Review
"Edghill has a chatty, witty style that keeps the action fast-paced. Definitely a new twist to the mystery genre."--USA Today
Product Description
Like Susan Isaacs, Rosemary Edghill cast a keenly observant, friendly, yet faintly amused eye on an intriguing American micro-culture. Like The Witches of Eastwick, the Bast novels offer a very new view of the practitioners of a very old faith. Like Alice Hoffman, Edghill allows that there's still magic in the air.
Rosemary Edghill's Bast novels are a real treat. Bell, Book, and Murder contains all three Bast novels, Speak Daggers to Her, Book of Moons, and the first softcover edition of The Bowl of Night (excerpted in USA Today).
Rosemary Edghill's Bast novels are a real treat. Bell, Book, and Murder contains all three Bast novels, Speak Daggers to Her, Book of Moons, and the first softcover edition of The Bowl of Night (excerpted in USA Today).
About the Author
Rosemary Edghill is a prolific writer in several genres, under her own name and various pseudonyms. Her Bast books, witty mysteries featuring a Wiccan amateur detective, were collected in Bell, Book, and Murder. She has also written Regency Romances and fantasy novels, including several collaborations with Mercedes Lackey (Spirits White as Lightning and Mad Maudlin) and Andre Norton (Shadow of Albion and Leopard in Exile).
Edghill lives in upstate New York with several cats and several Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, which she shows in obedience competitions.
Edghill lives in upstate New York with several cats and several Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, which she shows in obedience competitions.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I
FRIDAY, JUNE 15, 5:20 P.M.
I could say this was any large Eastern city, but you'd know it was New York. I could say my name was Isobel Gowdie, or Janet Kyteler, or even Tam Lin, but what's on my paychecks and phone bills isn't important. My name--my real name--is Bast.
I live in New York and I'm a Witch.
Put away your pitchforks--or more likely, here in the nineties, stifle your yawns and stop edging toward the door. It's just my religion, into which I put about as much time and money as you do into whatever you do that isn't for the biweekly paycheck. I'm not inclined to criticize any way a person might have found to waste excess money, and I'm not having as much fun as you probably imagine I'm having. No naked orgies under the moon, for example; the Parks Commission would object and it's no way to have safe sex. When modern Witches meet, the main concern is usually how to fit eight people and the couch into a room the size of a Manhattan living room and make sure you leave with your own Reeboks. No lubricious fantasy there.
Just one more thing about the W word and then I'll leave it, since it's a subject that either bores you silly or you've got all the wrong ideas and won't change them for anything I say. Personally, I'd rather we called ourselves anything else, from Pagans to Earth Religionists to Aquarians. It would fit most of us better: over-educated ex-hippies trying to unscrew the inscrutable, trying to make sense of life through ritual and gnosis. But we got stuck with the W word back in the forties, when a lovely half-mad Brit picked up Dr. Margaret Murray's anthropological dream-mongering about the witch trials in western Europe and tried to weave a modern religion out of it, patching and piecing from everything that caught his fancy.
By the time Gerald B. Gardner was done, his "wicca-craften" had damn little resemblance to the Witches out of history and fairy tales, and so do we. Now we're stuck with the name and a tag-end of faded glory that some of us spend a lot of time justifying to anyone who shows the least interest.
I don't. What I was trying to justify, this particular Friday, was a left-hand margin the typesetter had accidentally set ragged and the client didn't want to pay to get reset. Since the typesetter didn't want to eat the cost and reset it for free, that left me, a Number 10 single-sided razor blade, and a lot of freelance hours.
The Bookie Joint--Houston Graphics if I answer the phone before 5:00--is one of those places you've never heard of unless you're in the business--a freelance studio that does layout and pasteup, turning piles of typeset galleys into pages of type. They call the people who do it artists, which is the only glamorous thing about the job. Layout artist is a dead-end job in a dying field; most books these days are set page-for-page, and desktop publishing is taking over for the really small presses.
But if you don't mind earning less than ten dollars an hour with no bennies and no guarantees, it's a great job. Everybody who works here is something else--actors, writers, artists. Your schedule is flexible to fit around your other jobs. You can get as many or as few hours a week as you need--except when something like the job in front of me comes up. I'd promised Raymond I'd finish it before I left tonight. He's our art director and takes it almost as seriously as he does modern dance. Ray's a dancer--at least he was while he still had his knees. We have some framed stills on the walls. Jazz Ballet of Harlem. Pretty.
Ragged left instead of ragged right. You'd think Stereotype never typeset a sheaf of poems before.
The phone rang and I was glad to answer it.
"Bookie-Joint-Can-I-Help-You?"
"Bast?"
This narrowed the caller down to a member of my immediate world.
"Bast?"
"Yo?"
"Miriam's dead."
It was Lace on the phone, which meant that Miriam was Miriam Seabrook, and Miriam was my age. People in their middle thirties don't just up and die.
"Bast?" Lace sounded half a step away from hysteria. "We were going out to dinner and I used my key and she was lying there on the bed and I thought she was asleep--" Lace took a deep breath and started to cry in high, weepy yelps.
"Did you call the police?"
I thought I was fine--after all. I wasn't the one who'd walked in and found my lover dead--but my jaw muscles ached when I pushed the words out. Not Miriam. Not dead. I didn't even know her very well. I plea-bargained.
"I can't. You know I can't. You know what they'll do to me--oh, please, please, can't you come over?" Lace started to cry in earnest, a real Irish peening for the healins.
Lace is a dyke radical, which means she has a lot of not-quite-paranoid fantasies about what the Real World will do to her just for breathing. Not quite paranoid, because her mother got a custody order to take her kids away from her and the U.S. government revoked her passport when she came out of the closet. She used to be some kind of engineer until she joined the lunatic fringe.
"Lace. Listen. Call 911 and tell them. You don't have to tell them who you are. Just do it. I'll be right over."
Muffled breathing. Too late I wondered if Miriam had been murdered and was the murderer still lurking around her apartment waiting to make it two for two.
"Lace? Are you there?" Fear is contagious; I was all alone in the studio and it had seemed a friendly place until the phone rang. I could see late afternoon sunbeams white with dust. Sunshine. Daytime. Normalcy. Right?
"Lace."
"I'm here." A tiny little whisper.
"I'll be there as soon as I can, okay? Okay?"
Lace hung up on me.
* * *
I barely remembered to lock all three of the inside locks at Houston Graphics, and I was halfway down the block before I realized I'd forgotten to lock the inside lobby door. By then I had no intention of going back.
New Yorkers are supposed to have this inborn instinct for getting cabs. I don't. Hell, I can't even figure out the bus routes. Fortunately, Miriam's is right on the subway. I caught the D at Broadway/Lafayette, changed to the A at 59th Street, and headed uptown.
I got off at the 211th Street stop, staggered up the stairs (still under construction, as they have been for ever and aye) to the late afternoon howl of sirens and car horns, and into the building on Park Terrace East.
No answer on the buzzer. I punched buttons at random until somebody who should have known better buzzed me in. The elevator was broken so I took the stairs, and by now I was sure what I was going to find.
Fifth floor. Five flights up. Miriam's door was open.
My mouth tasted like burnt copper. I almost called for Miriam, but Miriam was dead, so I heard, unless it had all been somebody's idea of a sick joke.
"Lace?"
I stood in the open doorway. The apartment sounded empty. So I went in and hunted through the whole place real fast. No alien muggers with chain saws. No Lace, either, and no way of knowing whether she'd called the cops. Her set of keys to Miriam's place was on the living room table, right where she'd probably dropped them.
Miriam was in the bedroom on the bed. And she was dead.
I don't know why they always say in books that people weren't sure or couldn't quite believe it. You know--in the pit of your stomach, instantly, beyond doubt. This is no longer a person.
She didn't look quite real--like a waxworks, almost-not-quite life-size. She had on her underpants and a khaki T-shirt, and she was flopped there just like she'd gone to sleep. There was a wet spot on the sheet--gritty reality of the relaxed sphincter--but the sense of peace, and rest, and absence was almost numbing.
Or maybe I was just in shock.
For something to do I went back out and put Lace's keys in my purse. It'd been over an hour since she'd called me, and it was starting to look like a safe bet Lace hadn't phoned 911. I wondered why she'd phoned me.
So I could do it, of course. And I knew I was going to, which irritated me. But first I was going to take another look around the place, which wasn't as stupid at a time like this as it sounds. Miriam was a wannabe Witch, and a Neopagan, and I didn't want a bunch of people who couldn't tell the difference between that and Anton LaVey splashing "Satanist" all over the New York Post.
But all the posters on the walls looked more feminist than anything else, and no one who didn't know what they were looking at would recognize Miriam's altar.
I went back to Miriam. Priestess of the Goddess and death is all part of the Great Cycle of Rebirth and all that crap, but I still didn't want to touch her. She had an intense perfume, like a cross between pine needles and fresh bread. I couldn't concentrate on anything, and all the details except the body on the bed kept slipping away. Finally I made myself hook my fingernail under the silver box-chain around Miriam's neck. It would be just as well if she didn't go to the morgue wearing a pentacle.
Morgue. Miriam was dead. Damn it, she was my age, maybe even a few years younger, and people my age just don't curl up and die.
And now I was stripping the body so no one would know she was a Neopagan.
And I call Lace the paranoid one.
I was more keyed up than I thought, which was why I yelped and jumped and jerked the chain so her head rolled toward me as the pendant slipped out of her shirt.
Because Miriam wasn't wearing a pentacle--that nice chaste star-in-a-circle that's the badge of office of practically everyone here on the New Aquarian Frontier. What Miriam was wearing on that long silver chain was little and brown and nasty, and eventually my heart slowed down and I saw it was a mummified bird claw of some kind, with the stump wrapped in silver wire so she could string it on the chain. The nails were painted red.
"Oh, fuck…" I said very softly. Then I unhooked the chain and slid it free, because out of civic spirit I did not want Miriam found wearing a dead chicken foot either. And I didn't want it touching her.
I didn't wan...
FRIDAY, JUNE 15, 5:20 P.M.
I could say this was any large Eastern city, but you'd know it was New York. I could say my name was Isobel Gowdie, or Janet Kyteler, or even Tam Lin, but what's on my paychecks and phone bills isn't important. My name--my real name--is Bast.
I live in New York and I'm a Witch.
Put away your pitchforks--or more likely, here in the nineties, stifle your yawns and stop edging toward the door. It's just my religion, into which I put about as much time and money as you do into whatever you do that isn't for the biweekly paycheck. I'm not inclined to criticize any way a person might have found to waste excess money, and I'm not having as much fun as you probably imagine I'm having. No naked orgies under the moon, for example; the Parks Commission would object and it's no way to have safe sex. When modern Witches meet, the main concern is usually how to fit eight people and the couch into a room the size of a Manhattan living room and make sure you leave with your own Reeboks. No lubricious fantasy there.
Just one more thing about the W word and then I'll leave it, since it's a subject that either bores you silly or you've got all the wrong ideas and won't change them for anything I say. Personally, I'd rather we called ourselves anything else, from Pagans to Earth Religionists to Aquarians. It would fit most of us better: over-educated ex-hippies trying to unscrew the inscrutable, trying to make sense of life through ritual and gnosis. But we got stuck with the W word back in the forties, when a lovely half-mad Brit picked up Dr. Margaret Murray's anthropological dream-mongering about the witch trials in western Europe and tried to weave a modern religion out of it, patching and piecing from everything that caught his fancy.
By the time Gerald B. Gardner was done, his "wicca-craften" had damn little resemblance to the Witches out of history and fairy tales, and so do we. Now we're stuck with the name and a tag-end of faded glory that some of us spend a lot of time justifying to anyone who shows the least interest.
I don't. What I was trying to justify, this particular Friday, was a left-hand margin the typesetter had accidentally set ragged and the client didn't want to pay to get reset. Since the typesetter didn't want to eat the cost and reset it for free, that left me, a Number 10 single-sided razor blade, and a lot of freelance hours.
The Bookie Joint--Houston Graphics if I answer the phone before 5:00--is one of those places you've never heard of unless you're in the business--a freelance studio that does layout and pasteup, turning piles of typeset galleys into pages of type. They call the people who do it artists, which is the only glamorous thing about the job. Layout artist is a dead-end job in a dying field; most books these days are set page-for-page, and desktop publishing is taking over for the really small presses.
But if you don't mind earning less than ten dollars an hour with no bennies and no guarantees, it's a great job. Everybody who works here is something else--actors, writers, artists. Your schedule is flexible to fit around your other jobs. You can get as many or as few hours a week as you need--except when something like the job in front of me comes up. I'd promised Raymond I'd finish it before I left tonight. He's our art director and takes it almost as seriously as he does modern dance. Ray's a dancer--at least he was while he still had his knees. We have some framed stills on the walls. Jazz Ballet of Harlem. Pretty.
Ragged left instead of ragged right. You'd think Stereotype never typeset a sheaf of poems before.
The phone rang and I was glad to answer it.
"Bookie-Joint-Can-I-Help-You?"
"Bast?"
This narrowed the caller down to a member of my immediate world.
"Bast?"
"Yo?"
"Miriam's dead."
It was Lace on the phone, which meant that Miriam was Miriam Seabrook, and Miriam was my age. People in their middle thirties don't just up and die.
"Bast?" Lace sounded half a step away from hysteria. "We were going out to dinner and I used my key and she was lying there on the bed and I thought she was asleep--" Lace took a deep breath and started to cry in high, weepy yelps.
"Did you call the police?"
I thought I was fine--after all. I wasn't the one who'd walked in and found my lover dead--but my jaw muscles ached when I pushed the words out. Not Miriam. Not dead. I didn't even know her very well. I plea-bargained.
"I can't. You know I can't. You know what they'll do to me--oh, please, please, can't you come over?" Lace started to cry in earnest, a real Irish peening for the healins.
Lace is a dyke radical, which means she has a lot of not-quite-paranoid fantasies about what the Real World will do to her just for breathing. Not quite paranoid, because her mother got a custody order to take her kids away from her and the U.S. government revoked her passport when she came out of the closet. She used to be some kind of engineer until she joined the lunatic fringe.
"Lace. Listen. Call 911 and tell them. You don't have to tell them who you are. Just do it. I'll be right over."
Muffled breathing. Too late I wondered if Miriam had been murdered and was the murderer still lurking around her apartment waiting to make it two for two.
"Lace? Are you there?" Fear is contagious; I was all alone in the studio and it had seemed a friendly place until the phone rang. I could see late afternoon sunbeams white with dust. Sunshine. Daytime. Normalcy. Right?
"Lace."
"I'm here." A tiny little whisper.
"I'll be there as soon as I can, okay? Okay?"
Lace hung up on me.
* * *
I barely remembered to lock all three of the inside locks at Houston Graphics, and I was halfway down the block before I realized I'd forgotten to lock the inside lobby door. By then I had no intention of going back.
New Yorkers are supposed to have this inborn instinct for getting cabs. I don't. Hell, I can't even figure out the bus routes. Fortunately, Miriam's is right on the subway. I caught the D at Broadway/Lafayette, changed to the A at 59th Street, and headed uptown.
I got off at the 211th Street stop, staggered up the stairs (still under construction, as they have been for ever and aye) to the late afternoon howl of sirens and car horns, and into the building on Park Terrace East.
No answer on the buzzer. I punched buttons at random until somebody who should have known better buzzed me in. The elevator was broken so I took the stairs, and by now I was sure what I was going to find.
Fifth floor. Five flights up. Miriam's door was open.
My mouth tasted like burnt copper. I almost called for Miriam, but Miriam was dead, so I heard, unless it had all been somebody's idea of a sick joke.
"Lace?"
I stood in the open doorway. The apartment sounded empty. So I went in and hunted through the whole place real fast. No alien muggers with chain saws. No Lace, either, and no way of knowing whether she'd called the cops. Her set of keys to Miriam's place was on the living room table, right where she'd probably dropped them.
Miriam was in the bedroom on the bed. And she was dead.
I don't know why they always say in books that people weren't sure or couldn't quite believe it. You know--in the pit of your stomach, instantly, beyond doubt. This is no longer a person.
She didn't look quite real--like a waxworks, almost-not-quite life-size. She had on her underpants and a khaki T-shirt, and she was flopped there just like she'd gone to sleep. There was a wet spot on the sheet--gritty reality of the relaxed sphincter--but the sense of peace, and rest, and absence was almost numbing.
Or maybe I was just in shock.
For something to do I went back out and put Lace's keys in my purse. It'd been over an hour since she'd called me, and it was starting to look like a safe bet Lace hadn't phoned 911. I wondered why she'd phoned me.
So I could do it, of course. And I knew I was going to, which irritated me. But first I was going to take another look around the place, which wasn't as stupid at a time like this as it sounds. Miriam was a wannabe Witch, and a Neopagan, and I didn't want a bunch of people who couldn't tell the difference between that and Anton LaVey splashing "Satanist" all over the New York Post.
But all the posters on the walls looked more feminist than anything else, and no one who didn't know what they were looking at would recognize Miriam's altar.
I went back to Miriam. Priestess of the Goddess and death is all part of the Great Cycle of Rebirth and all that crap, but I still didn't want to touch her. She had an intense perfume, like a cross between pine needles and fresh bread. I couldn't concentrate on anything, and all the details except the body on the bed kept slipping away. Finally I made myself hook my fingernail under the silver box-chain around Miriam's neck. It would be just as well if she didn't go to the morgue wearing a pentacle.
Morgue. Miriam was dead. Damn it, she was my age, maybe even a few years younger, and people my age just don't curl up and die.
And now I was stripping the body so no one would know she was a Neopagan.
And I call Lace the paranoid one.
I was more keyed up than I thought, which was why I yelped and jumped and jerked the chain so her head rolled toward me as the pendant slipped out of her shirt.
Because Miriam wasn't wearing a pentacle--that nice chaste star-in-a-circle that's the badge of office of practically everyone here on the New Aquarian Frontier. What Miriam was wearing on that long silver chain was little and brown and nasty, and eventually my heart slowed down and I saw it was a mummified bird claw of some kind, with the stump wrapped in silver wire so she could string it on the chain. The nails were painted red.
"Oh, fuck…" I said very softly. Then I unhooked the chain and slid it free, because out of civic spirit I did not want Miriam found wearing a dead chicken foot either. And I didn't want it touching her.
I didn't wan...
