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flower and foliage representing the rebirth of spring life after the death of winter, the Drunkard's Path and similar patterns recalling the labyrinth, the maze in which an enemy could be trapped, unable to escape.
    Like the Beltway, Rachel thought with a faint smile. Modern man is still trapped in a maze of roads that go nowhere.
    There was no question about the fact that magic had been viewed by many cultures as a practical, pragmatic method of coping with the problems of life. In order to sprout and grow, crops had to be planted during the proper phase of the moon and with the proper spells; medicine would not be as effective without the incantations and prayers that accompanied it. In fact, there were few cultures, ancient and modern, that had not employed magic, and people who thought rational Western civilization had risen above such superstition were kidding themselves. It wasn't difficult to find examples of magical practices, but Rachel had not had much luck in identifying a secret, specific women's magic. That wasn't surprising. If the practices were secret, they wouldn't have been described to anthropologists, even female anthropologists, who would be viewed as foreigners, skeptics, outside the sisterhood of that particular culture.
    She tossed the book aside and reached for another, on Ozark magic and superstition. Some of the superstitions connected with needlecraft were based on the principles of magic defined by the great nineteenth-century scholar Sir James Fraser. Knotting, braiding, and weaving were varieties of imitative magic; they could render a man impotent, or bind the affections of a faithless lover, or keep a woman writhing in the pangs of childbirth, unable to deliver. The magic of contagion or connection was based on the belief that an action performed on an object that had been in intimate contact with an individual, especially body parts like hair and fingernail clippings, would affect the individual himself. Never make a dress with a needle that has been used to sew a shroud; the contagion of death will affect the wearer of the dress.
    Had Medea used such a needle when she embroidered the deadly garment she sent to the bride of her faithless lover? No; that was probably too farfetched. But Rachel felt sure Medea had steeped that garment in evil magic as well as in poison. Witch and sorceress they had called her, among other names—traitor, murderess, tiger. Well-merited names; her crimes had been unspeakable. And all for love . . . Rachel closed the book and turned out the light. So many spells, so many superstitions about love and marriage, winning a man and holding him. Women were fools. Including herself.
    Her mind retraced the familiar labyrinth of indecision. She knew what she ought to do—give Cheryl her notice, find another job, or try to scrape along on her savings while she worked like mad on the dissertation.
    If she stayed on she would give herself away sooner or later and that would settle the matter—in the most unpleasant, humiliating manner possible. There was no other possibility. Even if he ...
    It wasn't the first time she had allowed herself to entertain that fantasy—being alone with him, seeing his face change, his eyes soften, his hands reach out for her. Hearing him admit he had tried to fight his feelings but that they had proved too strong to resist. . . Rachel turned over and buried her face in the pillow. She might be hopelessly infatuated but she wasn't stupid or completely unprincipled. It would never happen. He'd never leave his wife and children, not Tony, not even if he fell in love with someone else. I wouldn't want him to, Rachel thought. At least I hope I wouldn't. Oh, God, what am I going to do?
    Eventually physical exhaustion overcame her and she fell into one of those exasp erating states of semiconscious ness, too tired to wake up and too uptight to sleep soundly. If she had been deeply asleep she might not have heard the faint creak of the opening