Scrying is an ancient art that witches use to receive hidden information about the past, the present, or the future. Some extremely adept scryers see spirits that move as if in a film. They can speak to them and hear their responses.
The earliest scryers used bowls of water, gazing into the reflective surface until they saw images. Early mirrors, made of polished copper, silver, brass, or mercury behind glass, were more stable and became the scryer’s preference.
In ancient Rome, the young men who gazed into mirrors at an angle, avoiding their own reflections, seeing both the unknowable and the future, were known as blindfold boys.
My mother had studied scrying for years but had limited ability. She was able to see her children in the reflections but only our present, never our futures. Once, during the war, she saw such troublesome visions of my sister Opaline that she left Cannes to go to her in Paris despite the dangers of wartime travel. Opaline told me later that the night my mother arrived, Opaline had been contemplating suicide. I wondered if my mother could see me in New York, wishing she could sail across the ocean and save me.
After I lost my sight, part of the treatment required that I keep my eyes closed. For an eight-year-old, that was hard to do. So my mother made me a blindfold. Once I started wearing it, my version of scrying began. And my mother took to calling me a “blindfold girl.”
After my sight returned, we realized that my scrying powers were not limited to the blindfold. I could also see in mirrors and other reflective objects in the right light. Often without trying, I saw secrets in the shadows, lurking in the reflective depths. Usually, they were better left unseen.
The day I’d moved into the Tenth Street studio, I’d covered the old tin-mercury mirror in the entranceway with a chiffon scarf to avoid any unintended visions. But sometimes a breeze from an open window blew the scarf off. As it must have done that fifth day after Monty’s death.
In the silvery mottled surface, I saw my own ghostly figure, knife in hand. A reflection of lamplight danced on the blade’s edge, mocking me with its sparkle. I’d drawn a scene like that once before and then destroyed it. As if tearing it to shreds would obliterate the prophecy.
I hacked the painting of Clara and Monty, too. I plunged the knife into the canvas and pulled it down. The tear sounded like a scream. I attacked it again. Plunge. Pull. Scream. Plunge. Pull. Scream. Ribbons of blood red, black, and gray fell to the rug.
Knock. Knock.
In a daze, I heard the thuds. Looked around. Found myself sitting on the floor, surrounded by the shredded painting. The empty frame, sans canvas, had fallen off the easel and lay crookedly beside me.
Knock. Knock.
“Delphine? Delphine? What is going on in there?”
Disoriented, I was too confused to get up.
“Delphine? I swear, if you don’t answer, I’m going to get the police.”
“I’m coming!” I called out, no idea if my voice even carried.
“Delphine?”
I stood, staggered to the front door, and opened it.
Clifford B. Clayton, my neighbor and “American uncle,” as my family called him, caught me before I collapsed.
“There, there, darling. What’s gotten into you? It sounded like someone was being murdered in here.” He surveyed the scene as he held me up.
“Yes, yes. I was just painting, and . . .” I didn’t know how to explain.
“It looks like you were painting but something went very wrong.” He guided me to the couch. “You just sit down. I’m making us tea laced with something strong. You’ll drink it and feel better, and then we’ll talk this out.”
We’d spent so much time together over the years that we knew where everything was in each other’s studio. Obediently, I sat and waited, trying to answer his questions as he boiled the water and fixed a tray.
At fifty-five, Clifford was a colorful character on New York’s art scene. His Art Deco paintings of stylish interiors and the people who inhabited them were highly sought after, and he was enjoying one of the most productive periods of his career. His charming manner endeared him to many hostesses, and as a result, he’d been divorced twice and claimed he’d never marry again.
When he was in his twenties, he’d fled his Midwestern hometown to study in Paris, where he and my mother met while attending L’école des Beaux-Arts. They had remained friends ever since. Whenever he visited France, he would stay with us for a few weeks in Cannes. When I told my parents I wanted to move to New York, they asked Clifford to help me get settled. He did more than that. He took me under his wing.
The timing had been perfect. Robert Stanislaw’s studio, situated down the hall from Clifford’s, had been empty for more than a month, and Clifford secured it for me immediately. With him nearby, I was less nervous about New York and being on my own for the first time, and he soon introduced me to other artists, writers, and intellectuals living in the neighborhood.
Often, we popped out to get lunch together to break up the hours of painting. In the evenings, we’d taken to sharing some wine before we went our separate ways. On Sunday nights, which he said was family night, I joined him at a neighborhood restaurant on Minetta Lane for spaghetti.
“Here we go.” Now Clifford brought over the tray. “Tea without anything stronger. I saw the empty bottle of wine on the counter and am guessing you’ve had enough.” He handed me a cup. “Now, tell me. What is this mess, child? What have you done?”
He’d been away for more than a week, painting the home of a wealthy Hudson Valley society matron, and had only returned that afternoon, so he’d missed the stories about the Steward party.
“But you were no more responsible for that poor man dying than I am,” he said, after I’d explained. “Don’t you dare let yourself believe that. They were lovers, sweetheart. They were tempting fate every time they were together.”
“But lovers get found out. They don’t die.”
“You know, sometimes they do.”
“And you know, most of the time they don’t.”
“So that’s what all this is about?” he asked, gesturing to the shredded canvas on the floor. “And this?” He pointed to the curtains and the mess on my bed. “It looks like you haven’t stepped out of this place in days.”
“Five days,” I said, and told him the rest. About the funeral and Tommy and holing myself up in the studio and trying to repaint the past to change it.
When I was done, he took my hands and held them in his. “You have been through hell, haven’t you?”
There was nothing to say. I nodded.
“I’m just going to my studio to get something. I’ll be right back in a jiffy. You stay put, all right?”
Less than a minute later, he returned with an amber bottle in hand. He went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of cloudy water.