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paper lace, and the crepe paper hadn’t taken well to the heat. She had tried herbs, oils, all manner of things, but nothing seemed to work. Something had to carry the charm, that much was certain, yet Esther couldn’t divine what that something should be. Obviously, spelling this delicate paper just wouldn’t do; she needed to find another way to attach the charm.
    With a sigh, she retrieved the valentine she’d received from Mr. Childress. She had eventually taken it from her closet and stowed it away in the bottom of her wardrobe, not for sentimental reasons but for research purposes. Yes, only for research. Esther entertained notions of marriage as much as the next girl, but to him? That dried-up husk of a man? With a shudder, she returned to the work at hand.
    It was nearly crushed to nothing, having spent these many months wrapped in rags beneath Esther’s least comfortable boots. Esther donned a pair of kid gloves before carefully unwinding the rags, then stared at the detestable creation. It was just as awful as she had remembered, save that the cherubs had faded a bit. She pulled the glove off her right hand, and lightly let her fingertips glide across the outer edge.
    Nothing.
    So the lace isn’t spelled . Esther was relieved that this other witch—whoever she may be—didn’t have knowledge of a technique Esther was unaware of for placing spells upon the lace. Methodically, she traced the faded red hearts, the cherubs’ faces; she even traced the outer edges and the back of the card. Still, there was nothing, no tingle, no warm feelings of affection toward the sender, none of the usual aftereffects of magic.
    Perhaps the charm only lasts so long, like a fragrance . Esther began to wonder if her own charms had a similar expiration date, when she spied the quotation.
    â€œAre you comparable to a summer’s day?
    You are more lovely and more kind”
    Even if she hadn’t detected the charm upon the card, Esther would have scoffed at the badly rendered quote. So trite, so banal…As she completed her list of the quotation’s failings, her fingertips brushed across it, and it nearly scorched her with the electric charge of magic.
    Of course! Spelled ink! Esther took a moment to berate herself for not having thought of such a simple trick earlier. When one does not have a personal item of the beloved’s, the lover need only mix a few drops of their own blood into the ink, then carry the missive to his or her potential mate. Esther deliberately did not imagine Mr. Childress’s countenance as he bled into a vial of ink, nor consider what he was thinking when he had done so. Vile man.
    Shortly after Esther’s discovery she sent for Jessamine, eager to share in her discovery. She spent the better part of the day chasing Jessamine about the drawing room with a vial and a hatpin. Eventually, she gave up and rang for afternoon tea.
    â€œReally, Essie,” Jessamine admonished, “what were you thinking? As if I could send my blood to Edward! Why, the very thought of it is vile. No lady—no proper lady—would ever conceive of such a thing!”
    In reply to which, Esther only smiled and asked Jessamine what she would like with her tea, then quickly jabbed the hatpin into the heel of Jessamine’s palm. “Essie! What are you doing?”
    Esther quickly put the vial underneath the wound, and applied pressure until three ruby droplets had plunged into the black ink. “Now, Jess, that wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” Esther soothed. The blood thus procured, Essie withdrew the inkwell and offered Jessamine a crisp linen napkin.
    â€œI suppose not,” Jessamine admitted as she blotted her hand. “You could have warned me.”
    â€œYou knew very well what I was after.” At that moment, the maid entered and began laying out the tea service. “Now, let’s have our tea, and afterward we shall adjourn to my study.