precisely?” There’s no honey in her voice at all, now.
Lee takes another drink, thumbs foam from his upper lip. “Women can’t work men’s magic.”
Agnes feels invisible thunderclouds rolling nearer. “No?”
“It’s no insult. It’s just the way we’re made. A man would make a mess of women’s witching, wouldn’t he? All those fiddly charms for housework and keeping your hair just so . . .”
The thunderclouds crackle closer, raising the hair on her arms. “Have you ever tried it?”
He looks mildly affronted, as if she’d asked whether he sometimes wore corsets and lace. “Of course not.”
“Give me a man’s spell to try, then, right here and now.”
Her tone cuts through the indulgent laze of Mr. Lee’s expression. He sits a little straighter in his seat, his eyes on the iron line of her mouth. “Does your father know where you are?”
She gives him a cold shrug. “Dead.”
“Your husband?”
Agnes raises her left hand and wiggles her ringless fingers.
“Huh. What about the baby, then? Are you sure a woman in your condition should be—”
Agnes lowers all her fingers except one, causing Mr. Lee to snort into his beer.
He mops the splatters with his sleeve, grinning in a helpless, boyish way that makes him seem suddenly much younger. He looks at her and mutters something that might be sweet damn.
Agnes feels an answering smile tugging at her lips, but she hammers it flat. “I have a proposal for you, Mr. Lee.” There is a voice in her head telling her this is a very stupid proposal; she ignores it. “If I can perform a spell of your choosing to your satisfaction, you will agree to assist us however you may.”
Mr. Lee crosses his arms and adopts an unconvincing expression of reluctance. Agnes would bet a week’s pay that he was the sort of boy who never turned down a dare or backed down from a bluff. “And if you fail?”
“Then I leave you in peace.”
“Seems a shame. I don’t care much for peace.”
“What, then?”
His eyes flash wickedly. “A kiss.”
She isn’t surprised: he’s a flirt and she’s a woman with demonstrably questionable morals, and in her experience there’s rarely anything else a man wants from her. But she’s surprised to feel a flicker of disappointment—that he’s so predictable, perhaps. Or that she’s tempted.
She folds her hands primly. “I’m afraid my kisses are not for sale, Mr. Lee.”
“Then what do you propose?”
She pretends to consider. “I could refrain from telling your cousin that you propositioned a young lady in such an uncouth fashion, if I lost.”
The humor fades slightly from his face. Annie has come to work on several occasions with bruised knuckles; Agnes suspects there’s a short temper beneath her kerchief and apron. “A compelling counter-offer,” Mr. Lee murmurs. “I accept.”
He drains his beer and stands, setting the glass back on the table with a showman’s flourish. He winks. “Watch closely, now.”
He fishes in his breast-pocket, produces a single green-tipped match, and holds it over the empty glass. He chants a string of foreign-sounding words—Agnes thinks they might be Latin or Greek—and snaps the matchstick.
There’s a delicate ping as the glass cracks and splinters, fissures running through it like frost. It remains standing, held together more by habit than anything else.
A few men are watching from the bar now. They grunt approval. August presents his matchbox to Agnes as if it’s a bouquet.
She unwedges herself from the booth and stands. Her fingers brush his as she selects a match.
She clears her throat and says coolly, “The Sisters of Avalon meet at the South Sybil boarding house, Mr. Lee.” His eyes kindle with admiration. “Knock at Number 7 and say the word hyssop.” It’s the secret code she and her sisters used as girls: hyssop meant all’s well; hemlock meant run and hide.
Agnes holds the match above the fractured glass and stumbles her way through the words. A flicker of heat licks up her spine. She says the words a second time, pouring her will into them: her aching feet and her heavy belly, her hope and her hunger, her bone-deep weariness with handsome young men who barter for kisses like coins. Heat scorches beneath her skin, fever-hot. Her daughter kicks hard in her belly—Sorry, love—
She closes her eyes and snaps the matchstick.
A cracking, shattering sound fills the bar, followed by several unmanly yelps and a great deal of swearing.
Agnes keeps her eyes shut tight, swaying slightly, smelling a sudden green scent like fresh-cut tobacco.
When she opens her eyes she finds a gray wool vest several