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Gladys set out a tea tray despite Devra’s insistence she wasn’t thirsty. “Manners are important, my dear. Plus, I’ve mixed the perfect blend to help you with those nasty wrinkles.”

Devra touched her face self-consciously. Then she shook away the distracting thought and pointed to the section of text that was giving her trouble. “The problem is the sacrifice part.”

Gladys settled next to her at the worn Windsor table. It was the most ordinary thing about the woman’s home. Ferns and ivies crawled up the walls and along shelves that held crystals of various shapes and sizes. Bright satin curtains covered windows and dangled between rooms with no apparent unifying colour palette.

“The spell book you gave me was vague, and this one’s written in ye olde English.”

“So you need a ye olde lady to interpret it for you?”

“Oh, um, I didn’t mean…”

Gladys cackled a laugh that sounded eerily similar to the one Devra had heard carried by the wind yesterday. “I’m only teasing. Kids these days, so serious.” She took out a pair of stunning cat-eye glasses from a crystal studded case and cozied them onto her face. “Now, then. Let me have a look.” She licked her thumb and turned a page.

Devra’s leg bobbed under the table as the woman read. To keep busy, she took a sip of her tea. It tasted of cardamom and curdled cheese, and she almost spat it out. Devra would rather have the wrinkles.

At last, Gladys said, “Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

“Straightforward? It’s gibberish.”

“Yes, there’s quite a bit of that too.”

“There is?”

“Verbose, I would say. Witches do enjoy their pageantry. The trick is to home in on the important sentences, the ones that have meaning beyond the dramatics. Here, for example, we have It is incumbent upon you to discern that which is most sacred.”

“Okay?” Devra waited for Gladys to explain what that meant, but Gladys remained silent, her hands neatly folded on the table in a perfect tableau of patience.

So Devra closed her eyes and turned the sentence over in her brain. That which is most sacred.

She opened her eyes. “So maybe a piece of your heart is a metaphor for what you care about. Like, you’re supposed to sacrifice what you love the most. Is that right?”

“Well done.” Gladys’s eyes twinkled with approval. “There’s hope for you yet.”

“But I’m not about to, you know,” Devra looked around the room, then dragged a finger across her neck while she whispered, “sacrifice my greatest love for my own personal benefit.”

“How dramatic! This isn’t black magic. Come, now.” She rotated the book and shoved it toward Devra. “See here: Blood does not beg for blood, only a strand laid at weeping feet.”

“So…only a small piece needs to be sacrificed?” Devra said hopefully. “A single strand? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. That’s what the book is saying. And honestly, I’m not sure sacrifice is even the right word here. A touch over the top, wouldn’t you say? It’s more of an acknowledgement. By discovering what you care about most and imagining yourself losing that piece of your heart…” Gladys’s voice cracked and fell away. She removed her glasses and dabbed at a tear. Then she lifted her chin and continued, “By imagining yourself losing what you cannot live without, you acknowledge the depth of pain you caused the animal spirit.”

“The pain I caused Rover,” Devra said softly. And she paused to really look at this woman beside her, who had once been so heartbroken she’d taken to the spell books to soothe her soul, and who felt that loss still. “The pain I caused you.”

Then it struck her. How to interpret the passage as a whole.

“It’s about empathy, isn’t it?” A strand laid at weeping feet. She couldn’t just say she was sorry—she had to feel sorry. “It’s an apology, like we thought, just a very heartfelt one.”

“And there we have it.” Gladys dipped her pinky into her teacup as if to assess its temperature. Then she lifted it to her mouth, pinched her nostrils closed, and chugged.

The spell was a lesson in empathy.

The last piece of the puzzle. The last thread of her misery. A thread Devra could pluck. The answers here, laid out before her.

“Thank you for your help, Gladys.”

She shrugged. “It’s my responsibility, given the mistake I made.”

“I know. But thank you anyway. Bradley says you’re a really nice person.” Devra tested the feel of what she was considering saying next, weighing it in her mind and comparing it to the weight of her anger. She decided it was a good trade. “I forgive you, Gladys.”