the bare trees rimed with ice, the grass crisp with frost. “There are risks in all our relationships, Annis. In love. In friendship. Even in a relationship like ours, which is—well, I don’t know what to call it exactly, but it requires trust to make it work.”
“I trust you, of course, Aunt Harriet.”
Harriet straightened and turned her head to look directly into Annis’s eyes. “Then you must trust me in this, Annis. The manikin must be destroyed. There is no good in it. No benefit.”
“Are you sure? I thought perhaps—the bit of magic that clings to it—”
“I am sure, to my sorrow,” Harriet said heavily. “I don’t want you to make the same mistake I made, long ago.”
“What mistake was that? You didn’t—you didn’t use the maleficia?”
“I did. It was my greatest mistake, and it cost me everything.” Before she knew it was going to happen, before she could stop them, tears began to trickle down her face, the second time she had wept in the space of a few months. She didn’t sob or sniffle. Her weeping was just tears, a steady, slow stream of them, as if a dam had broken and released a flood. They dripped down her chin and onto the bib of her long apron.
“Aunt Harriet!” Annis seized her hand and pressed it between hers. “Tell me. I can’t believe it’s as bad as you think.” She freed one hand and dug in her pocket to bring out a clean handkerchief. As Harriet pressed it to her eyes, Annis circled her aunt’s waist with one arm and led her toward the two stools at the far end of the worktable. She urged her to sit on one, and she took the other. She stayed close, one hand on Harriet’s back, the other holding her arm, as if she were afraid Harriet might topple off the stool.
Harriet wept for a time. Annis waited, not speaking, not moving from her side. The handkerchief was soaked through by the time Harriet’s tears stopped, and she realized Annis was patting her back, gently, as you might pat the back of a crying child. It was surprisingly comforting.
She gave up trying to dry her cheeks with the already-wet handkerchief. They would dry on their own in time, she supposed, although she would look a sight. No doubt she already did. She took one deep, shuddery breath and straightened her spine. “I’m going to tell you,” she said, in a voice thready with tears. “But please know I’ve regretted it for twenty-five years, and the thought of it has never failed to cause me pain.”
Annis took the wet handkerchief from her and produced a fresh, dry one. Harriet accepted it gratefully.
“When I was young,” Harriet began, “I met the most wonderful man in the world. His name was Alexander.”
She told her tale as clearly and briefly as she could. Annis listened, rapt, watching her face as she spoke. “And so,” she finished, feeling the gravity of her story afresh, so that her shoulders slumped despite her, “I tried to dissuade Alexander from going to war, but all I succeeded in doing was distracting him so he was vulnerable. He didn’t protect himself. He died because I interfered.”
“Aunt Harriet,” Annis said, speaking for the first time since the recitation began. “Your Alexander might have died anyway. It was the war. So many people died.”
“I shouldn’t have done it, Annis. I knew better. Grandmother Beryl taught me better. We should never toy with the maleficia. Alexander paid the price for my selfishness.” She made herself pull her shoulders back and her spine straight. “It was a long time ago, and there’s nothing to be done about it now except advise you never to make the same mistake.”
Annis sat silently, looking toward the frosty scene beyond the window, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Harriet said, “Annis, do you understand? Employing the maleficia is imposing your will upon someone else. It’s precisely what you don’t want a husband to do to you. In the end it redounds upon the practitioner, as poor Frances learned. The outcome is inevitable.”
Several minutes passed while Annis’s brow creased with thought and Harriet, believing she had said all she could, sat in tense silence. Finally, with a long exhalation, Annis broke the moment. “I understand, Aunt Harriet. Of course you’re right. We can go ahead.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” Harriet stood up. “Wrap up the manikins, will you? We’ll have to take them to Frances. She never leaves