“What can I help you with?” I repeated, my eyes flicking about to keep up with her nervous hummingbird movements throughout my kitchen. I was sure she expected me to offer her refreshment, but I refused to do anything to lessen her discomfort.
“Oh my, we are right to the meat of it then.” Her voice became sensible. “May I sit?”
I nodded almost imperceptibly but sat hesitantly, leaving her to follow my lead, which she did as she sat across from me, her sparse eyelashes completely disappearing in the low light of my cottage.
“I do not know how to begin,” she said, her voice fumbling just as her hands did as they nervously twisted around one another, like milquetoast eels.
“Perhaps at the beginning,” I shoot out dryly. “What do you want of me?”
“I hope that you may help me,” she stammered. “I’ve heard whispers in town that you can help with all kinds of afflictions, is it true?”
“It depends on your ailment, I suppose,” I answered, sitting back to look at her, enjoying her agitation.
“It’s of an emotional nature,” she jabbers nervously. “A malady of the heart, if you will.”
I was at a loss for what she was getting at so I just continued to stare at her until her nerves forced her to sputter on in an attempt to ease her awkwardness.
“I...my...I believe my husband’s heart is elsewhere,” she finally said, slapping the table with her smooth hands.
I was taken aback, and her eyes were completely guileless. She was truly unwittingly appealing to me for help with her husband’s infidelity without understanding I was the cause of it. He had taken me on the very table her hands thrashed on as her vapid eyes beheld me nervously.
“What do you hope I can do for this malady?” I asked carefully, lifting from the table and pouring us both dandelion tea, which she accepted gratefully, smiling at the reprieve from my rudeness. I would catch more flies with honey this day.
“I just want him to look at me in adoration,” she said as she leaned forward to blow on the boiling liquid. “I want him to desire and love me again.”
I looked at her conspiratorially, pretending we were school friends, just having a vaguely mystical talk about matters of the heart. “You would like a little love magic.”
“That sounds wicked,” she said in an alarmed and hushed tone, as she leaned forward with her eyes wide as saucers. “I don’t mean anything from the devil, Mrs. Worthe.”
“I offer you nothing from the devil,” I smiled reassuringly. “But surely you knew when you came here that my methods would be mystical.”
“I...I...don’t know what I thought,” she admitted, leaning forward to sip the tea, smiling at the taste. “But I am desperate for him to return to me.”
“I can help you,” I said, sipping my own tea, smiling over the rim. “What can you offer me for my services?”
She nearly knocked over her tea reaching into the sack that she had tied to her dress as she poured out the contents. A pile of pine tree shillings rolled onto the table and my eyes widened. It was a small fortune and all but assured I could make my way to Boston if my newly formed plan went awry.
“Here, it’s all for you,” Sarah stuttered, shoving it at me, with coins rolling off the table in all directions. “I’ve been saving what I could for nearly a year. Please, please, I beg of you to use your most potent...uh...magics.”
“This will do,” I remarked, sweeping up from the table and whipping open the cabinet which held my most dangerous cocktails. I grab a vial of dried herbs and hold it out to her. “Here, distill this in cream and make a cake out of it.”
“Oh my,” she said, dismayed. “I’ve never baked and I couldn’t have my cook handling anything like this.”
“No, no,” I answer quickly, looking at her seriously. “This must remain between us. It’s imperative.”
Sarah nods rapidly, indicating that she would rather die than reveal this to anyone, and I aimed to help her with that. I finger the vial of oleander before leaning over the table to look at her closely. “I shall bake it for you. It shan’t take long.”
“Oh, would you? How wonderful,” Sarah clapped her hands together happily.
“What a lovely woman you are, Mrs. Worthe.”
“Call me Mary,” I offer generously and she nods in radiant pleasure at the camaraderie I’ve fabricated for her. So eager to be liked, and so very trusting.
I begin to move about, grabbing ingredients from the larder. I carefully soak the oleander, watching it leach the poison into the cream. Sarah’s eyes are on me constantly as I measure flour and put my ration of sugar to another worthy cause.
“You certainly know how to bake,” Sarah said in awe. “You must be put upon to do it all out here with no servants.”
“A woman shouldn't depend on men or servants,” I snapped, incredulous when her bovine eyes remained naively unaffected.
“All this expertise and you’re so very beautiful,” she continued, smiling widely. “I am most bewildered as to how you haven’t remarried.”
“I certainly plan to,” I laughed, as I greased my cake pan. “Soon.”
She clapped her hands excitedly again, leaning forward as though we’d spent all our days together cultivating a precious friendship. “Who is the fortunate man, pray tell?”
“I do not want to curse the union by speaking too quickly of it.” I slowly poured the poisonous cream into the batter, gently swirling it throughout, its scent completely neutralized by the chopped apples I added in, thinking back to my first picnic with George, where he brought that exquisite apple cake. “But you will be among the first to know.”
“Do you think I might come to visit you here occasionally?” Sarah didn’t wait for an answer as she breezed forth, a quick string of words falling
