recover from the effects of the maleficia. Harriet asked, each time Annis appeared, if there was any change. There never was. Annis worried that Harriet blamed herself, but when she tried to talk about it, Harriet put up her hand and said, “Frances brought this on herself. I only wish it would not cost her whole life.” She turned away, muttering under her breath, “Such a waste.”
The second thing was one Annis never spoke of to anyone. She thought that if she didn’t talk about it, in time she wouldn’t think about it. Even better, she hoped, she would stop dreaming of it. Of him. Of James.
It was embarrassing, really. She had been so adamant, both with him and with Lady Eleanor, that she had no interest in marriage. She knew her rejection had hurt him, and she hoped his feelings had been soothed by her care for him after the crisis. She never told him what had really happened the night Frances magicked him. She knew he didn’t remember any of it and would be aghast if he did. She didn’t want that. It would only hurt him further.
But she thought about him all the time. She couldn’t help it.
When she went to the stables, she imagined the foals Black Satin would throw with Dancer or Breeze. When she walked from Riverside Drive to Harriet’s apartment, she thought how simple and elegant Rosefield Hall was, compared with the ostentation of the Dakota. When she and Harriet foraged in the park, she remembered with a pang of nostalgia the riches of the woods and fields of Seabeck. She had placed the daguerreotype of Seastar on her dressing table, and each time it caught her eye she pictured James’s lanky figure, easy in the saddle at the trot and the canter, less comfortable in formal clothes. She remembered his disapproving expression as he looked down on her in Regent’s Park, offended by the American girl with no manners. She recalled his stiff proposal and his pain at her refusal.
She supposed she would never know if he might have come to like her for herself. If his feelings had been left unaffected by the maleficia, would he have changed his mind? She doubted it. His first reactions to her, before Frances magicked him, were no doubt his true feelings. They had parted on friendly terms, but he had not tried to stop her from leaving. No doubt by now, healed from the effects of the maleficia, he had forgotten her completely. Perhaps he had met a more suitable bride and was even now planning his marriage. She tried to pretend to herself she wouldn’t mind that, but without much success. The truth was that she minded very much indeed.
She had sent a formal letter of thanks to Lady Eleanor and James for their hospitality and kindness in the face of Frances’s illness. A brief note came to Allington House a month later, asking after Frances and wishing Annis well. Lady Eleanor had signed it. There was nothing from James.
She still had the manikins. She had carried them home in the bottom of her jewel case, then wrapped them in an old chemise and tucked them beneath a pile of winter nightdresses. Twice she took them out, laid them on her dressing table, and gazed at them.
They were supposed to be destroyed by the one who had made them, Harriet had said. One day soon, Annis told herself, she would take Frances’s hands in hers and guide them in destroying the manikin that represented herself, tear off the fluff of hair, wipe away that strangely red mouth.
But James’s figure, crude though it was—somehow she didn’t want to see it ruined.
She convinced herself Aunt Harriet had forgotten about the manikins. As time passed, she was more and more reluctant to admit to her great-aunt—to confess, rather—that she still had them in her keeping. The secret nagged at her, like a pebble in her shoe that she was trying to ignore. It was all tangled up with her feelings for James, her nostalgia for Seabeck and Rosefield Hall and the Andalusians. She even missed Lady Eleanor’s cool glance and efficient ways. All of these thoughts left her confused. Unfamiliar emotions swept over her at the oddest times so that she felt by turns weepy and exhilarated, thrilled by her work with Harriet but lonely in her bed at night.
In early November, as the first chill of winter crept through Central Park and caused Robbie to