Harriet often wished Beryl could have lived longer, and not only because she missed her. Beryl might have eventually convinced Frances to abandon the dark practice of her ancestresses—the maleficia—and embrace the disciplined purity of their own. Unfortunately, though Frances had done reasonably well at her studies, and she luxuriated in the comforts of Beryl’s home in St. George, things had still gone wrong. After Beryl’s heart failed her, Frances lost her way.
Harriet had tried to divert her from the darker path. She knew Frances envied her, but she could forgive that. She had enjoyed an easier life than her young cousin, despite having lost her mother even earlier than Frances lost hers. Grandmother Beryl had been a rigidly disciplined guardian, a product of her stern generation, but she had filled Harriet’s young, curious mind with knowledge of all sorts of things: books, history, poetry, and music. She had imparted her deep understanding of the natural world and the uses of its miraculous products, and guided Harriet’s first efforts to use her ability. Above all, when it became clear that Harriet’s abilities outpaced her own, Beryl had rejoiced, not resented. She had encouraged her and inspired her.
Several weeks before her death, she bestowed her own precious amulet on her granddaughter, with a blessing. Harriet had objected, saying it was too soon, she must continue to wear the amulet for protection, but Beryl only smiled and pressed it into her hand.
“Come now, Harriet dear,” she murmured. “You are the one who knows things. You must know it’s time, or near enough to time as makes no difference.”
Harriet hadn’t known, though. Or perhaps some part of her soul had known but suppressed the knowledge. Beryl’s death came as a shock. Harriet had done all she could, all she knew how to do, but Beryl slipped away from her, and that was a lesson in itself. She couldn’t save everyone. She couldn’t defeat death itself.
She could try, however, to prevent Frances from ruining Annis’s life just to win entrée to the gilded world of the Vanderbilts and the Astors. She didn’t know yet if Annis had inherited the Bishop ability, but she doubted a seventeen-year-old girl, however spirited, could stand up to Frances’s dark practice.
How tempting power could be to a person of shallow character!
She turned out the lights in her herbarium and went to the kitchen, where Grace was slicing vegetables for soup.
Grace looked up. “All done? That’s good. Mrs. Schuyler is due any moment.”
“Her treatment is ready.”
“I’m glad. She did look peaked, didn’t she? Didn’t look well at all. Pity, pretty young lady like that, a family and all, and plenty of money. You’d think she’d be happy, have anything she wanted, and there she is, looking for all the world as if she’s lost her best friend. I thought—”
Harriet let Grace run on as she walked to the sink to run a glass of water. She drank it slowly, gazing through the window to the soothing vista of the park. When the doorbell rang, Grace went to answer it and to usher Dora Schuyler into the parlor. She came back into the kitchen and began filling the kettle.
Harriet smoothed her hair and skirt. “I don’t think you need to bother with tea, Grace. I doubt Mrs. Schuyler will have a taste for it.”
“You’re probably right,” Grace said. “She doesn’t look a bit better today than she did before, circles under her eyes and her hands all trembly. She’ll be glad of your help, that one. Just let me know if you change your mind about the tea, and I have some fresh biscuits I just made this—”
Harriet didn’t hear the end of the sentence. She went quickly into the herbarium to collect the vial she had prepared, and carried it into the parlor.
Grace was right about Mrs. Schuyler’s appearance. Her eyes were hollow and shadowed, and her lips were pale. She shot to her feet when Harriet appeared, and when she put out her hand, it was shaking. Harriet held it between hers to steady it.
“Good day, Mrs. Schuyler,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Oh, oh yes. Good day,” Dora Schuyler said, flushing at the lapse in her manners.
“Do sit down.”
“Thank you, Miss Bishop.” Mrs. Schuyler didn’t precisely sit, but perched on the edge of the divan, her slight shoulders hunched. She had a small velvet purse dangling by a cord from her wrist, and she placed it in her lap and opened it by its