Page 68 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

Personally, I’ve always said that if husbands are so afraid of being poisoned, maybe they could take steps to ensure their wives don’t want to kill them. Like treating them with a basic modicum of respect and civility. But no, that is preposterous. Far better to keep them away from anything that could be slipped into their tea.

For many years, women couldn’t even purchase rat poison. They needed a male servant to do it for them. One would think that law had been presaged by a flurry of rat-poisoning deaths. It was not. There might have been one or two, which made men fear that if women hear of those deaths, they’ll all run out, en masse, to buy rat poison. Proof, again, of just how many husbands think they’ve given their wives reason to murder them.

Things have improved in my lifetime, but not enough for Lenora to consider opening a proper shop. Of course, she never needed to—she had more than enough clients in the supernatural world. Beatrice runs a shop because her witch skills are middling, which isn’t surprising given that she’s a former Coven witch. She’d actually broken with her Coven over the shop, which they’d categorically refused to let her operate. She left them and did as she pleased, and at some point, met my aunt, who needed special ingredients Beatrice could supply.

I remember visiting her London shop with Lenora. It was in the sort of neighborhood where one might expect to find a witch selling herbal remedies. A dark little hole of a place too close to Whitechapel for Lenora’s liking. She’d understood why Beatrice set up there, though. There was a steady supply of women in need of ointments, salves, and other “feminine” necessities. Also, the location allowed her to operate beneath the Coven’s radar.

Beatrice’s Glasgow shop is different. It’s as picture-perfect as where I’d eaten lunch, in a lovely neighborhood with shops catering to women who had more than a few pence in their pockets. In fact, there’s a jeweler right next door, where I pop in to replace my lost hair clips and pins.

It might seem odd to find a witch’s shop in such a neighborhood, but upon seeing it, I realize the wisdom of the choice. It’s operating as a “ladies’ apothecary,” but not the sort catering to the feminine health needs that Lenora specialized in. The front window is filled with the sorts of “remedies” that prey on women’s doubts and insecurities and vanities. Creams to erase wrinkles and sunspots and freckles. Ointments to make skin soft and supple and glowing. Salves to combat hair loss and salves to discourage unwanted hair.

It’s perfectly suited to this street, full of ladies looking to spend their extra shillings and crowns on something special. While I’m sure Beatrice sells other “womanly remedies” behind the counter, she’ll be very careful about that. To the outward eye, this is a frivolous shop for frivolous ladies.

I walk in on Bishop’s arm, and I spot Beatrice right away. She’s a small woman in her late forties, and when I last saw her, her dark hair had been shot through with gray. The gray is gone, presumably dyed—if her product is youth, she must sell youth.

She’s speaking with a customer trying to decide between wrinkle creams, though the woman can’t be any older than me.

Through the reflection in the window, I notice Beatrice glancing over, but it’s not me she notices. It’s Bishop. I can’t say I blame her. I teased Rufus about attracting attention, but that’s because his size and less fashionable attire made him an intriguing bit of scenery for bored ladies. Bishop’s muscles are better hidden, and his attire is the height of fashion, as always. He’s attractive in an arresting way that is undeniable. You look, and then you can’t stop looking.

I continue examining the jars at the window display, my back to Beatrice as she suggests that the woman buy both wrinkle creams and see which she prefers. The customer does exactly that, and when she is gone, Beatrice walks over to us.

“May I help you find something?” she asks.

I turn, and she stares for several seconds. The last time she’d seen me, I’d been barely eighteen. It’s only when I smile that she claps a hand to her mouth.

“Cordelia,” she says.

I lean in to kiss her cheek. “It’s so lovely to see you, Bea. It’s been far too long.”

“What are you…?” She looks from me to Bishop and trails off, as if she’s forgotten the rest of that sentence.

I clutch his arm tighter, beaming like a besotted new bride. I am a new bride, of course, and also quite besotted, but I’m trying for something more starry eyed and innocent.

“We are on our honeymoon,” I say. “This is my husband, Bishop Daniels.”

“Bish—” She coughs, as if to hide her sputter. “Did you say Bishop Daniels?” She looks him up and down. “Oh.”

“You have heard of me?” Bishop says mildly.

“Your … reputation precedes you, sir.” Her gaze shoots to me. “Things have … changed at home? With Lenora?”

“I presume that means you know my heritage,” I say. “Who my father was.”

She trots to the door, where she puts up a sign saying the shop is closed. Then she bustles Bishop and me into the back room, where she checks and locks both the doors into the shop and out the rear door.

“I understand you may be angry with your aunt, Cordelia,” she says. “But she did what she thought was best.”

I want to pursue this. Some deep part of me needs to pursue this. But I can’t, in good conscience, continue as if Lenora is back in London, waiting for me to come to my senses and return.

Or maybe it’s not conscience that keeps me from doing that. It’s because I’d feel as if I were disrespecting my aunt’s memory to gain information.

“Lenora is dead,” I say softly, taking her gloved hands in mine. “My father murdered her.”

I have to grip Beatrice’s hands to keep her from falling backward. I tell the story as succinctly as I can, which is never going to be truly succinct, but I leave out everything that doesn’t concern her.

“So when I said I was on my honeymoon, that isn’t entirely true. I only wasn’t sure whether anyone might overhear. An assistant or such.”

“It is only me. You can say whatever you like.”