“Nothing that can’t be discussed in good time,” Anne replied, her voice rising in the way it always did whenever she was trying to sound more cheerful. “It’s my turn to share my vision.”
Beatrix looked skeptical but was too curious about what her sister was going to say to press the matter further for the time being.
“And what was it?” Violet asked.
“Laughter,” Anne replied.
“But that’s what we heard last year,” Beatrix said, her voice laced with confusion. “The visions never repeat themselves. It’s always something new.”
“It wasn’t the same laughter as before,” Anne replied. “The voice belonged to a young girl. I think it was one of us when we were children.”
“That’s very strange,” Violet said. “The visions are always reflections of the future, not echoes of the past.”
“I’m afraid that there aren’t any firm lines between the past, present, and future for me any longer,” Anne explained. “As my powers have grown stronger, the weaker those boundaries havebecome. I must have caught on to a memory instead of a glimpse of what rests ahead.”
The sisters sipped their tea in silent disappointment. Though they’d expected that they’d each be graced with distinct visions, Beatrix knew it hadn’t occurred to any of them that their paths might be diverging so much that they’d be pulled toward entirely different periods of time. The thought made her wonder just how far their threads of destiny were being stretched from one another.
“Well, it’s a very fine one to return to, at least,” Violet finally said with a smile, shifting their conversation away from shadowy possibilities. “And the house was so full of laughter when we were girls that it shouldn’t be a surprise some of it slipped into the here and now.”
“I’m quite content with the vision in any case,” Anne said with a nod before turning to Beatrix. “And what did you find waiting for you on our birthday?”
Beatrix reached for her spectacles and pulled nervously at the chain. The gesture instantly reminded her of the times before she’d found herself in the lines of a halffinished story, when every spoken word had to be wrenched from her chest.
“I felt the touch of paper,” she replied, her answer so soft that it was nearly overpowered by the rattling windows.
“But that’s hardly a surprise,” Violet cooed, sitting up at the sound of her sister’s distress. “You’re a writer, after all.”
“It was the feeling of paper crumbling beneath my fingers, as if I touched a page that had been torn about the edges and caused the whole piece to fall apart,” Beatrix said, her hands shaking so fiercely now that she had to set her cup on the table to keep the steaming tea from spilling onto the settee.
“It could mean anything,” Anne replied as she grasped her fingers, which Beatrix knew felt icy even through her lace gloves.“We’ve all learned that what first seems like a curse might become a blessing.”
“If the vision was the only ill omen, I might be able to accept that,” Beatrix murmured. “But it isn’t.”
Anne and Violet caught one another’s gazes over Beatrix’s curls, their eyes widening in silent surprise.
“What’s happened?” Anne finally asked, her hold on Beatrix’s hand growing firmer.
“I can’t . . . ,” Beatrix began, needing to pause before saying the words that were always skittering along the sides of her thoughts. “ . . . write.”
The confession startled the house so much that the parlor walls shrank inward a fraction, as if the Crescent Moon were gasping.
“What do you mean, Bee?” Anne asked when she realized what her sister had said. “Are you having trouble finishing the next book?”
In her letters, Beatrix had already told Anne and Violet that Donohoe & Company had contracted her for a third novel. The first was such a sensation and the second a sure success that they hadn’t even waited for her to pitch an idea for a third, let alone show them a completed manuscript. No, Mr. Stuart had simply told her that he wanted a new book and that she had until spring to finish it.
“That’s the trouble,” Beatrix replied. “I haven’t even started.”
Anne almost lost the grip on her teacup but managed to catch it before the porcelain could fall to the carpet.
“Medusa’s curls,” Violet murmured.
“But you’ve been able to turn out a novel in practically a blink of an eye before,” Anne insisted. “You told us that you only needed a few months to finish the last one.”
That was true. After embracing her wordweaver abilities, Beatrix had been so swept away by the details of her next storythat she’d managed to finish an entire manuscript before the worst of winter had settled in. Mr. Stuart had been so thrilled by the speed at which she wrote that he hadn’t even batted an eye at signing the contract for a third book. But that was months ago, and Beatrix hadn’t even managed to produce a prologue.
“Something’s different now,” Beatrix said with a shake of her head. “I think I’m losing my magic.”
Anne and Violet leaned closer to their sister, wrapping their arms around her waist and shoulders as they tried to tether her worries to something grounded so that they wouldn’t carry her away entirely.
