I’ll have to figure out how to modify it,” Paula says with a wrinkled forehead. I can see her eyes cast to the floor as she imagines all manner of things. She comes back to us in a flash. “And Stella has already given me your measurements, so I don’t have anything more for you right now. I guess it is time for Miss Taylor.”

Karie doesn’t object at all. She just drops her dress with zero embarrassment and with a wink at me. Her thin frame and almost nonexistent curves always make me wonder how she entices so many men into her bed—and for money, nonetheless.

Some might think having a lady of the evening as a friend is odd. But we didn’t start that way. And after my husband’s death in The War of Irish Liberation, Karie pulled me back together. Add to that, I’ve known all of her charms, in the biblical sense. Until recently, she has been my sometimes lover. She kept my libido calmed to a point where I could at least simulate being a good Catholic girl without being owned by a man or being a slut.

Instead, what am I doing? Getting married again—something I promised myself I would never do. I hadn’t wanted to be the property of anyone. And I’ll belong to two people, not just the requisite one. But even thinking of my betrotheds gives me a wonderful shiver that ends up in my middle. Adrianna makes me think prurient thoughts. Henry just gives me a wonderful warmth of trust.

Karie steps up onto the fitting platform. Paula takes the dress and slips it over my friend’s slim frame. I chose the midnight blue with cream flowered fabric for my bridesmaid dresses … or should I now say outfits. With Viscount Henry Helms picking up the tab, nothing is really off-limits. If I asked for real 24K golden flowers, he’d just smile and pay the bill. I’m certain my future husband is glad that I’m not a vain or hard-to-impress bride. A few bolts of fabric, some hothouse flowers, and I’m more than happy.

By God himself, I’d have been happy if Adrianna, Henry, and I had just gone to the church in our muddy clothes right after they proposed to me. But as part of the aristocracy and local socialites, we couldn’t have that, now, could we? Piffle.

Now that I’m no longer playing dressmaker’s dummy, I look at my pocket watch. Well, actually, it belonged to my dead husband, Aaron. It’s one of the few things I still have of him other than my memories. I wonder if my new life partners are going to want me to get rid of it. It injects just a tinge of sadness into the joy of my impending wedding.

“Karie. Paula. Can you manage here without me?” I ask. “I just remembered that I said I’d help with the invitations.” I slip on my boots without doing up the laces.

“Miss, you have—” Mikey says, but I stab her with a cold stare. She shuts up mid-word.

Karie gives a little chuckle. “I think we will be fine. Run along. We’ll manage. Won’t we, Paula?”

“We usually do.”

I hadn’t realized that Karie gets her dresses made by Paula. My friend’s tone makes me wonder if anything else has transpired between the two. I notice Paula is just a bit more intimate with Karie’s ankle than I think her profession requires. An interesting tidbit that has nothing to do with me.

“Great. Mikey and I will be off then,” I say.

“Be back here Thursday morning for the final fitting!” Paula calls out as we exit the door.

“I will.”

Mikey falls in at my side as we leave Paula’s shop, which only has a two-foot thimble, a six-foot bobbin of thread, and a five-foot needle hanging from the second floor as signage. Nothing indicates the industrial steam-powered sewing machine she uses. Nothing shows that she makes most of the silk underthings for the looser women in town. I guess word of mouth brings Miss Simpson more than enough business.

“Sorry for cutting you off, Mikey, but as much as I like Paula, I was feeling claustrophobic in there. I just needed to get out.”

“That’s alright, miss. I spoke outta turn.”

“No, you were fine. I just didn’t want you to kill my lie,” I say with a chuckle.

The street outside Paula’s bustles as only noontime Boston can. Women traipse up and down Portland Street with marketing baskets on their arms. Military men, many more than there have been in the past, move together toward the pub down the street. Draft horses plod past, pulling wagons laden with unseen cargo under oilskins. Greengrocers and herbalists conduct trade on the boardwalk. Carts—each advertising hair tonic, bakeries, or notions across their sides—litter the streets. An auto sweeper makes a poor job of the combination of snow, horse apples, and other refuse the stores have dumped in the street. The automatic machine makes me lament that we don’t have the poderabile here.

The poderabile, or power vehicle, was a gift from my fiancé long before we ever considered a union. I helped out his business, and he gave me a wagon with no need for horses. Instead, it is powered by compressed air. I don’t know all the details. I’m an earth witch with limited interest in the details of the physical magicians of today. Edison, Tesla, and Helms all amaze me, but I don’t have enough lifetimes to understand it all.

Despite the hustle and bustle, one figure stands out. I figure he would stand out anywhere. A short man, maybe only four feet tall. His tailored black pinstripe suit and silk top hat would do a merchant ship captain or perhaps a wealthy businessman proud. His shoes are so shiny that they reflect the activity around him. He holds an ivory-topped hickory cane—not leaning on it but just holding it. If there is anything off about his appearance, it is his overly bushy eyebrows. But the most important part is that he isn’t moving and stares directly at Mikey and me.

I watch him as we turn north. His head and eyes follow us. If it weren’t for those movements, I’d think he might be a statue. People part around him like he is a stone in a stream. He just keeps a watch on Mikey and me.

I’ve had more than my share of trouble in the last year. The fancy man’s intent gaze raises the hackles on the back of my neck. Part of me wants to use the earth beneath him to smash him like a tiny bug, but he isn’t doing anything untoward except looking. I’ve had more than my share of men leering at me. But his attention doesn’t seem like the typical lech. “Maybe I’m just too paranoid,” I whisper to myself.

“What’s that, Miss Stella?”

“Nothing.”

My instance that he’s not important doesn’t stop me from looking back when we turn onto Sudbury Road. The tiny man has only moved enough to face us as we transit his view.

Despite my brave statement, my recent experiences make me surprised when fire doesn’t explode around me, the earth itself doesn’t reach up to swallow us, or no one points a weapon at me. Only after several minutes and a turn onto Cambridge Street does the tension melt away from my shoulders. It’s replaced by another bit of trouble.

Carts, wagons, horses, and more pack the roadway. The walkway on each side couldn’t fit a nickel without exploding. Pedestrians of all walks of life are rubbernecking at something farther up the road. To Mikey, I motion with my head toward an alley, which, by a tarnished plaque on the side of one of its buildings, proclaims itself to be Bristol Road.

We get no more than thirty feet into the narrow canyon filled with discarded crates, remains of broken bottles, smelly trash, and other unsavory items when five big, muscular men enter the other end. My overworked olfactory senses aren’t blocked by the garbage. The stench of trouble overwhelms everything. I recognize one of the men in front of me as a rough who hangs around the Central Pub down by the Long Wharf. The rest of his crew are less reputable and more massive looking.

“Trouble, Miss Stella,” Mikey whispers beside me.

“Yes,” I say in simple affirmative. I slip my bare foot out of my boot and onto the icy, cold road, thanking Providence that I didn’t tie the boot. Looking over my shoulder, I see two more toughs enter behind us.

Drama. Drama. Drama.

“What’s we got here, fellas?”

“I’d say it was a tart and her girlfriend.”

“Sounds about right. Missy, how much to give my bit of stiff a kiss?”

I swivel my foot back and forth onto the ground to get a good purchase. I feel the cobblestones beneath me waking from their slumber to offer me assistance.

No matter what people think of witchcraft, they are wrong. I don’t order the earth to do what I want. We act in concert to accomplish a goal. Think of it like a close-knit fishing boat. Each person knows his or her job and does it. Everyone knows what the other is doing to make the trip a success. It’s the same for me and the earth. I think to the ground what I want, and we agree on how to make it happen.

“Youse shy, missy? I never seen no whore that don’t wanna take a coin.”

I whisper to Mikey, “Stay down and out of the way.”

“Naw, on second thought, I donna want her mouth on my tool. I wanna shove it deep in that plump bumbo,” says the biggest one. “The rest of youse can have the skinny boy.”

The group closes in, both in front and back of us. I don’t like the situation, but the witch’s Threefold Law springs to mind. Any energy you put out into the universe comes back to you threefold. I can’t just murder them all despite the fact that they probably deserve it.

“Gentlemen, I am a witch, and I don’t want to hurt—”

“Youse think we don’t know youse a witch, honey? We are warded by God Almighty. You can’t touch us.”

I send my senses out to see if I feel any holy energies around any of them. Yes, I’m one of the extremely rare witches who can use more than one power. With my sensitivity to godly attributes, I feel nothing.

“Last chance, men. Go about your business and—”

They all chuckle almost as one. “Oh, we is going ’bout our business and gettin’ a bonus as well. You is our business, and your privy hole is our bonus.”

They continue to close. I can’t keep track of them all, so I try something much more difficult and dangerous than smashing them one at a time. Blood rushes as my gut tightens. Anyone who claims they aren’t afraid when forced to fight is a liar, even one with the deplorably extensive experience I have.

Putting away physical reactions of my body, I focus my mind away from our assailants. I encourage the stones and earth to form a ring around us. I lift it up and up until I have an eight-foot-high cobblestone cylinder closed tightly around us. The men beat at the wall with various clubs and bludgeons, trying to break in. One jumps up and grabs the upper edge of my stone fence to climb over.

With all of my angst, voice, and will, I force the ramparts outward with the spite of an exploding stick of dynamite. All but one of the men slam into a wall, the ground, or something equally unyielding. The one who’d been climbing instead falls down at Mikey’s feet.

Unseen by me, she liberated a sock with something heavy in one end. With skill I’ve never witnessed, she swings it down until it connects with the back of the prone man’s head. The meaty thunk that results even makes me wince.

Three of the would-be rapists have obviously broken bones. Five of them run away like dogs having boiling water poured on their tails. A sixth hobbles away, nursing a broken and bleeding leg. Only the one Mikey hit remains. Blood oozes out of his filthy hair.

“What is in that thing?” I ask, pointing at her makeshift weapon. Mikey reaches in and pulls forth egg-sized rocks. I raise my eyes, and she shrugs. She spent many years on the street. I’m sure she’s used her sap before with good effect.

My shout seems to have alerted one of the constabulary. The uniformed bobby ambles down the alley toward us. “Is this man troubling you, Miss Stella?” he asks. I’m fairly well-known because my exploits are reported in the damned newspapers, which have turned me into some kind of folk heroine.

“Nope,” I offer. “He just tripped.”

The policeman nudges a palm knife out of the man’s closed fist. “Looks that way. I’ll make sure he gets treatment for his injury. In the meantime, you two ladies had better be on your way.”

“Absolutely, Constable …?”

“Faherty, Miss Stella. You two stay safe.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

We continue on our way.

“Thank you, Mikey.”

“Thank you, Miss Stella. I knows I’m always safe ’round you.”

I chuckle without mirth. “I wish I felt that way.”

This gets me thinking about the assault as we walk along in silence. Being attacked by a group of men isn’t anything new to Mikey. She just brushes it off as another day she goes on living. I guess being attacked isn’t new to me either. But this was a coordinated attack … an ambush, not random happenstance. Otherwise, why would they be armed in any way? Otherwise, why would the two coming in behind work in concert with the ones in front?

Who? And why?

I guess it could be the NPP. Non Patiatur Phythonissam is Latin for “Suffer Not a Witch,” which is taken directly from Exodus 22:18. The group formed around their hatred of witches and their fervent desire to remove us all.

But even as I think of the NPP, I put it aside. Other than an offhand comment about being protected by God, these attackers didn’t spout any of the group’s typical illogical rhetoric. I’ve had run-ins with the NPP before, and this didn’t feel the same.

Could that very short man have had anything to do with it? Why?

Eventually, with not enough data, my mind files the inquiry for future musing. I have too many things to worry about just by being the guest of honor at a wedding!

All of the things I need to accomplish are going through my mind as I walk through the industrial area and up to the discontinuity that is my home. It was once a brick factory. But a good deal of money has converted it into something cozy and livable, with fresh sunflower-yellow paint and plants held in beautiful containers crafted from what was discarded as junk. Not a speck of dust dares show its face on any wall, door, or window.

This enormous, almost gilded, building isn’t just for me. I share it with six lady boarders whose rent covers the basic house expenses. Not only that, but the rest of it has also become a refuge for homeless girls who would dangerously live on the street, exposed to the Boston elements and the whims of rapists, abusers, and pimps. Most of these girls pay the minuscule charge of a penny a day by doing chores in and around the house, supervised by Mikey and my cook, Yolanda Simmons.

Thus, when I come into the house to find a plethora of girls carefully copying the wedding invitations at the direction of Adrianna, one of my intendeds, I am not surprised. The industry isn’t unusual, but the concentrated quiet is. Normally, our home exhibits the chaos of a payday night bender at a wharf bar.

“Hello, Miss Stella,” one of the girls—Peggy, if I remember correctly—says. This causes all the heads to pop up like a herd of gazelles when a lioness strays a bit too near them.

“Hello, Miss Stella!” they all exclaim enthusiastically in one form or another. They are respectful, but not in the way you would be polite to a mother. Instead, the girls treat me more like I’m a big sister who is never too busy to help them with homework or boys or even how to outwit Mother.

I smile widely at the salutations.

I’ve become something of a do-gooder—so much so that several society women are trying to figure out how they can upstage me. I’ve never tried to do anything but use the vast empty place in the heated area of the factory floor to keep orphans and rejects safe. It hasn’t cost me anything.

Correction. It costs me pennies a day to make sure at least one good meal is served to the hundreds. Mikey keeps track of all of that, as well as the nominal charge I ask for our hospitality.

I guess maybe I am a do-gooder. The postscript of our wedding announcement that the girls are copying from emphasizes it to me.

Senior Mistress Witch Josephine Romero

cordially invites you to the marriage of her daughter

Mistress Witch Stella Ochoa

to

Viscount Henry Helms and Viscountess Adrianna Helms

To take place at

St Leonard’s Church

14 Prince Street

Boston, Massachusetts

At Four P.M. on Friday, December 14^th, the year of our Lord Eighteen Eighty-Eight

In lieu of gifts, donate to Boston Children’s Aid Society

Peggy Adar hands a freshly sanded copy of the invitation to Adrianna. My fiancée looks over the paper before adding it to a stack of similar cards. “Good job, honey,” she says. Then she hands Peggy a half penny coin.

The youngster looks greedily at the payment before asking, “Can I do more?”

“Absolutely. We need eight hundred, so go back to it.”

“Eight hundred!” I exclaim. “Are we inviting the whole world?”

“No. The postage alone would bankrupt us.” Adrianna smiles at her own sarcasm.

“You fopdoodle,” I snarl with mock anger. This causes the girls copying to giggle. “Are we really going to have eight hundred people at our wedding?”

“More like fourteen hundred, cariña,” Adrianna says with a certain amount of smugness.

“What?” I ask, shocked. I have effectively no experience in large gatherings.

“Amor, with a normal event, you plan on about six of every ten showing up, usually each with two additional people.”

I do some quick math. She’s right. Fourteen hundred and forty people!

“Eek!”

“Oh, but I’m not done, Stella. Our wedding will be the event of the season, maybe even the decade. With your fame and our being part of the aristocracy, the total is going to be nearly 100 percent. So, I’m figuring close to twenty-five hundred, or maybe as many as three thousand.”  

I must have horror on my face as all the girls stop their work and look at me. “But …” I trail off. “I just wanted to quietly marry my amors.”

Adrianna tenderly takes my hand. Her gaze drills into my eyes with compassion. “I’m sorry, Stella. But for us, it won’t be quiet. Even if we went away somewhere and married, we’d still have reporters, and more, camped out around us.”

I hug her, feeling tears coming to my eyes. I don’t know if it is that we will be surrounded by more people than attend the Summer Fete in Boston Common or that I’m so happy to have her in my life. Both seem to mix in this chaos of feelings.

“Enough gawking,” my promised barks at the collection of young calligraphists. “Get back to your copying. And mind that your nibs don’t change direction.”

“Yes, Mrs. Helms,” the girls say. I can hear the quills scratching on the rough paper behind me.

After a quick trip to the kitchen, Mikey comes back into the room. “Did Stella tell you that we got jumped by twelve bully-bucks on the way back?”

Annie, my nickname for my beloved, pulls me away from our clinch and stares into my face with a look that I interpret as equal parts concern, astonishment, and disbelief that I haven’t said something before now. “What? Are you—”

“I’m fine, love.”

The girls start murmuring to themselves. They are quite proud of their landlady, and this just ups my reputation. Sometimes, it feels like I’m a steam boiler and they keep throwing coal on the fire under me. One of these days, I’m going to explode from not being able to live up to their high expectations.

“Miss Stella were awesome. She took out eleven of ’em before I could even fish out my pet sock,” Mikey says.

I give a heavy sigh. Things are already being exaggerated. I am something of a local celebrity through no fault of my own. It seems that staying alive is alone enough for fame. Because of this infamy, I hate to think what the papers are going to print about this. Probably that I took on a whole army single-handedly.

“Mikey, don’t embroider it any further. It was only seven,” I say, looking at Adrianna. I know this sounds like a weak downplaying of what happened. The two of us against seven toughs is still beyond the capabilities of most of God’s children.

“Only seven?” my fiancée clucks.

“Honestly, I didn’t do anything to invite it,” I protest.

“The hell with that. Are you OK?” The curse from my viscountess is completely out of character. She looks me up and down to find the inevitable injuries I seem to pick up. For once, I have none. She worries. But as she seems to be the one who nurses me afterward, I can understand.

“Honey, not a scratch on me. Seriously, Mikey is making much more of this than it was.” I toss my young helper a scowl. She must get my message because she stops talking about the attack … at least for now. I’m sure it will be a topic of conversation later in the dormitory.

The quarter bell goes off on the clock.

“Amor, if we are going to make it to the baker’s in time, we had better leave,” I toss in there, hoping to break Adrianna’s poorly placed concern.

“Don’t know why I can’t be making yourse cake,” Yolanda Simmons says from the doorway. I didn’t hear her enter. The term curmudgeon is too weak for the slight woman. Usually, a stream of invectives precedes her.

Adrianna speaks up. “Didn’t you just hear? We may have three thousand wedding guests. Even with all of this additional help,” she says, waving her arms at the copying girls, “I can’t see you having the ability to make enough to feed two fleets worth of men and a battalion of marines to boot.”

“Harrumph,” Yolanda says, returning to her kitchen domain.

“Mikey, keep the girls on the invitations. Check each one before giving them their pay!” Adrianna insists.

“Yes, Mrs. Helms.”

I interject an order. “Mikey, first get the poderabile out.”

As my charge turns to carry out my request, Adrianna says, “Hold on, Mikey.” Then she whispers into my ear. “If it is alright with you, could we just walk? It’s been a stressful day riding herd on all these girls.”

“Absolutely, love.”

# # #

I stroll arm and arm with my lady love through the chilly afternoon as her carriage clops slowly behind us. Her white fur coat hood blocks the worst of the bright winter sun that beats down through the thin blue sky. We stay in companionable silence as we amble. We occasionally bump hands together, feeding my soul. This after we spent months held at arm’s length by our own moral compasses. Despite the daunting prospect of saying my vows in front of more people than I can remember seeing in a single place, I’m calmer and happier than I have ever been. This reminds me of something.

“Where is my husband-to-be?” I ask.

“He had to take an urgent trip to Philadelphia for a meeting with the king’s private secretary.”

“Goodness, why? Has there been another sudden rash of demon escapes that I’ve not heard of?”

“No, not at all. Stella, you are about to marry a viscount. As there is already one viscountess, Henry has to petition that you also get the title due a wife of an aristocrat.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Viscountess Stella Helms.”

So much for my calm. “What in the world would I want a title for? I can barely tolerate the one my mother got pinned on me for that dust-up earlier this year—Mistress Witch Stella Ochoa. Yuck.”

“You have to accept this, love. It’s part and parcel of us … all of us.”

“Lord on high!” I remind myself to ask for absolution of my blasphemy on Sunday. “Please tell me there is a chance that they might deny him.”

“Sorry, Stella, but it’s already approved. Henry is on his way home on the sleeper for the rehearsal.”

I mentally leave our conversation to contemplate. I shake my head. Just what I DON’T need. Well, at least my mother will be happy. Besides, there is already a Viscountess Helms. How will anyone be able to tell the difference—

My ruminations dislodge as I see a dapper little man sitting on a sidewalk bench. The same dwarf as before. He just rests there, enjoying the sunlight. He looks at us and tips his hat in greeting.

“Annie, do you know him?” I ask.

“Him who?”

“The little person on the bench on the other side of the street.”

Her whole head turns to look. The man touches the brim of his hat to my fiancée’s appraising look.

“No. Don’t believe I know him. In fact, I don’t think I know any people of that stature. Why? You aren’t fascinated by those misfortunates—”

“No, querdida. I just saw him earlier in the day, about five minutes before Mikey and I were attacked.”

Adrianna shrugs. “Coincidence?”

“Possibly. But I’m dubious about any unusual events in my life.”

My lady love laughs in a way that makes her whole body, especially her prodigious attributes, shake. “Stella, your whole life is made up of unusual events.” When I look askance at her, she continues. “I don’t mean this hurtfully, only as a statement of fact.”

I rethink her words and decide that it is only the truth. I have to laugh at myself. Even with a whole book, I couldn’t list all of the odd things that I’ve had happen to me. That is one of the reasons I’m looking forward to marital bliss. Maybe some norm will come from this circus of a wedding. A portion of my brain says not to believe the fantasy.

This train of thought is broken by someone shouting, “Extra! England blockades Ireland!”

I’d like to read the story, but it won’t be any different from the other times. England puts a ring of ships around the cities. America and Spain both send ships. England withdraws its fleets. Nothing new to see here despite the rising tensions. My impending wedding is of more import tha—

The bells of Mission Church give three high-pitched strikes.

A demon is loose.

Adrianna winces. I made it very clear when I agreed to our marriage that I won’t stop being part of the Dos Campanas and their work to protect Boston. I mean, would a firefighter give up his job just because he got married? My condition isn’t popular, but both Henry and Adrianna understand. I’d be less than I am if I abandoned this duty.

Low bell, high bell, low bell, high bell, pause—C. Low bell, low bell, low bell, pause—O. More Morse code using the bells spells out the rest. COMMON, Boston Common. We aren’t but two blocks away.

“I have to go, honey,” I say.

“I know. I’ll tell your mother you’ll be late.”

I hadn’t factored that in. Senior Mistress Coven Witch Romero will find a way to make this my fault.

“Do that. Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can.”

“I will. Be careful, love.”

“I always am,” I assure her.

“Is that why I always am patching you up?”

“It’s no fair using logic.” To cut the conversation short, I give her a quick kiss on the lips. “Be back soon.”

# # #

Daytime demon escapes are rare. Like house fires and the birth of babies, puppies, and kittens, demons tend to break out in the wee hours of the morning.

As I crest Reservoir Hill, I look south and realize that things continue not to look normal. The Duchy House has a gaping hole along Temple Street. What isn’t normal is all the duchy’s workers looking out the windows. Most of the time, people are screaming and running away from the base chaos and destruction the creature causes. The building housing a demon often receives its initial rage. Why has it left? Just as importantly, from the look of the spectators, why has it left the areas of buildings and denizens for the relative emptiness of the Boston Common? Oh, I grant you that every demon breakout is different, but this isn’t even touching normality.

I continue down to the edge of the Common. I can hear bellows from the beast but can’t see it yet. I drop to one knee and pinch some of the loam under the grass. I tuck the dirt into my cheek like I’ve seen men do with snuff. While the earth is eager, it doesn’t have as much structure as brick, cobbles, or even stone. The normal methods I use won’t work. I have to adapt.

A demon scream, high and piercing, comes from a copse of oaks. If I had any doubt, one of the larger trees suddenly moves, rising above the rest of the leafless canopy. The broad top swings at something unseen.

It has to be one of my team trying to keep the beast in place. That’s the only thing that makes sense to me. I run in to take the pressure off the member of my coven who is keeping the demon occupied. But instead, as I dash through some trees, I find a four-armed, roughly gorilla-looking demon bashing a bonfire. The blaze turns the massive makeshift cudgel into a fiery brand that’s spraying motes of red sparks around.

There are just no words for my confusion. Why would a demon care about any fire? Not only that, but go out of his way to abuse it? With no immediate answers, I leave it for another day.

As no one is being threatened, I fade back before the beast spots me. The demon isn’t hurting anything, so I find a nice large tree to hide behind, where I can watch and wait for backup.

Carlos usually arrives first, but I am not sure how. It’s like he flies here. But as I know he is afraid of heights, I doubt this. It’s no surprise that he shows up moments after I sequester myself. I hear his footsteps through the dead leaves on the ground.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“You’ve got me, boss. El Demonio seems to be even more wrong in the head than most. I can’t understand why he is beating on a fire in the middle of the forest when there is a juicy city all around him to rampage through.”

Carlos peeks around at the conflagration. Off in the distance, I hear the bells of the fire wagons racing in our direction. Carlos orders, “Menaj, you want to tell them to hold off.” The sneaky nature witch had crept up on us—well, at least on me.

“I’ll do that,” she says.

Maxwell Parker and Donny O’Sullivan both pad up, partially out of breath and smelling like a brewery. They must have swilled some ale at the Bell in Hand.

“You two fit for fighting?” Carlos asks.

“Absolutely. Didn’t even finish my pint,” Maxwell gets out with only a partial squeak.

“My girl done spilled my beer down my front,” Donny says.

Maxwell teases, “Spilled? She threw it at you for—”

“Shut up, you,” Donny barks.

“The both of you pipe down, or we’ll have that demon on us like a hurricane against the beach,” I hiss.

Bea Media strolls up in the middle of our family tiff. She is quickly followed by Raquel, a.k.a. Menaj, after warning the firemen away. A rugged-looking fellow rushes up, slightly out of breath. He is as broad as a tree and has more muscles than any three of us.

“Stella, meet Kirill Rutger, an earth witch who hails from the Empire of Russia.” Carlos pronounces it Key Rill.

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Rutger,” I say, offering my hand.

“And you, Mistress Witch Stella Ochoa,” he says in a deep and very heavily accented voice. He takes my hand so gently, I’d think it was a feather.

“We don’t have time for formal introductions,” Carlos says. “Stella, Kirill is going to shadow you today. We are training him up.”

“You trying to get rid of me?”

“Hell no! But an extra hand is always useful.”

“True,” I reply.

“Anyone see where it escaped from?” Donny asks

“The Duchy House,” I offer.

Carlos screws up his face. “Odd. You’d think that they would have the best possible containment. Whatever. Standard drill, folks. As usual, Maxwell’s flare will start our efforts.”

I take Kirill in hand—figuratively, not literally—and we take our place to one side.

“Kirill, have you ever fought a demon before?”

“Yes. I was three years a part of a team in Moscow until the Tolstoy government declared all witches and witchcraft to be banned as a danger to the ruling class.”

“Well, good. I’m glad I won’t have to teach you the basics. I don’t imagine it is any different here than there.”

“No. I expect not.”

“In fact, why don’t you be this side of the box, and I’ll just step in if I need to.”

“Very much appreciated, Mistress Witch Stella Ochoa.”

“I’d not heard of the Russian purge of witches.”

“Yes. I was forced to flee the country. I chose America, as I’d studied your language, and it is the land of opportunity.”

“That it is.”

# # #

Moving the demon proves to be very simple. The beast bears out the aphorism that the larger the hellspawn, the more mindless it is. It responds quite predictably to our taunts and walls. Kirill demonstrates his experience with both his witchcraft and his teamwork. He forms clouds of opaque dirt and dust instead of relying on a solid wall while we move the demon along in the Common. He switches seamlessly to something firmer when we reach the brick-covered streets.

Because he competently performs the work, it allows me to scan for trouble. I don’t classify what I see as trouble but rather damned odd. A slender, dark-haired woman seems to climb nude out of the bonfire. I lose sight of her among the trees before I can confirm the peculiarity. It is of no never mind. If a witch, she is safe. If not, I didn’t see correctly.

I think the Dos Campanas set a pair of new records. Not only do we reinter the screaming demon in two shakes of a puppy’s tail, but we also do it with the least damage I’ve ever seen. Perhaps there are fewer casualties and less building damage in the unpopulated country, but this is amazing. We do it so well that my dress isn’t even mussed. I spit the mud out of my mouth, wishing it well.

The public workers are cheering and clapping around us.

“Congratulations, team,” Carlos announces. He isn’t even breathing hard. “We did quite well. I think the duchy at least will be properly grateful.”  

“Oh, that reminds me,” I say. “Carlos, I’d like my cut split among all the team. I won’t have need of it.”

“That’s very generous of you, Stella,” Menaj says with a bright yellow finch peeking out from the hair on her shoulder.

“Then why stay part of the team?” Donny asks me. “Why take the risks?”

“Because someone needs to protect the people who can’t protect themselves—”

The clock at the Duchy House chimes the quarter hour. I pull out my dead husband’s pocket watch—4:15. “Sorry, team, but I’m already late. My mother is going to skin my hide.”

“Maybe you need the whole team to go and protect you?” Maxwell jokes.

“My mother is much more dangerous than any demon,” I say. “And much less forgiving. I’ll see you soon at the Bell in Hand.”

# # #

“Now, this cake, as you know, is angel food,” my mother offers in her diatribe about all of the different cake examples. Her tone continues to be colder than a nor’easter in February. “It’s spongy without being dense, as opposed to the denseness of pound cake or the moist crumb of a chiffon cake.”

“I said I was sorry, Mother.”

“Are you still on about that? I forgave you, didn’t I.”

I wonder if Mother ever has to confess and do penance for her fibs. I know she rarely sets foot inside Mother Church. It seems like two different standards.

“Yes,” I grudgingly admit. I definitely think a few scurrilous thoughts, however.

“Then let’s turn our attention to the task at hand, daughter. Now, do you have a favorite cake?”

We’ve now tasted mostly like 87,000 different bite-sized samples. It is getting to the point where I don’t know one from another. I shake my head from overload.

“What do you think, Adrianna?” I ask my intended.

Laying a hand on my arm, she replies, “Stella, my love, it’s your wedding.”

I hedge. “No. I’ve already had my one wedding to Aaron. We didn’t have a cake. We had a bowl of flan and washed it down with a pint at the local pub. This is our wedding.”

Hesitation clouds my lady love’s face. She tentatively points. “I’ve always been partial to chiffon cakes myself.”

“Good, let’s use that one,” I concur, mostly to get this all done. But my mother doesn’t let it end with that simple decision.

“For all the cake?”

“All?”

The baker, a well-fleshed woman who obviously has sampled much of her own wares, says, “Well, with the number of attendees you will be having, we will need to prepare not only our largest three-tiered, primary cake but also at least fifteen other full sheet cakes.”

I feel my eyes bug out at just the scale of our nuptials. More than a little part of me wants to call the whole thing off—to just go back to being Stella Ochoa.

Adrianna takes my hand and squeezes. She doesn’t say anything. Without any platitudes or calm words, the warmth of her touch drains off the anxiety in my heart and fills me with the sustenance of the soul. It allows me to take a deep breath and make a decision. It is no different than any other decision. Discard the pieces you don’t like or that won’t work. Then compare a much smaller selection, eventually winnowing out the best.

My lady love likes chiffon. I can be gluttonous about pound cake.

“Use the chiffon for all of the main table cake. All the rest of the cakes should be pound cake.” Easy, right?

“Now, for flavors,” Mother says.

“How many more … I mean, we’ve picked frosting, decorations, color—” I guess I’m being a hysterical bride. I’ve always wondered why some perfectly calm young women can turn into such raging perras when they are putting on a white lace gown. My working theory is that it all boils down to decision overload—being overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

And in the end, I think it is wasteful for one single day. That was why my first wedding was limited to my husband and me in front of a priest, two witnesses, and a round at the pub afterward.

“This is the last one, Stella. I promise,” Mom says. The baker tries to say something, but Mother waves her off. I am being handled, and, for once, I don’t mind.

Knowing my love’s propensities, I just throw out, “Chocolate for the chiffon cakes and blueberry pound cakes.” I purse my lips and glare at Mother and the baker, daring them to invent even one more thing I have to choose.

“Excellent,” the baker says, looking at mi madre. “So, there will be a down payment of—”

My mother pulls up her purse, but Adrianna interjects by handing over a heavy pouch. “This should handle the whole cost.”

“But it is the bride’s family’s responsibility,” my mother begins as she takes out a wad of bank notes.

“Mrs. Romero, I agree it is your right and place to pay for the cakes and all the rest of the wedding. However, una boda this lavish and of this magnitude is much more than you could have expected. Let us help foot the bill,” Adrianna says.

I’ve rarely seen my mother with such a quandary written all over her face. My mother is far from poor, yet not quite rich. As a senior earth witch, she has a backlog of people desiring her services, which command a high price. But even I have seen the signs of strain on her pocketbook with everything going out. I can watch the gears going around in her head and steam chuffing out her ears. The pursed set of her lips tells me she doesn’t want to be beholden. She has always paid her own way and even resents the offer, but I see the cracks in her polish and a sheen of sweat on her brow.

“Only the cake, Mrs. Helms,” she finally says. “As long as you promise that your largesse stops there.”

“Agreed,” Adrianna says.

Only I can see my beloved’s fingers crossed behind her back.

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