contained nothing.
“And when you are done,” she continued, “you will turn the sign over and open the door to let some air and sunshine in.”
Annabel did as she was told, although she was quite certain that no one would ever visit the horrid little shop. She looked at the front window and at the golden letters, which from inside spelled Annabel said the words to herself, silently, and thought they sounded quite nice backward. There was indeed sunshine, and it made her feel happy when she opened the door.
“Bearberry leaf,” said Miss Henrietta when Annabel had finished.
“Bearberry leaf?” said Annabel.
Miss Henrietta opened a small drawer in one of the specimen cabinets and extracted a box containing several plum-green leaves. She motioned for Annabel to stand beside her at the counter and handed her gold forceps.
“Listen well,” said Miss Henrietta. “Bearberry leaf is used for many things, for diseases of the bladder and for water-logged hearts and also for some minor skin complaints. Some say if you burn it and grind it and sprinkle it on your shoes, it will take you to your one true love. I personally don’t believe such nonsense. The leaf is also used by certain therianthropes, and there is a Mr. Huxley, a member of the society, who lives in Hampstead. He requires a small amount on a regular basis so that he may change himself into a wolf. Today is the day I prepare Mr. Huxley’s bearberry leaf.”
Annabel, poised with the gold forceps in her hand, laughed nervously.
“It is no laughing matter,” said Miss Henrietta. “Today is the third Thursday of the month, and that is the day that I must deliver him his new supply. He is old, like all of us in the Great & Benevolent Magical Society, Annabel. It will not do to keep him waiting if there is a wolf inside him to be let out.
“Take five of the plumpest leaves,” she continued. “These have come by steamer from a very special tree in Manitoba, via Nova Scotia, and cost Mr. Huxley not much less than the price of gold, so it will not do for one to be dropped on the floor or squeezed too hard by the forceps.”
Annabel looked at the leaves. They seemed too fresh to have come all that way. Miss Henrietta was tricking her. It was some kind of test—she was waiting to see what Annabel would do.
“When I am gone to deliver Mr. Huxley’s parcel, sit behind the counter and touch nothing,” said Miss Henrietta. Annabel thought Miss Henrietta’s voice sounded strange. It was lower and croakier than normal. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss Henrietta,” said Annabel.
Miss Henrietta watched her with her brilliant blue eyes.
She did not look impressed. There was a new chill in the room. Miss Henrietta took the forceps, which hung limply in Annabel’s hand, and plucked up five leaves. She folded them quickly into a parcel and tied them with string. Annabel looked away from those eyes and at Miss Henrietta’s hands and then at her dress, which was dark and shiny and suddenly rustling. It was a strange noise, and it filled her ears. Annabel wanted to look away from the dress, back to her great-aunt’s eyes, but found she couldn’t.
She looked at the dress, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not shift her gaze. The noise of it, now a cracking and a chafing, grew. She wanted to cover her ears. Feathers, she thought, for that was what she saw instead of dress: midnight-black feathers. A wing stretched and then folded, and one of the black buttons of Miss Henrietta’s dress was now a wild black eye watching her intently, curiously.
Annabel cried out, stumbled backward. There was a crow. Its claws clacked on the countertop, and it turned its head to watch her with its dark eye. Before Annabel could scream, it picked up the parcel in its beak and flew swiftly through the open door. It sailed across the street and up into the sky.
Black feathers. Annabel’s only coherent thought. Black feathers. She wanted her old life back. She wanted to rush out of the shop. She wanted to run until her familiar pretty streets appeared. She wanted her old self back, who only had to worry about her dresses and whether she would have sugary apple cake or custard pie for pudding. She would have everything back the way it was and never look in a puddle again. Her eyes stung with tears, and no