A knock sounded at the door. “That will be my carriage.” She picked up her thick velvet cloak. “I hope you enjoy your rest, darling. I will be late, if I’m home at all.” Bending down she kissed my forehead, then stroked my cheek. “There is no one more important to me than you, Cécile. I hope you know that.”

My traitorous heart warmed, then I squashed the feeling away, reminding myself that the last time she’d expressed herself this way, she’d been in the process of drugging me. “Good luck tonight, mother.”

I waited until I was certain she was gone, then I threw off the robe covering my dress and hurried to the back door. Chris was waiting, a roll of parchment in one hand and a caged chicken in the other. “She’s gone?” he asked.

I nodded. “Come in before the neighbors see you.”

Once he was inside, we set to hurrying about the house closing all the curtains. I was taking no chances that someone might see us – at best, I’d be exiled from the city. And at worst… the smoke coming from the fireplace took on an ominous feel.

“Where do you want to do this?” Chris asked, holding up the cage and eyeing the chicken. “It will be messy.”

I grimaced. “The kitchen would be the best, I suppose.”

Following my terse instructions, we set up all of my supplies on the kitchen floor, along with a bucket and rags to clean up what would be a large amount of blood. I took the map Chris had brought and laid it out flat, then carefully began committing it to memory as well as I could.

“What are you doing?” Chris whispered.

“The map needs to be reflected in my mind’s eye,” I said. “Otherwise this won’t work.”

Catherine had devised the spell I intended to use to find missing loved ones. It was a noble cause, unlike my own, but cause meant little when it came to the effectiveness of the spell. All I really needed was a possession belonging to the missing, in this case, Anushka’s grimoire, a map, and the raw power of a death. So little, and yet, so much.

When I was comfortable I could accurately visualize the map, I set a basin between it and me. Then I opened the chicken’s cage and pulled her out. She clucked quietly in my arms, used to being handled. Chris handed me a knife, and I swallowed a wave of nausea. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

“You’ve killed chickens before, Cécile. Lots of them.” Chris’s words were steady, but his face was ghostly pale.

“For eating,” I muttered. “Not for… this.” I petted the hen on her head and she clucked at me. No amount of farm living could prepare me for this.

“I could pluck her after and we could, umm, roast her up?”

I gagged and shook my head. The idea of eating my ritual sacrifice was too much.