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She found a book full of photos in a drawer of the armoire after a minute, then sat down with Willow on the sofa to go through it. Everyone, including Montgomery, crowded around them to see.
Esme gingerly turned the aged pages of the book poring through a century and a half of family photos. About a third of the way, she came across a sepia-colored image of a woman from about the turn of the twentieth century. Her face had a doll-like quality, with round cheeks, large eyes, and a small, heart-shaped mouth. Slim waisted (probably the effect of an organ crushing corset), in a long-sleeved bustle dress, she posed with a parasol in her hand, and beneath a smart wide-brimmed hat, was a puff of blonde curls and ringlets. She was simply stunning, and something told Willow she was an artless, natural beauty. So why on earth would she care to associate herself with the Daughters of the Twilight Veil?
“I don’t recognize her,” said Willow.
But what astonished her the most were the words that next fell from Montgomery’s lips.
“I do,” he said gravely. “She’s the woman with the golden curls.”
Funny how selective memory works. Montgomery didn’t remember much about Celeste Ravensong except that hers was the last face he saw before he died. And she was crying.
For the next day or two, he turned it over and over in his head, clawing into the stores of his memory. He knew she’d come to the Moonstone Saloon all alone, and would return frequently, often staying for hours. He was always so busy, though. Her face sped by so fast in his thoughts, it was almost in a blur of feathers and golden curls.
But then something stuck. She wore a gold chain which she’d absently clutch to her chest as if it brought her comfort. From it dangled an emerald gem, and would swing from her neck like a pendulum. And then, Montgomery had the sinking sense that this woman loved him, even though he could not love her back.
When he told this to Willow, she cringed a little, and tried to urge him to remember more. Was he completely certain he didn’t love her great great aunt Celeste? Did they have an understanding? Had he led her on?
Montgomery knew in his heart there was only one answer to those questions: no.
In the week that followed, they developed a rhythm of existing in the same space physically. Montgomery slept on the floor of Willow’s office, would rise with the sun, make coffee before Dale arrived for work, and proved himself useful behind the bar. Willow had to assure Dale that she would not cut his hours, since her ‘boyfriend’ wasn’t on the payroll.
Willow considered canceling the ball, but Montgomery convinced her it was best not to let on that she knew the Women’s Business Council was just a front for a wicked coven.
Also, it would be a good opportunity to observe the Daughters of the Twilight Veil surreptitiously, and figure out what kind of bad hocus pocus they were up to.
When the night finally arrived, and guests were on their way, Montgomery waited downstairs for Willow in the transformed bookshop. Shelves were covered in thick, velvet drapery that matched the cushions on the barstools, and the only source of lighting was the chandelier and a few sconces.
He cast around, checking on all the details. Trays of finger foods, a signature drink for the evening, and all the bar garnishes were in place. And as he turned toward the footsteps announcing Willow’s arrival from her upstairs rooms, Montgomery’s heart skipped a beat. Or it would have if it was actually beating.
She wore a white gown encrusted with shimmering beads and dramatic sleeves spilling off her exposed shoulders. Her hair was piled high upon her head and a soft waterfall of curls spilled from the crown where a single white ostrich feather sat, ornamented with a bejeweled brooch.
He was stunned into a stupor from her beauty.
She smiled as she approached him, raking her eyes up and down his form.
“You clean up well,” she said impishly then added, “For a robot.”
She’d taken to calling him a robot lately, (whatever that was) in place of the alternative, which was either zombie, vampire, living dead, or animated corpse. None of which accurately described his plight, by the way. He decided to just go with it. He couldn’t do anything about it anyway. And whatever was happening to him was infinitely preferable to floating around as a ghost.
“Did you see to it there is to be no photography?”
“Check,” she said brightly. “All phones and modern devices will be checked at the door. No one’s allowed to bring anything in that didn’t exist in 1912.”
The plan was for Montgomery to work the bar and be essentially invisible to the guests who hardly notice the staff at these things. If he was lucky, he would overhear odds and ends of conversations or meaningful glances between the ladies of the coven, and hopefully piece together their purpose for Willow.
Guests arrived in couples and groups, townspeople he’d seen in the bookshop over the past few weeks. The construction worker named Kyle came in a wool suit accompanied by a woman that was most likely his wife. He introduced the woman to Willow who smiled amiably, then the couple moved on to the appetizers.
Bo arrived in what barely counted as accurate clothing from 1912, but he at least wore a flat cap. Of course, no man would be caught dead in a flat cap at an upscale social gathering, but when it came to dead, who was Montgomery to judge?
He watched as guests mingled and ordered drinks, and thought for a time that the coven sisters weren’t coming. But an hour into the festivities, they came through the door illuminated from behind by the moonlight, turning every male head in the building. He stepped into the darkness to remain hidden from them, but he didn’t recognize any of the ladies from his time, and then decided it was safe they wouldn’t recognize him either. How awkward would that have been?
The four of them split up almost immediately upon arrival, drifting to each corner of the shop as if they were winds of the North, South, East, and West. They had an otherworldly way about them, and Montgomery wondered how Willow could not recognize other witches when she saw them. He could tell there was something off about them right away. But maybe he was predisposed to see them in that light.
After a time, one of the ladies drifted over to the bar and ordered a gin martini. She had dark hair, high cheekbones, and an extremely fierce look about her. He surmised she was the one Willow described as Nadine Bickford, but couldn’t be sure. All the women that came in with her seemed pretty intense.
Then she did something he hadn’t expected. She gazed at him for an uncomfortable length of time, tilting her head ever so slightly.
“I’ve not seen you before,” she said in a silken voice. “And I know everyone in Mysthaven, even if they don’t know me.”
