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Felicity bends till she’s level with the child’s face. “Do your worst.”
Charlotte flinches first. With a glance at Ann, she runs to her mother, wailing. “Mummy, Annie’s friend told me a monster would eat me!”
“I’m done for,” Ann sighs.
“All the more reason to put our plan into effect,” I say.
After Mrs. Wharton has thoroughly taken Ann to task for Charlotte’s tantrum—in full view of the discomfited guests—she orders Ann back to her duties. We trail just behind them as Charlotte murders the roses. I bend down and say sweetly, “You mustn’t break the roses, Lottie.”
She stares at me with hateful eyes. “You’re not my mother.”
“That’s true,” I continue. “But if you don’t stop, I shall be forced to tell your mother.”
“Then I shall say it was Annie who broke the rose.”
To demonstrate her power, she throws a rose at my feet. How delightful. What a pleasant child.
“Here we go,” I whisper in Ann’s ear.
“Lottie, you mustn’t hurt the roses,” Ann says as sweetly as possible. “Or the roses might hurt you.”
“That’s silly.” She breaks another.
She has moved to a third when Ann says, quite firmly, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She waves her hand over the roses, summoning the magic I’ve bequeathed her. Charlotte’s eyes widen as the decapitated blooms fly free of their broken stems. They rise in a sparkling red spiral. It’s a lovely effect and would most likely make a point all on its own, but it is important to impress the little beast thoroughly. The roses fly quickly toward her and hover for only a second above her astonished face before they descend in full attack, the thorns pricking her arms, her hands, her legs, and her backside several times. Charlotte screams and runs for her mother. The roses lie back down. I can see the girl pulling on her mother’s arm while rubbing her sore bottom. Within seconds, a whimpering Charlotte drags her mother to us. Several guests follow to see what the commotion is about.
“Tell her!” Charlotte cries. “Tell her what the roses did! What you made them do!”
We give Mrs. Wharton our most innocent smiles, but Ann’s is the biggest.
“Why, Lottie, what do you mean, dear?” Ann asks, all concern and worry.
Charlotte is having none of it. “She made the roses fly! She made them hurt me! She made the roses fly! She did!”
“My goodness, how did I do that?” Ann chides gently.
“You’re a witch! And you are, too. And you!”
The guests chuckle at this, but Mrs. Wharton is chagrined. “Charlotte! Such an imagination. You know how Papa feels about fibbing.”
“It isn’t a fib, Mama! They did it! They did!”
Ann closes her eyes, spinning one last charm. “Oh, dear,” she says, examining Charlotte’s face. “What are those spots?”
Indeed, small red bumps appear on the child’s face, though they are nothing more than an illusion.
“Why, it’s pox,” a gentleman says.
“Oh. Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wharton says. A ripple of concern passes through the guests. No one wants to be near, and though Mrs. Wharton fights to hold on to her perfect party, she’s losing her grip. Already, wives are tugging on husbands’ sleeves, making their excuses to leave.
And then it begins to rain, though Ann, Felicity, and I can take no credit for that event. The brass band stops playing. The carriages are brought round. The guests scatter, and the children are ushered to the nursery by Mr. Wharton. We are left blissfully alone.
“Oh, I should like to relive that moment again and again,” Ann says as we take cover under a pergola draped in grapevine.
“Witches!” Felicity says in imitation of Charlotte, and we snicker behind our hands.
“Still,” Ann says, a note of concern creeping into her voice, “she is only a child.”
“No,” I say. “She is a demon cleverly disguised in a pinafore. And her mother deserves her utterly.”
