Witch Water Read Online Free Page B

shoulders; a plunging neckline made no secret of a robust
bosom. Fanshawe at once felt jarred by her image: she looked
tantalizing, voluptuous, densely erotic…and atrocious. Her narrow
face and thin lips suggested a hereditary connection, and so did
the high cheekbones. His daughter, not his
wife,  Fanshawe supposed; and, like Wraxall, she was not
without some occult regalia: several rings on her raised right hand
possessed geometric designs of an astrological bent. Standing well
behind Wraxall, however, was a dark-haired, clean-shaven man whose
dark sulk and heavy jaw suggested subservience. Large eyes and a
rather wide face were the subject’s most salient features.
    “They were quite a trio, I’ll tell ya,”
Baxter remarked.
    Fanshawe felt particularly taken by the
painting’s indeterminate visual effect: dark, dark colors made
darker by age seemed on the other hand queerly bright in certain
details. The woman’s rings, for instance, seemed painted with such
exactitude they could’ve been photographs; the same went for
Wraxall’s pendant, and the same, too, for their eyes, a stunning
sea-green. But the background existed in such sheer murk that
nothing at all could be made of it, and the more Fanshawe peered,
he thought that other faces might lurk there, as if in smoke or
shadow.
    “That’s Wraxall there, and his daughter
Evanore,” Baxter explained. “And that unhappy looking fella
standing behind is Callister Rood, the family man-servant.”
    “But why name your hotel after Wraxall, of
all people?” Fanshawe asked.
    “Wraxall built this house in the
1650s, and lived here till his death. It’s all been refurbished, of
course, but the outer structure has barely been touched—didn’t need
to be. It’s all mortised oak, and sealed with insect sap, the best
kind of weatherproofing. They built houses right  back
in them days. Wraxall was a well-respected member of the
community…for a while.”
    Fanshawe peered at the hesitation, which may
have been deliberate. “For a while? ”
    “Until the town found out the truth about
him.”
    “His occultism, in other words?”
    “Oh, yeah, all that and a good deal
more.”
    For whatever reason, Fanshawe felt
intrigued. His gaze kept switching back and forth between Wraxall’s
eyes and his daughter’s. He was about to ask for more details, but
a bell from the front desk rang.
    “That’s for me, Mr. Fanshawe. Hope you enjoy
your stay!”
    Baxter lumbered off to tend to more guests,
leaving Fanshawe mystified amid a flurry of questions. He examined
the painting for several minutes more before he finally left the
cove.
    They must be having a convention here or
something, he guessed of the next crowd of patrons waiting to
check in. They were mostly older men, dressed in suits, but many
bearded and long-haired. Immediately Fanshawe thought of
academicians. He glanced down another short hall, then felt
instantly enthused. SQUIRE’S PUB read a transom sign, and within he
could see a small but neatly appointed hotel bar bearing the same
decorative motif as the hotel.
    Behind the bar top, Abbie was polishing some
glasses; she smiled at him and waved, silently mouthing, Hi,
Stew .
    Her eyes glittered. Man, she’s
attractive, Fanshawe thought, and she DID promise to tell me
more about the town’s history. It seemed a perfect excuse to go
in, but just as he would do so, at least a dozen guests beat him to
it and filled the bar in only moments. Damn it, he thought. Guess I’ll go for a walk instead. I can talk to her later when
there aren’t so many people in there.
    He walked back toward the entrance, paused,
then ducked into a cove. He wasn’t aware of what induced him to do
so, yet next he found himself looking back down at that bottom
shelf, at the shiny optical device.
    He re-read the label: WITCH-WATER
LOOKING-GLASS, MADE BY JACOB WRAXALL, CIRCA 1672.
    Witch-water, he reflected. What on
earth could that be?
     
     
    (II)
     
    Sports jacket over his shoulder,