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out the light, and then nearly dropped the taper. She stepped backwards, and her face twisted with surprise or perhaps fear.
    Lucy ran forward to take her elbow. “Are you unwell?”
    Straightening out and affecting a calm demeanor, Miss Crawford shook her head. “It is nothing, thank you. It is only that … I cannot say. There is something very wrong here.”
    “And it is now, I suppose, that you say you shall make everything right for a guinea!” cried Uncle Lowell. “You must think me the greatest fool who ever lived.”
    “I shall show her to the door,” offered Mrs. Quince.
    Lucy knew better than to apologize for her uncle. Instead she relied upon the tools she had always used to survive in his and the serving woman’s company, which is to say, she ignored them as best she could. “What must we do, Miss Crawford?”
    Even in the dark of the room, Lucy could see the concern upon the lady’s face. “I cannot say what there is to be done. I can—I can try to do something. I must have some quiet. I beg you all to leave the room. All but Miss Derrick. You will stay with me, won’t you?”
    Lucy wanted to stay with Miss Crawford, certainly, though she did not know how she felt about staying with this undressed stranger.
    “I shall remain too,” announced Mrs. Quince, “to protect the interests of the household.”
    “I must request otherwise,” said Miss Crawford to Lucy, ignoring Mrs. Quince entirely. “I do not think your woman’s proximity will aid my concentration.”
    Mrs. Quince turned to Miss Crawford, and something hot and angryburned in her eyes, but she swept from the room, and Lucy indulged in a little thrill of triumph. It was childish, yes, but she did not care.
She
was the favored one now, and she watched with pleasure as Uncle Lowell and Mrs. Quince stepped away, so that only the two young ladies remained in the dimly lit room with the door closed.
    Miss Crawford sighed as she set her candle down upon a little table near the fireplace. “Now I must do what I do not love. I must attempt to practice.”
    “Does it hurt you?” asked Lucy.
    Miss Crawford laughed good-naturedly. “No, it is simply something for which I have no talent. I also hate to play at the pianoforte, for I am very bad at it, and the attempt makes me feel useless. I understand the principles of magic, just as I understand those of music, but I was not formed to excel at either. Even so, for the sake of your household, I will try.”
    Miss Crawford closed her eyes and stilled her breathing.
    “You quiet yourself.” Lucy had not intended to say anything, and she regretted the words the instant she spoke them. She hated when words escaped against her will. It was a feeling she knew too well. With Mrs. Quince, the consequence for a slip of this kind might be a pinch or a slap or a public scolding, and Lucy winced out of reflex.
    Miss Crawford turned to her, the surprise visible upon her face even in the feeble light, but there was nothing dark or angry. “You know more of the cunning woman’s craft than you admit.”
    “Only … only a little,” she answered. “I attempted to learn to read the cards once, but I was not very good at it and—and it ended in a quarrel.”
    “With whom?” asked Miss Crawford.
    Lucy surprised herself by telling the truth, though she had never before spoken of how Mrs. Quince treated her. She hated that the world would know how helpless she was, but now she found she wanted to tell Miss Crawford. “Mrs. Quince. She was kind to me once, long ago, but since that quarrel, she has not been my friend.”
    Miss Crawford clucked her tongue. “I don’t believe I much care foryour Mrs. Quince, so we may safely forget about her. I would like you to look for the source of this man’s curse.”
    Lucy felt cold fear grip her. It was a near-blinding panic. Was it fear of Mrs. Quince or something else? She did not know why, but she did not want anything to do with helping this man. “I