Toil and Trouble (part 1)

Since we've just had Valentine's Day, it seems only fitting to give you all a love story! It's a bit long for one post, though, so I'm spreading it out over two parts. Let us begin!

The Double Double was not your average speakeasy. If you weren’t paying a lot of attention, you probably wouldn’t notice; it had the usual traits of being in the back room of a respectable business (Woodward’s Pharmacy, in this case) with a secret entry, the comfortable, shadowy corners for imbibing illicit liquids, and a trio of jazz musicians in the corner. The strains of wistful brass and contemplative double bass cloaked the murmur of scattered evening conversation echoing around a space that was more sparse than glamorous, but cosy nevertheless.

If you looked closer, however, you would see that, aside from the musicians, no-one looked or acted much like the hedonistic crowd who usually frequented such establishments. The customers were not raucous, or giddy, or happily drunk in any way. Some of them looked haggard, others nervous or desperate. Most of them just looked relieved, as though this was the most relaxed they’d been since 1913. Nestled in their respective dimly-lit nooks or seated more openly at slightly wobbling tables, the patrons nursed a wide range of drinks: some with whiskey or brandy, others with something more exotic and pungent. Their attire ranged from the sturdy, unadorned daywear of the working classes to the neatly-brushed and glittering evening dress of the wealthy. The mood was, overall, peaceful and reserved—one did not get involved in someone else’s need to visit the Double Double. Presiding over this melting-pot-in-microcosm from behind the bar was Morgaine, a witch.

Morgaine had not expected to find herself dispensing potions in a hidden club behind a pharmacy in Greenwich Village. She had been born in a Norman village somewhere in the vicinity of Caen—she no longer remembered its name—but when she was a child her mother, who had the gift of second sight, determined it prudent to leave France for the relative safety of America. That had been in 1907. Morgaine’s mother had always planned to go back, as her rural herbalism did not adapt well to the hard concrete and sharp-edged brick of New York, and so once the War was declared over she packed herself onto the first boat heading east. By this time, however, Morgaine had grown to love the city that vexed her mother so. She had wandered the streets and discovered their secrets; she had taken the teachings of her ancestors and reinvented them for this new environment. And so, with a hereditary stubbornness, she had quarrelled with her mother, and she had stayed behind. They had not spoken since.

Nowadays, the Double Double thoroughly served Morgaine’s purposes. Charles Woodward, the pharmacist whose family had owned the premises for years, had become one of Morgaine’s early customers after a serious row with his boy-friend at the time, and the two of them had formed an easy partnership. Charlie even let her stay in one of the back rooms of the pharmacy in exchange for keeping an eye on the place and discouraging thieves. While he treated people’s physical ills with the wonders of modern medicine in the front of the building, Morgaine treated everything else in the back. Girls who wanted to feel prettier, boys who wanted to feel braver, old folks who wanted to stop forgetting, soldiers who wanted to stop remembering: all of them were quietly directed through the dispensary and into the Double Double.

It had been a busy day; they were always busy days. Morgaine had been swamped with a flurry of debutantes, one of her least favourite groups of people. As soon as you got more than two of the giggling girls in a room together, they became entirely unable to take anything seriously and unlikely to remember any instructions they were given. And inevitably, because their world was so gilded and restricted to marriageability, they all wanted the same things: beauty, charm, and the eye of this year’s most eligible bachelor. Morgaine generally solved all of these “deficiencies” by doling out small bottles of a little something bitter to boost their confidence and a solemn warning that with so many girls seeking the same help results could not be guaranteed, and the glittering beauties paid through the nose for it. As they should.

As the evening progressed and the debs stopped coming, things quietened down and the regulars began to relax a bit. So did Morgaine, although she still had much to do. The influx had left her low on some of her tinctures, and one of them in particular required a complex method of preparation. It was because she was so absorbed in this process that she missed the arrival of someone new.

“Morgaine. Hey, Morgaine.”

“Not now, Voltaire, I need to concentrate.” Morgaine set her repurposed absinthe fountain to a steady drip—it was appallingly expensive to have shipped from Paris, but Morgaine found it invaluable—and side-eyed the fluffy black cat lounging at the end of the bar.

The cat, Voltaire, twitched his tail and side-eyed Morgaine right back. “Tell that to the kid who just walked in. She looks pretty desperate. By the way,” he added with a smirk, “she’s also desperately pretty.”

Morgaine sighed and turned around—then had to remind herself to inhale again. Hell and damnation, but the cat was right. She was pretty. The look of tragic devastation on her face made the young woman look like the heroine of one of those melodramatic films Morgaine kept seeing posters for. She was not a wealthy debutante, that was clear, and the large carpet bag she carried with her told a story on its own. Whoever this girl was, she didn’t seem to have anywhere to go, and Morgaine had always been a sucker for damsels in distress.

The damsel in question surveyed the Double Double with a critical eye, presumably making up her mind whether or not she would stay. She spent a few extra moments lingering on the clearly non-alcoholic tinctures brewing behind the bar, and for a moment Morgaine thought she’d turn to go. Instead, the girl approached the bar and perched on a stool at the end of it, hauling her bag up to her chest like a shield.

In an attempt to look suave and competent, Morgaine leaned against the bar and smiled at the girl, who met her gaze for a moment before turning to stare stoically, tragically ahead. After observing a few interminable moments of silent misery, Morgaine pulled a bottle and a glass from under the bar and poured the girl a measure of amber liquid. The film-star eyes narrowed in slight suspicion.

“That’s just bourbon,” Morgaine explained. “Not magic, I promise, just very illegal. Should help you feel more like telling me what’s on your mind, though.” She grabbed another glass and poured some bourbon for herself as well. After throwing back her portion, she was pleased to see the girl loosen up a bit, set the carpet bag to the side, and reach for her own glass. “An introduction would be a good start. I’m Morgaine.”

“I know,” replied the girl, revealing a soft Irish lilt. “Mr Woodward mentioned. I’m Millie.”

“Well, it’s a real pleasure to meet you Millie, if I may say so. Now, what sort of trouble was it that brought you here?”

“Who says it has to be trouble?” Millie asked with a commendable attempt at nonchalance as she sipped her drink. The first potent sip made her splutter a bit, but she quickly regained her composure. Morgaine couldn’t help but smile a little.

“It certainly isn’t the booze.”

Millie loosed an involuntary, nervous chuckle and wrung the tumbler in her hands. She and Morgaine remained in silence together for several breaths, waiting. Morgaine could see the muscles in Millie’s hands—strong hands—tense and flex around the glass. She didn’t get the impression that this girl was used to needing to ask for help.

“Have you got family in the city?” Morgaine asked, though she already suspected the answer.

“Not anymore,” Millie replied, looking somewhat relieved at the change of topic. “I came out with my Mam and sister Ginny some years back. Ginny got married last year and moved out west, so I’m on my own now.”

“And your mother?”

“The ‘flu got her soon after we arrived in New York. Ginny looked after me well enough, though, and I’m missing her something fierce about now.”

Morgaine nodded solemnly and topped up their glasses.

“I know the feeling. The first winter after my Maman went back to France was a difficult time for me, too. It probably would have been easier if I hadn’t been too proud to write to her to ask for help, but…” She shrugged a shoulder and smiled. “I’ve always liked to be independent.”

Millie chuckled lightly, and Morgaine thought it sounded like bells at Christmastime. A movement caught her eye, and she saw another patron enter the speakeasy: one of the usuals, a pilot who had a heavily scarred face, a strong limp, and recurrent nightmares of being burned alive. He must be having a hard time of it, Morgaine thought, since he wasn’t expected to come in for a refill until next week.

She excused herself to Millie, promising to come back as soon as she’d seen to this gentleman. He was hovering in a shadow a little ways behind where Millie was sitting, and she had to turn to see who Morgaine was talking about. To her credit, she took in the pilot’s injuries without shock or pity, and simply settled more comfortably in her seat while Morgaine prepared a collection of dried herbs for him.

Suddenly, Millie jerked upright and looked down: Voltaire, who until this point had been emulating an onyx statuette further down the bar, had silently jumped to the ground and was now gently head-butting her calf. She cooed gently, and reached down to scratch him obligingly behind a velvety ear.

“Well, hello you. Aren’t you a friendly one, then?”

“I am today,” replied the cat.

Millie started, swivelling her saucer eyes onto Morgaine. The witch shrugged a shoulder casually as she wrapped the pilot’s remedy in brown paper.

“You should take advantage of that. He doesn’t usually care for new people.”

“Oh, right.” To Voltaire’s audible delight, Millie resumed scratching his head.

The pilot approached the bar, only slightly apprehensively, and exchanged a couple of worn bills for the package Morgaine handed him.

“You don’t seem to be doing so well,” she said in a low voice. “Has your sleep been worse lately?”

The pilot produced a bottle from his coat pocket. “Mr Woodward is helping with that one, ma’am.”

Morgaine gave a single, firm nod. Partnering with a pharmacist was an idea she’d never regretted; between the two of them they were able to help people far more comprehensively than either of them could alone, and for some (like this pilot), that collaboration could be the only thing keeping them going.

“Are you going to stay for a drink this time?”

As usual, the pilot declined. He thanked Morgaine for the herbs, and limped slowly out the door. Morgaine watched as he left, letting the mournful jazz fill her head for a moment.

Part 2 will be released as next month's writing snippet, so stay tuned!