She had known something was amiss with her, something inexplicable. It made her skin crawl with shame to think that James must have had similar unwelcome feelings.
She hugged herself beneath the coverlet, chilled by fatigue, head swimming with strangeness. Witches. Frances was a witch. Harriet was a witch. She herself—if Harriet was right, if her knowing was accurate—was a witch.
It was beyond implausible, beyond any fantasy she had ever entertained. She half expected to startle awake and discover she had imagined all of it in a feverish dream. A nightmare? No, not a nightmare. If it was all true, if she really was—was that—she would have power. Real power. Power over her life, over her father, over Frances. Power to live her life the way she wanted to live it.
She suddenly remembered the electuary. She was supposed to take it the moment she was alone in her room. The swirl of new ideas in her brain had distracted her.
She jumped out of bed and found the folded handkerchief in the pocket of her skirt. She opened it carefully. The two little balls of remedy lay side by side, unappetizing chunks of green and yellow. She was supposed to concentrate, to invite the concoction to do its work.
She took one of the balls and put it in her mouth. She meant to swallow it straightaway, but she hesitated, caressing it with her tongue, pressing it against her palate. It tasted of honey and of the herbs, which had a piney sort of flavor. She closed her eyes, thinking of clearing her body of the maleficia, of having her own sensations and thoughts and desires restored to her. She concentrated on breaking the hold Frances had exerted on her, envisioning herself shrugging off her stepmother’s hand on her shoulder.
The tidbit of remedy dissolved swiftly in her mouth. She swallowed, but there was little left to go down. She opened her eyes and gazed at herself in the dressing-table mirror. It was still dim in the room, the early sunlight just beginning to filter through the drapes. She couldn’t detect any difference in her appearance, nor in her feelings. The moonstone lay quiescent in the hollow of her throat.
She yawned, suddenly unable to keep her eyes open a moment longer. She went back to the bed, folded herself into the sheets, and was asleep before her head settled into the pillow. She was still lost in a hot, heavy slumber when Velma came in with the coffee tray.
Annis woke to the sensation of a war being waged inside her body. It seemed to be centered in her belly, but it radiated outward, to her head, to her fingers, to her toes. Every piece of her seemed to be at odds with every other piece, as if each of her organs were following a different rhythm. She couldn’t draw a decent breath, and her heart fluttered unevenly beneath her breastbone. Her mouth still tasted of honey and pine. Her skin itched, and she shoved the blanket away from her.
Velma, setting the tray beside the bed, gave her a worried look. “Miss Annis? You don’t got the influenza, do you?”
“What—uh—I don’t think so.” Annis struggled to sit upright, and as Velma plumped a pillow behind her back, she realized her nightdress was soaked with perspiration. “It’s much too warm in this room, don’t you think? And so close. I wonder if anyone bothered to air it before we arrived?”
“I dunno. I could try to open that window, I guess,” Velma said, though she gave the drape-covered window a doubtful glance.
“Could you try? Please.”
The drapes gave every sign of not having been drawn back in a long time. Dust puffed from their folds as Velma dragged at them, pulling first one and then the other all the way to the side. The glass looked old, as if the window had been installed decades before. Annis worried for a moment that if Velma opened it, it would crack.
Velma labored over the heavy iron window catch and finally, with a grunt, succeeded in releasing it. She pushed the window open, and though its hinges creaked alarmingly in protest, fresh summer air flooded into the bedroom.
“Thank you, Velma,” Annis breathed. “Much better.”
Velma came back to pour her coffee and hold it out to her. “You’re looking real peaked, miss,” she said, frowning. “You want I should call someone?”
“No, you don’t need to do that. Run me a bath, will you? A cool bath. I’m burning up.”
Velma, her plain face