“I see.” Harriet tapped her arms with her long fingers. “The knowing can be a powerful thing, Annis. Usually it comes to me when I’m working, as it did this morning.”
“You were working?”
“Oh yes. I made another electuary for you. Actually, I made two.”
“You did it without me?”
Annis’s disappointment must have shown on her face, because Aunt Harriet smiled and pointed to a small box on the table beside her bed. “I didn’t feel we could wait until tonight. Frances will keep trying, and we must resist her. It won’t hurt you to take one more remedy, and I want you to have an extra, just in case.”
“What about James?”
“It’s too dangerous. He’s under the influence of the maleficia, and the remedy made him ill once already.”
“Oh, poor James! None of this would have happened to him if I hadn’t come to England. I feel—I felt—” She made a helpless gesture.
“Yes? Do tell me what you felt, Annis.”
“I felt all of his emotions after his proposal. His sadness. His pain. It was awful.”
Harriet regarded her for a long moment, her eyes shining silver in the lamplight. “Have you felt such a thing before?”
“No. Well, maybe once or twice.” She thought of Velma, outside the chandler’s shop, and how she had sensed her maid’s yearning for the cut-glass swan. “Is it—is that because of the magic?”
“I’m not sure. We all experience our abilities a bit differently. In my case it’s just the knowing. In yours it may also be empathy.”
“I had a terrible argument with Frances. She spied on us, in the folly. I told her I know all about her, and I threatened to tell Papa. She said he would never believe me, and she was angry because I refused James, and that’s when she said—” Fear made Annis’s voice break on a sob. “I’m so far away from Bits, and I can’t do anything about any of it! I’m afraid I’m going to lose him, if I don’t marry James, and if I do—I’ll lose him anyway! I’m trapped, Aunt Harriet!”
“You’re not,” Harriet said. “Or at least you won’t be.”
She went to the bedside table to take up the little box. She set it on the bed and lifted the lid. Annis bent to see inside it.
There was a white handkerchief, neatly folded, which Annis assumed held the electuaries. Next to the handkerchief, resting on a cushion of cotton batting, was a figure fashioned of cloudy white wax.
The simulacrum was a simple construction, as if it had been made by a child. It had a rudimentary torso, and its legs and arms were mere stubs of wax. A tuft of what looked like dark moss was glued to the waxen head. Two dark pebbles had been pressed into the place where eyes should be, and a chip of something like bark represented a mouth. A makeshift dress fashioned out of a bit of flannel was pinned around the thing, somehow making it even more ugly.
Annis gaped at it. “Is that—Aunt Harriet, is that a—a manikin?”
Harriet spoke in a low tone. “It is, Annis. It is a manikin intended to be Frances, but it’s not finished.”
“But you said—about manikins, you said that was the maleficia and we should never—”
“I meant it, too,” Harriet answered. She stood, her hands folded before her, and gazed at the hideous little thing in the box. “I wish it weren’t necessary, but there is no other way to undo what Frances has done. Once the maleficia has succeeded, it must be answered in the same way it was accomplished.” She took out the handkerchief and gave it to Annis. “I think you should take one of these right away, to be certain you’re safe. I hope it doesn’t make you feel ill. If she’s working her cantrip even now, you may feel the effects.”
Annis took the handkerchief and unfolded it. The electuaries lay within, perfectly round, smelling of pine and honey. She popped one into her mouth and swallowed it as Harriet watched her. “Do you feel anything?”
Annis pressed a hand over her stomach. “Not yet,” she said.
“Perhaps she’s waiting until tonight. Take the other one with you, and keep it somewhere safe.” Harriet replaced the lid on the box with care.
“I’d better hurry back. Things will be worse if I miss dinner, and we’re only to stay at Rosefield Hall one more day before we go back to London.”
“Do you want me to walk with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I know the way, and it’s not completely dark yet. You must be exhausted, in any case.”
“I’m a bit tired, yes. Now, I have to ask you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need something of Frances’s. Something personal, to add to the manikin. A bit of hair is best, but a piece of jewelry will work, or a snippet of fabric she has worn close to her body, such as a chemise or a corset.”
“I can do that.”
“I’m very sorry to involve you in this, Annis.”
“I want to help.”
“I know you do, but I must warn you that the maleficia is not only dark but dangerously powerful. Such power can be intoxicating. It can corrupt the practitioner.”
“You think that’s what has happened to Frances.”
“The darkness was always within her, I’m afraid. It’s in her Bishop line. The maleficia brought it out, and now that she has tasted it, I don’t know if she can turn away. I want you to understand.”
“I think I do.”
“Good. Best hurry now. You have a long walk ahead of you. I’ll meet you tomorrow in the folly. Come after breakfast.”
Annis bid Harriet farewell and hurried out of the room and down the narrow staircase. She walked as quickly as she dared up the street, and when she reached the path to Rosefield Hall, she broke into a run.
27
Harriet
It was the dinner hour, but Harriet couldn’t face the smoky dining room of the Four Fishes. She wasn’t very hungry, but she was, as Annis had said, exhausted. She decided on an early night, the first since her arrival at Seabeck Village. It would be good to have one full night’s sleep.
As she laid out her clothes for the morning, she lamented Grace’s absence. None of her shirtwaists were particularly clean. She had washed out her smallclothes as best she could, but there was little she could do about her other things. Grace would be appalled at the state of her meager wardrobe.
Harriet sighed. She would be glad, just at this moment, to be bathed in a flood of Grace’s soothing, inconsequential chatter, to be free of the anxiety that gripped her, her worry for Annis, her fear for James, her horror of the maleficia. She remembered how difficult it had been to resist its appeal once she had felt it thrill through her body and her mind. Beryl had been right about that. She had been right about Frances, too.
Annis’s description of Frances’s rage brought back the memory of the shade of Bridget Bishop, still furious after two hundred years. It boded ill for them all.
Harriet closed the little wooden box, hiding the manikin from view. Her belly had roiled as she shaped the figure, added the pebbles and bark and fur, and wrapped it in flannel. It was still a dead object, nothing but a collection of oddments. With nothing of Frances added to it, it could be discarded without a thought, and with all her heart, she wished she could leave it that way. If Frances would only stop now, give up her assault on the marquess, let him and Annis be, Harriet would not have to take this perilous step.
She extinguished her lamp but left the window open to let the night birds soothe her troubled soul, to be lulled by the distant swish and pull of the sea. She fell asleep watching the stars begin to sparkle, one by one, tiny distant jewels coming alive in the darkness.
Far into the night a nightmare woke her. It was a dream she had suffered before.
It was of her beloved Alexander on his deathbed, grievously wounded through the chest by a rifle bullet. His injury had been beyond her skill to heal. She could do nothing but watch as his life slipped away.
He had, they told her, hesitated at a crucial moment. He had been leading a charge, his men behind him
, the enemy dug into their places, waiting. Just at the time he should have taken cover, leveled his own rifle, he stopped. His men raced on, but he stood, an officer frozen on a hillock where anyone could see him—the perfect target.
She had tried to stop him going into battle. She had made a manikin of him and created a cantrip to make him crave peace instead of war. She had tried to extinguish his wish to fight, but she had succeeded only in weakening him, making him vulnerable. It had cost him his life. She had lost her only love.
That manikin, decorated with a button from one of his uniforms and a tiny, precious lock of his beard, she had tucked into his coffin, to be safely buried with him. He was dead, and the manikin with him.
The dream was always the same, Alexander’s eyes on hers as he breathed his last, his grip on her hand weakening, little by little, until she held only his lifeless fingers. Always, at the end, when she felt his life slip away, she woke. Always there were tears on her face, and a pain deep in her chest that took a long time to ease.
This time, in a strange bed, in a strange country, she woke with a clenching in her stomach. Something was terribly wrong, something that had nothing to do with her nightmare.
She reached for the amulet resting on the bedside table and held it up in the darkness. It caught the starlight, glittering faintly, but only in reflection. She pressed it to her heart and whispered into the darkness, “What is it? What’s happened?”
There was no answer, but of course it must be Annis. It could only be Annis.
Annis had summoned her. Annis, who knew so little, who had only begun to learn who and what she was, had summoned Harriet in a stunning demonstration of nascent ability. Under less frightening circumstances, Harriet would have been thrilled.
She threw back her covers and began unbuttoning her nightdress. She didn’t bother lighting the lamp, but hastily pulled on her shirtwaist and skirt and her jacket. She thrust her feet into her walking boots, tying them as quickly as she could in the darkness. She caught up her basket and laid the wooden box inside, along with a package of herbs and scissors, matches, and candle. At the last moment she hung her amulet around her neck, gathering courage from the weight of the jewel against her breast.
The inn was silent around her as she crept down the stairs, clinging to the banister so as not to miss a step in the dark. She slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind her. No one was on the street. No lights showed in any of the houses. Clouds had gathered, and only a shrouded half moon lit her way. She set out with urgent steps, worry driving her.
Her mind burned with questions. What could have happened? Annis had seemed fine when she left. Surely Frances wouldn’t harm her physically. Had the electuary made her ill? Had she lost her way in the woods?
Harriet walked as fast as she dared in the darkness, reciting her cantrip just for Annis:
Mothers and grandmothers, guard her way
Every night and every day.
Let no danger her befall,
Nor evil catch her in its thrall.
28
Frances
Frances thought the great Sarah Bernhardt could not have given a better performance than the one she herself gave that evening. She had quelled her simmering temper, despite seeing Annis tumbling in for dinner at the last possible moment, her hair barely pinned up and a great crease in her dinner gown. Lady Eleanor, clearly aware that her son had offered for Annis and been refused, barely spoke to Frances when she came into the dining room. It was hardly the cut direct, but it was a decided snub.
Frances sought out the Hyde-Smiths for conversation. She forced herself to be charming, to make bright conversation, to be quick to laugh, outwardly merry while white-hot fury raged inside. She drank a full glass of champagne straight down, hoping to cool the fire within her.
Annis hadn’t appeared until they were all trooping into the dining room. It didn’t help Frances’s mood to reflect that only a young girl could look that well when she had made no effort. She had come flying down the stairs like a hoyden with no breeding. Her cheeks were pink, and the disordered state of her hair made her look girlish and appealing.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.
Fighting her fury, Frances played the role of vivacious American. She pretended to be unperturbed by the coolness of her hostess and the distraction of her host, though the Whitmores looked puzzled and the Hyde-Smiths and Derbyshires seemed taken aback by Lady Eleanor’s grim demeanor. They made a heroic effort to join in Frances’s gaiety. They barely managed to keep a conversation going through the multiple courses of the meal and the coffee hour. Frances forced herself to wait until one of the elderly couples proposed going up to bed before she, too, made her way up the staircase.
She allowed Antoinette to take down her hair and brush it, though her skin prickled with impatience. She rubbed cold cream into her hands as the maid fussed with hanging up her dinner gown. She didn’t hurry Antoinette out, though anger burned in her stomach and her muscles tensed with the need to hurry. Time was running low. Only one day remained of their stay.
Antoinette tidied the dressing table, mounding the hairpins on their enameled tray, scooping up the hat pins to stick them into the waiting cushion. She settled Frances into bed, turned down the lamp, and left the room at last.
The moment the door closed, Frances scrambled from the bed and dived behind the wardrobe for the valise that held her supplies. She turned up the lamp just enough so she could see to work. She propped her two manikins against the mirror and set a match to her candle. She clipped a fingernail and set it in the saucer on top of the mistletoe and the last of the mandrake root and barrenwort. She pierced her finger and dripped fat dark drops over the whole, then held the saucer over the candle flame.
When the concoction was reduced to a few thick drops, she squeezed her finger to force out half a dozen more drops, soaking the mixture with fresh, undiluted blood. She needed every bit of magic she could call upon.
She painted the manikins as before, swiping up the last bits of the concoction, wasting none. She sat back, one simulacrum in each hand, and recited a new, stronger, more provocative cantrip.
Witch’s blood and witch’s claws
Witch’s power and witch’s cause
Heat your blood, inflame your brain
Till no usual sense remain.
Lust now fills you with its fire.
Be you maddened by desire.
The manikin representing Annis lay in her left hand like a dead thing, unresponsive, still. Her cantrip had no effect at all.
It was different with the manikin of the marquess. Her cantrip brought it to life with a jolt of energy that stung her hand. The simulacrum quivered and shook so hard she nearly dropped it. The pain of the maleficia shot through her belly, a great cramp that blurred her vision and made sweat break out on her chest.
“So be it,” she gritted, shaking the trembling manikin as an angry parent shakes a disobedient child. “Do what you must to win her. Hold nothing back! This is your last chance.”
29
Annis
Lady Eleanor stopped Annis as she was about to mount the staircase to go to bed. “Will you speak with me a moment, Miss Allington?” she said. “I would consider it a great favor.”
Frances’s laugh bubbled from the parlor, where she was playing cards with the older couples, but it couldn’t dispel the strained atmosphere that had marred the entire evening. Annis yearned to escape to her room, but she said politely, “Of course, my lady.” She turned away from the staircase and followed Lady Eleanor along the hall to a small room she hadn’t seen before.
As they entered, Lady Eleanor said, with a wave of her hand, “My personal study. This is where I write letters, manage accounts, and occasionally have a few moments to myself.”
“It’s a beautiful room,” Annis said with sincerity. Its walls were lined with bookshelves, every one of them full. A small ebony desk rested beneath a window, with a well-used blotter and an in
kstand on it. There was a framed photograph of a younger, thinner Lady Eleanor, with a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman at her side. A lamp on the desk was already burning.
“Please take a seat,” Lady Eleanor said, gesturing to one of two upholstered armchairs arranged beside a piecrust table. Annis sat down, and Lady Eleanor settled opposite her. “I expect you’re tired after such an exciting day, Miss Allington.”
“A little,” Annis answered warily.
“Yes, indeed. A rather strenuous ride, I’m told by our stable master. And a proposal of marriage as well. Not every day a girl has such experiences.”
“No, my lady,” Annis said, resigned now. She should have known Lady Eleanor would be aware, and the strange thing was that she didn’t mind. Her hostess appeared more matter-of-fact than angry, which was a relief. It was best, surely, to have everything out in the open.
“I have nothing to say about your riding,” Lady Eleanor said. “Although I hope you will take thought for your safety. It might surprise you, but it’s my view you’re wise to forego the sidesaddle.”
“It does rather surprise me,” Annis said. “I thank you, though. Someone has to put an end to the silly practice. It might as well start with me, because I don’t care what people think.”
“You are fortunate in not needing to care. Your father’s wealth insulates you. Not every young lady is so lucky.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well. As the hour is so late, I will come right to the point.” Lady Eleanor fingered the long loop of pearls and diamonds that hung around her throat and all the way to her waist. Her bosom mounded above the décolletage of her black satin gown, and the tightness of her corset meant she could neither sit back in her chair nor relax her stiff posture. Annis wondered how she could breathe.
“Rosefield told me he spoke to you today,” Lady Eleanor said. “You refused his offer, I understand. I hold out hope that I may change your mind.”
The Age of Witches Page 21