“Boots off,” Esme ordered, taking down a jar of salve from the shelves. As soon as Anouk had removed her boots, Esme frowned. “You’re missing your little toes.”
“It’s a long story.”
Esme applied the cream to Anouk’s fingers and the blackened tips of Anouk’s toes, then put some on the sensitive pads of Little Beau’s paws. There must have been magic in the salve, because moments after Esme applied it, Anouk’s fingers began to come to life again. It was cold in the infirmary and hardly comforting, but at least the lantern was warm.
She cleared her throat. “The Duke said something about finding a . . . crux?”
Esme looked up from where she was dabbing the salve carefully around Little Beau’s claws. “All the girls come here thinking they’re going to learn spells and potion-making. That’s part of it, of course. There’s a library filled with books on the Selentium Vox and the history and politics of the Haute, and there are storerooms filled with samples of every kind of life-essence imaginable. But this is, above all, a place for searching. The Duke will explain it to you.”
“I’d rather hear it from you.”
Esme sat back on her heels. “Do you know that every witch has a preferred kind of life-essence? A certain type of flower, or butterfly, or herb?”
Anouk’s mind flooded with the cloying smell of Mada Vittora’s roses. “I do.”
“Here, we call that her crux. It isn’t just that, say, the Rébeval Witch of Lucerne liked the smell of peonies so she favored them for her spells. For her, peonies held a unique power. Decades ago, she came to the Cottage as a Pretty and spent months searching for her crux before she found it. Cruxes are a symbol of each witch’s unique connection to magic.”
Anouk hadn’t heard them described as cruxes before, but she knew what Esme was talking about. For Mada Vittora, it had been roses. For Mada Zola, fresh-cut lavender. Though witches could and did use all types of life-essences, there was one living element that each witch seemed preternaturally drawn to; it could be goose down, dragonfly wings, allium bulbs, or any of a nearly infinite number of possibilities. That life-essence would be included, even in a tiny portion, in almost all of the witch’s potions to give it a personal touch of power.
“Where are we supposed to find our cruxes?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the purpose of the Cottage. To figure out what your crux is. A lot of girls spend hours in the Duke’s storerooms, sniffing and tasting every flower and herb and living thing, hoping that they’ll suddenly just know what the right crux is, but that’s a misguided approach. Cruxes don’t work that way. In order to discover one’s crux, one has to delve deep into magic—into spells, history of magic, politics, physical casting. Some girls discover their cruxes through study. Like Marta. She spent months in the library studying the Selentium Vox, and then one day, we found her passed out on the floor in a puddle of spilled tea. When she woke, she chattered on about bees, bees, how honeybees were the secret to everything. She must have learned thousands of words in the Selentium Vox, but it wasn’t until she learned the word for ‘bee’ that something clicked for her.” Esme swatted at an invisible bee with a shiver as though glad that wasn’t her crux, and then she continued. “Not all of the girls are certain of their cruxes yet. But they’d better decide soon. Time is short—I don’t have to tell you that. Karla thinks hers is marigold. She came across a drawing of a marigold in an old manuscript and dreamed about a field of them that night. Sam can’t decide between thorns and anise pods—she’s been taking long runs every morning, barefoot in the snow, hoping that the exertion will give her clarity. Jolie—ah, that’s an interesting story. She discovered her crux by accident. A literal accident. She spent months studying, meditating, doing physical casting exercises in the courtyard, and she still didn’t have a clue. But then she fell from the bridge and plunged into the ravine. She nearly died. We brought her here, to the infirmary, and when she woke up, she said she’d had a vision of butterfly wings. Frederika won’t say what hers is. Either she doesn’t know or it’s something embarrassing. Heida suspects Frederika’s crux is poppy seeds. You know, opium. Crazy drawn to crazy. And the sisters! Heida and Lise have a theory that their crux is each other. That for each girl, it’s a lock of her sister’s hair. They think their power lies in their sisterhood.”
“Have you found your crux?”
Esme didn’t answer right away. Anouk got the sense she’d asked a taboo question, but then Esme tipped her chin up and said, “Maybe. I’ve spent months in prayer—no books or barefoot jogging for me. Laugh if you want. I know prayer is out of fashion in the Pretty World. I’m the only girl here who prays. But in my prayers, I see something white, like stone, but living.” She paused, her eyes glistening. “I think mine is bone. I’m not quite sure. I need to pray on it more.”
“What if you think it’s bone but it isn’t?”
Esme gave a sardonic grunt. “If I’m right, I’ll clutch my crux and walk through the Coal Baths in one piece. If I’m wrong, I’ll burn.” Esme put away the salve, closing the drawer a little too forcefully. “Obviously most girls are wrong, despite how they rave about visions and signs and dreams. The ones like the Rébeval Witch, who thought hers was peonies and was right, are the exception. There are ten of us here now. We’ll be lucky if even one of us is still alive after wintertide.”
Anouk had been stroking Little Beau’s head but now her fingers curled in the scruff of his neck.
Esme opened a cupboard full of muslin dresses and undergarments. “No girls come here on a lark. All of us want something. Revenge. Strength. Ambition. Becoming a witch is the only way we’ll get it.”
She handed Anouk a stack of dresses. Little Beau pressed his nose into them. Anouk could smell the mustiness. Lye. Wool. Dust. So different from the delicate smells of Paris.
“Sorry again you’ll have to lose the jacket. Put it somewhere safe. Hope you live to wear it again.”
Esme continued the tour, showing her the laundry rooms and the kitchen, a confectionery and canning room, and the floor that housed the Duke’s offices and his personal library. By the time Anouk had been shown the endless chambers of storerooms where every type of life-essence was cataloged, the courtyard where they could exercise, and a few dreary rooms for studying ancient texts, Anouk was yawning.
“One more stop, I’m afraid.” Esme’s gaze fell on the dog.
Anouk’s stomach twisted as she and Little Beau followed Esme back through the great hall, where the pair of sisters were now scrubbing the floor on their hands and knees, and down a set of curving stairs to the cellars. Anouk could tell from the smell, even before seeing it, that it had been converted into stables for the goats and chickens. Esme opened a dusty stall door with a metal bolt. “Marta’s in charge of the animals. She’ll feed your dog and bring him water, and you can visit him when you have free time, but I’m afraid that won’t be often. The Duke keeps us busy with our chores. If you have goodbyes to say, say them now.”
Anouk sank to her knees and ran her hands through Little Beau’s fur. She pressed her forehead against his. When Beau had been a boy, he’d hated to be alone. He was always hunting out someone to talk to, even if it was just a Goblin or the Pretties who delivered packages. As a dog, he’d barely left her side.