Four Fishes and down the short high street. Beyond the green she pressed on into the copse on the western boundary of Seabeck.
The light was beginning to fail in the shadow of the trees by the time she had finished burying the remains of the manikin. Despite the gloom, she managed to find mullein flowers, for discernment, and bilberry, to enhance her vision. She still had a bit of starwort, which was helpful for freeing the imagination. Alone they might not have added up to much. Together she hoped they would give her the insight she needed.
As she carried her trove back to the Four Fishes, she felt a stirring begin in her solar plexus. The thrill spread in shallow, distinct waves that flowed up to her heart and down into her belly, the familiar near pain of magic. Her hands and feet began to tingle with it.
This was the aftermath of the power she had wielded in her battle with Frances, and she knew enough about it to be wary. Misuse of such singular power could have destructive side effects, and there could be no doubt she had misused it. That her motive had been pure made no difference to the source. There was a darkness about her now. It would take a long time to disperse.
Nevertheless, since the current of magic was running high, she would use it.
She opened the window of her cramped room before she dropped the crumbled shreds of herbs, bit by bit, into her candle flame. As the fragrant smoke drifted up into the shadows to waft through the open window, she laid her amulet beside the candle and muttered her cantrip:
Reveal to me the fate of the one
Whose manikin is late undone,
And of the innocent lying ill
Cruelly magicked without his will.
The flow of magic in her body sharpened, its energy sparkling through her bones and stinging her toes and fingertips. She caught a breath at its intensity, and at the same moment the ametrine flared. The violet above shimmered with waves of color. The yellow below glowed as if it had caught fire. The veins of purple burned in lines so intricate they appeared to become an arcane script, some ancient words no human could remember, no tongue pronounce.
The knowing seized her, filling her mind with the knowledge she sought. There was no foretaste, no foreshadowing, no warning. It was like a blow, but one that struck inside her head, between her temples, and it rocked her backward as if it had been physical. She knew.
The marquess would recover. It would be slow, and he would chafe at the pace, but he would one day be whole again and pick up the scattered pieces of his life.
Frances would survive, but she would not thrive. She would not speak, nor live independently, ever again. Her body would function, after a fashion, but her mind…
Her mind was no longer part of the whole. It was ruined.
The knowing was often uncomfortable, but this was ghastly. Harriet rarely shed tears, but she found they were spilling down her cheeks now, dripping on her clasped hands. She leaned forward and blew wetly at the burning candle. It took three tries before she succeeded in extinguishing the flame.
The ametrine continued to glow, the power that had ignited it not so easily doused as the wick of a candle. Harriet gazed at the amulet through the sheen of her tears, helpless before an onslaught of guilt and confusion and regret.
Many moments passed before she could dry her face, take up the amulet, and go to sit by the window. With the ametrine clasped against her heart, she gazed up into the cold stars and whispered a message to Frances, who would never hear it, nor understand it if she did.
“I am sorry,” Harriet murmured, “so very sorry for what has happened to you, Frances. Poor little cousin, never content, never happy.” Fresh tears choked her as she thought of Frances’s pretty face, her craving to belong. “Oh, Frances,” she murmured. “You will never be one of the Four Hundred. You will never practice your art again. Your wealth and privilege will mean nothing. Your future is wasted. I am sick at heart, but I had no choice. It was you or it was Annis and poor innocent James.”
A different kind of knowing came over her as she sat there, gazing over the sleeping village. What she had said was true. There had been no choice. If she had not been