An old word derived from the verb descry, which means ‘to catch sight of’ Witches sometimes use dark mirrors to see into the future, or into the world of the spirits.”
“Like with a crystal ball?”
“Right, except we don't use crystal balls. They're mostly used in Hollywood and the occasional traveling carnival. You're a lot more likely to have an old, dark mirror lying about than a crystal ball.”
“True.”
“So she would ask the spirits, or ‘old ones,’ to give her advice, and might see visions in the mirror and use those visions to find a solution. She might even come in contact with the spirit of the dead brother.”
Colin was gazing at the ceiling, as if a sacred text was written there and he was simply reading it off the plaster. “She would wait for a waning moon, because that's believed to be the best time for banishing terrors. Then the witch might advise the woman to tear off a bit of a photograph of her brother each night of the waning moon, then burn the pieces on the night of the dark of the moon.”
“So the woman would have to be an active participant?”
“That's best, but the witch might perform this herself on behalf of the woman, with or without her knowledge. Of course, she'd have to have the picture, or something once owned by the brother.”
Andrew thought about this for a moment and remembered a photograph in Nicola's bedroom, a picture of three children at a beach. “Would a photocopy of a picture work?”
“Oh yes, certainly; it's the image itself, not the medium upon which it is embedded, that matters. And if there is a new relationship involved”—here he looked briefly, though indirectly, at Andrew, then returned to the ceiling—“she would use a waxing moon to bring about a good relationship.”
“How would she do that?”
“Oh, during the waxing moon, she might encourage the woman to take a potion every night to help her dream. She might be encouraged to visualize herself in a loving relationship with someone. The witch might secretly bind two sticks together, one gathered from the garden of the woman and one from the garden of a suitable man. This would encourage the relationship. She would probably gather the sticks on a full moon and bind the sticks with red thread.”
Andrew listened to Colin with respect, as he might have any colleague at the university. Colin was a scholar, there was no question about that, a serious student of these arts, an expert. And yet Andrew's faith in Cartesian analysis, in dispassionate reasoning, left little breathing space for such arcane notions. Skepticism rose from him like a spiritual seasickness, but he fought it down. What choice was there, really? It did not seem there was anything in the world as he knew it—the world of logic, of philosophy, of reason—that could banish the ghost that plagued the woman he now, to his utter surprise, thought of as his beloved.
“Colin, I know you don't do this every day, and I appreciate it immensely. The next question, I suppose, is whether you can think of anyone who might perform such a ceremony?”
Andrew did not expect Colin to suggest anyone, but here the museum owner surprised him with an almost childlike grin. “You already know such a person, my dear fellow, and I would recommend her wholeheartedly, although I cannot promise she would do it.”
Andrew looked at Colin, his head cocked to one side in a silent question.
“Flora Penwellan,” Colin said.
“Flora at the Cobweb?”
“The very same. A gifted and gentle witch. Runs in her family. I knew her mother.”
“Colin, I think she might help after all; this person's her friend.”
“Well, then, I leave it to you. And welcome to our particular bit of old Cornish culture.” Colin extended his hand and Andrew took it. The two nodded, and Andrew left.
From her studio, just across the narrow river from the museum, Nicola saw Andrew emerge and turn upriver toward the bridge. What was he doing there? Was he looking for her? At first, she thought she would call out to him, but she decided against it. What would she say? What could she do? And what did it matter, anyway? She threw herself onto the chaise by her easel and pounded the tufted upholstery in frustration.
Then an idea bubbled up out of her confusion, and she picked up the phone.
In places such as Boscastle, steep-sided valleys accentuate flooding by acting as huge funnels for the runoff and channel it very