Poison to Purge Melancholy Synopsis

POISON TO PURGE MELANCHOLY

A New Mystery by Elena Santangelo

Excerpts

ADVENT

December, Present-Day

The first email came the Sunday morning after Thanksgiving:

"hello how are you in dominion you know me"

    The address was one of the free email services with only "CMJSM43" as the name. The subject was simply "Message from the Internet," meaning the sender hadn't typed one.
    He often got mail from unfamiliar addresses—the bane of having an email link on an organization's website. Some of the messages were legitimate inquiries, most were junk mail—spam. At least CMJSM43 could spell.
    The obvious choice was to hit the delete button. One word stopped him: Dominion. Yet he couldn't bring himself to reply, either.
    The next Sunday brought another message from the same address:

"hello how are you we played cards hearts with spades remember"

    Hearts with spades. He remembered all too well. Can insanity be forgotten? This time, because he needed to know, he did reply, "Where are you now?" and typed his initials below.
    No answer. A relief. Until Sunday, December twentieth:

"hello how are you joyce erased your note i couldnt read it but Christmas i find you play spades"

"Strong-Beer, Stout Syder and a good fire
Are things this season doth require."

–Titan Leeds, The American Almanac, December, 1714

December 3, 1783 — The Eagle's Nest, Williamsburg, Virginia

"Ye've angels dancin' on your fiddle, lad." As John Brennan spoke, he set his pint of beer and his snuffbox upon the table. Every man in the room turned toward him in amazement.
    Some twenty of us were gathered in the West Room of Mrs. Vobe's tavern, warmed by fire and drink and the company assembled at the long tables. The oaken panels softened the hearthlight so that our faces glowed the color of fine brandy. Our tall shadows swayed upon the walls not starkly, but as grasses 'neath the water of a millpond. I'd brought my violin and Jim Parker helped himself to one of the house guitars, so the lot of us had been enjoying an evening of song. No one had taken heed of Brennan, sitting quiet by the door, until he spoke of angels.
    'Twasn't his praise that drew our notice. Compliments came to Brennan's tongue like mold to cheese. Once there, the flattery was tinted a soft Irish hue and delivered through a generous smile, the effect being that few listeners doubted his sincerity. However, he reserved compliments for his customers, not for poor men such as myself who could ill afford the luxury of snuff, even at Brennan's price.
    But no, all eyes viewed his snuffbox. 'Twas never out of his hand in public and that hand never dropped below the plane of his shoulders, except to replenish his box from a cloth pouch in his coat pocket. He kept the snuff at the ready so that when a potential buyer happened within hearing, Brennan could sniff in a dose and remark upon the excellence of the tobacco. Red veins stood out on either side of his nose as testimony to the practice, but I'd seen him sell his wares on the street in this manner, and take away more shillings in an hour than I took in all week.
    Now here he was, beer and snuff forgotten, the smile gone from his lips and perplexity in its place, his gaze lingering upon my fiddle, his eyes becoming rounder, as if every host of Heaven now occupied the instrument's curves...