“It’s not an illusion—that’s the trouble. Let me explain.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “First off: I didn’t kill Frederick, I promise. I was afraid you and Lydia were both in danger—I thought I might be able to convince him to findout what our father was up to. You know: ‘You owe me, you bastard, and you hate Father anyway so why not.’”
The devil-may-care tone she’d affected on the final words carried a hint of a tremor. Beatrix knew enough about Ella’s history to grasp how horrendously difficult it must have been, deciding to speak to him.
“He’d left his keys in the door, so I opened it. He was there, on the floor. I almost tripped over him.”
Beatrix winced. “What did you do?”
“Said, ‘God damn you, I bet you died just to spite me,’ and burst into tears.” Ella’s borrowed lips twisted into a brief parody of her sardonic smile. “Theonetime in his miserable life he could have done some good, and he’d already checked out.”
She took several deep breaths and went on. “After a while, the thought occurred to me: I could be Frederick. I could spy. The height difference meant an illusion was out of the question, but knitting is powerful stuff—what if I could just … become him? Refashion my body?”
“Oh,no,” Beatrix whispered.
Ella made a sound that was almost a laugh. “I know, right? I managed it—and now I’m stuck. I can’t transform back.”
She stared at the ceiling, slouching further into the chair. “I can’t knit anymore. I can barely cast a spell—I did the job so well that I seem to have gotten my brother’s lousy abilities into the bargain. And on top of all that, it hasn’t done any good because I can’t get my father totellme anything.”
Beatrix didn’t know what to say. Ella had simply been trying to help. She reached out and took her hand.
Ella’s eyes welled.
“It must be especially hard to be trapped in that body,” Beatrix murmured.
“It’s been weeks and I still feel sick every time I look in a mirror.” Ella scrubbed at her face with her free hand. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. It was an unhinged thing to do. Sort of like what I did to Omnimancer Blackwell, though obviously that was a million times worse. It seemed perfectly logical and necessary to me at the time to set the weapon off, and now I look back and wonder what in the nine circles of hell waswrongwith me.”
Beatrix took a steadying breath. Now or never. “I think it was the knitting.”
Ella looked stunned. “What?”
Beatrix explained. How close she’d come,twice, to attempting murder. How she too had felt as if something was wrong with her, as if she wasn’t in control of her own thoughts. And how she hadn’t had any more murderous urges since she stopped knitting.
“That would mean it’s not your fault,” she said. “It’s mine, really. Because I taught you.”
Ella, listening to all this with wide eyes, shook her head and let out a huff of a breath. “Don’t be silly. You taught me because I wanted to know how to do it. Anyway, if knitting warps the mind and I was practicing far more than you, why wasn’t it affecting my daily behavior?”
Beatrix frowned, considering the question. “We were under a great deal of stress during each incident. A lot more than normal. Maybe that’s why? Anyway, since you… transformed, have you acted or considered acting in a way you would describe as crazy?”
Ella thought about it. “Well … no, I guess not.”
“And you haven’t been able to knit,” Beatrix pointed out.
Ella did not look entirely convinced. She raised her eyebrows. “You’ll probably haveto knit again before this is all over, you know.”
Beatrix shivered. She hoped not. Then she made the mistake of glancing down and was forcibly reminded that Lydia’s blood was all over her dress.
“Oh,” she said, jerking back, trembling. “I—I can’t—I need—Ella, the blood?—”
“Yes, right, just a moment!” Ella stuffed a hand in her pocket and came out with leaves.“Beclænse. Come on—beclænse. Beclænse! Beclænse!”
Beatrix felt the tingle of the spell through her dress.
“Fourth time’s the charm, said no one ever,” Ella muttered.
Beatrix started to laugh, but it came out all wrong. Oh,God.What was she to do? What?
Focus. Peter’s life depended on her—Rosemarie’s, too. She couldn’t help Lydia when it mattered because she’d panicked, and she couldn’t afford to do that again.
She took a shaky breath, then another. “We need a plan to find Peter and Rosemarie. They might be in the same place. Tell me exactly what you’ve overheard.”
