Opium Whispers - Chapter 1
December 1901
Victoria, British Columbia
It was a fool’s errand, that was for certain. The damp fog swirled nearly waist high, but I held my torch as a shield, determined that neither the pitch of dark nor the quiver in my legs would sway me from my mission. I had practiced my way to the shop by daylight, under the pretense of collecting Father from the smoke den. Madame Evelyn’s Palms and Potions was easy to miss; a sliver wedged between a gambling parlor and the opium house that had robbed me of my birthright and inheritance.
“You’re almost there, Charlotte,” I muttered aloud in the vacant alleyway, refusing to dwell on how my younger sister Emily would have no such fear about visiting Madame Evelyn. I often marveled that we were sisters at all, as I was timid as a church mouse and scared of nearly every little thing.
I turned the corner, the faint din of Opium Alley stopping me in my tracks. Though the hour was late, the scene would no doubt be as it was during the day: the shadows of men littering the doorways, ghosts of their former selves. The stench of death and excrement would force its way down my throat, causing me to gag behind my kerchief every time. There would be children too, sent by desperate mothers to bring their fathers home.
I continued on my way, my steps slower as fright grew to a turbulent ocean in my guts. Home beckoned me, luring me with visions of a warm bed, out of the December chill. But fool hardy or not, I was desperate. I needed escape. I needed a love potion.
I arrived outside Madame Evelyn’s somewhat out of breath, a trickle of sweat dampening the shift under the heavy layers of my woolen dress and coat. The sharp winter air made my eyes sting, and I pulled off my glove to wipe them as I stared up at the heavy oak door.
“The door of any merchant shall tell you the character of the man inside,” my father used to quip, in the days before the drug had ailed his countenance. His thick arms, scarred from his days of adventure, would wave as he talked, instructing both Emily and me in his wisdom.
Such a door would cost a fair coin, I mused as I put down my torch and pushed open the door, greeted by a waft of fragrance, spiced like the stalls of the Chinese merchants that lined the streets on market day. I blinked in the scene before me: ablaze with the light of a dozen candles or more, and a large table sat in the center, adorned with what I guessed was a crystal ball. My gaze startled away from the glittering ball by the squawk of a large bird whose cage hung in the far corner.
“Ah, Jehoshaphat, no need to scare off the poor girl.” A voice came from the corner behind the cage, smooth and sultry. “I saw you coming, Charlotte Bjornson, on this dark December eve.” She stepped into view, surprising me with her appearance. I had assumed that a fortune teller would be hunched over and haggard, but the woman before me was fair and curvaceous.
“M-m-madame Evelyn,” I stammered, even more nervous now, starkly aware of my own awkward looks. “I’ve come for a love potion.”
She huffed a laugh, coming into the center of the room to stand in front of me. Her blond hair, swept up in a magnificent fashion, glinted in the candlelight. “I’ve heard on these grim streets that it will take much more than a love potion to save you and your sister,” she said in a sympathetic tone, though her eyes held a mischievous glint. “Quelle disgrace.”
I straightened my shoulders at her words, and lifted my chin up, as I had seen Emily do when she wanted to impress her position on someone. “Our family is just fine,” I assured her, though I did not believe it myself. “I’ve merely come to hex a spell on a man I’ve attached my sights on.”
She cocked her eyebrow at me, her lips pursed. But she said nothing, beckoning me with a tilt of her head to an alcove that lay beyond the main room. I followed, filling my lungs deeply with the hope of calming my racing heart. It seemed that everyone knew of my family’s misfortune. The wealth that had once made me and Emily the diamonds of society had been lost—evaporated, it seemed— to gambling and addiction. My father had not returned home last month, and now, the debt collectors had come calling. Emily and I had kept them at bay at first, selling off some of our finer belongings while our mother lay in bed, overtaken by melancholy.
“I shall need two potions,” I declared, finding my voice. Though Emily was prettier than I, she had a sharp tongue that most men found difficult. It was imperative that we found husbands of good standing quickly to save our reputation and family estate. “In case the first does not work.”
“Are you doubting my abilities?” She whirled, nearly tripping me up. “Don’t let Jehoshaphat hear you. He’s a phoenix, and very protective of me.”
I nearly scoffed, then caught myself and covered with a cough. “He’s a fine bird, Madame Evelyn, but I’m afraid you have been swindled. The phoenix is a creature of folklore, not an animal one might find in a menagerie.” Still, I turned to look at the bird with his peculiar orange feathers and purple tuft. I felt a pang of remorse that I could not recount the tale to my father, who had travelled many lands and seen exotic creatures galore. I missed the man of my youth, who had told us bedtime tales of the high seas, of the treasure he’d looted from foreign lands.
The sound of glass jars being pulled off a shelf brought me back to the present, where Madame Evelyn was mixing herbs and tinctures into a clay bowl. She glanced up at me with narrowed eyes, and I took a step back, realizing my comment about her bird had offended. Not wanting her to make me a brew of noxious poison instead, I searched the room for something to speak on, finally settling on the crystal ball that had caught my attention when I arrived.
“Please, Madame, tell me about the beautiful sphere on the table. What magic does it contain?” I winced as my voice squeaked over the word magic, as it might anger her more to hear my obvious disbelief. Yes, I was here to procure a love potion, but it had been desperation that had driven me to do so. Magic was stuff and nonsense, merely an illusion to an unworldly eye.
“Crystal gazing is a fine and delicate art,” she said, casting me another suspicious look. She paused, concentrating on crushing the mixture in front of her with enough force to make the table shake. “T’was your father’s favourite.”
My eyebrows shot up and I turned once again towards the glass orb set atop its wooden stand. Whereas before it had appeared white, it now seemed to cast a greenish hue. “My father?”
“Yes. You may think me a fool, running such a business amongst establishments of ill repute. That I would be better off attending the parties of the upper class, telling women of high society the falsehoods they want to hear, to keep my pockets lined with gold and jewels.” She laughed and I heard a note of remorse, making me wonder at the past of the woman before me. She leaned in close, putting her cleavage on full display. “Let me tell you, Miss Bjornson, that the men that seek the comfort of the opium’s haze are either running from their past or hiding from their future. They come here, wanting to be told the things that will let their souls rest in peace. And in return, I learn their secrets.”
“My father was no such man,” I said, cutting her off abruptly with a slight stomp of my foot. The idea that he had kept secrets from his family was too much to bear on top of everything else. “He was at peace with his soul.”
Madame Evelyn raised a brow at me, then turned and reached for a ladle, dipping it into a large cauldron set by the hearth. She carefully added the liquid to her bowl, gave it one final mix, then poured the tincture into two separate vials. She corked them and wiped the outside clean, before turning to me with her hand outstretched.
I nodded, fishing into my coat for a few coins. After I placed them in her palm, she gave me the vials, and I slipped one into each pocket. “Thank you for your time,” I said, still smarting from her words about my father. They hurt because I had no idea if they were true—he had become like a stranger to me these past years, his eyes glazed and movements sluggish.
I trained my eyes on the floor, avoiding a parting look, and headed towards the door. The wind howled outside, reminding me that the walk home would turn my blood cold.
“Wait.” Her voice had taken a deeper octave, and I couldn’t help looking back over my shoulder. She was standing near the table, looking intently down into the crystal ball, which now glowed a bright purple. “Let me tell you your future, Charlotte Bjornson.”
“No.” I shook my head, pressing my back against the oak door. The cold night air whistled through the cracks, seeping past my coat. I shivered, my flesh suddenly covered in goosebumps. “I must leave now.”
Despite my words, I stood mesmerized as her hands moved from the tabletop to the space above the glass globe. I widened my eyes as a white mist began to rise, curling around her slender fingers. Her eyes, a minute ago keen and alert, became dark and ominous. “Like the phoenix, you shall become ash before you are reborn. You will be nothing, no better than the dogs that prowl these streets, feeding off the scraps thrown to you by men who care naught for you.” She paused, wrenching her gaze away from the ball to look at me, hunched against the door. “You will be a slave.”
My chest filled with a fiery rage at her words, and the crystal orb in front of her flared a blinding red. Madame Evelyn gasped and looked at me, wide-eyed. “Child,” she croaked as the mist wrapped around her wrists, pulling them together as if tied with rope. “You must not—”
I did not let her finish. I wanted to hear no more from this witch. I turned, and with trembling hands, yanked open the door. A gust of bone-chilling air swirled around me as I headed back out into the night, alone.