It wasn’t the first time Agnes had been asked to kill a man. There had been a handful of such requests throughout her years, scattered between magically knitted sweaters that kept the wearer at an even temperature in any weather and floral-pattered baby blankets that always smelled of fresh roses. Agnes turned all of the death-wishing commissioners away—all, that is, but one. She didn’t know if that one could even count as a request. It hadn’t been, not directly.

 

That first time, Agnes had refrained from using her magic, worried that something, some caveat of being a witch, would stop her. Maybe her knitting needles would warp or fly out of her hands or even stab her through the heart for such a dark use of her power. That same pair of needles sat on a table next to her favorite armchair. They’d never created anything that had killed anyone, but Agnes had spent just as long scrubbing them free of blood as she had her hands.

 

The girl in front of her was nearly the opposite of the woman she’d helped previously, with a fair, unblemished complexion and a delicate silk dress embroidered with gold thread. Agnes was sure she had never had to want for anything in her life. The woman from all those years ago had been poor, often barely managing to scrap together enough money for food, but kind enough to share what she had with the young witch she could have just as easily turned in. That woman and the girl in front of her had the same eyes, garden green and blooming with desperation.

 

Those eyes searched the room behind Agnes, taking in the worn-down but extremely comfortable furniture, the yarn scattered around the room, the flowers in the vase on her table, the framed drawing on her mantle.

 

Agnes hadn’t missed the way the girl had clutched the cloak tighter around her shoulders as she asked for an item that could kill a man. “Sit. I’ll put the kettle on.”

 

“Now is not the time for—for tea.” She spat the last word as if the witch had suggested she drink a cup of poison. “I can and will pay anything for you to help me kill him.”

 

The witch would have turned her away after that particular show of wealth and power, but something about the girl reminded her of a friend she hadn’t seen in decades, not since a few months after she’d killed the first man. She knew she shouldn’t let her sentiments get the better of her in a situation like the one she was in, but that drawing on her mantle was proof enough she never would have succeeded in that. The picture had no color, but the darkness of her hair, so different from the silver that cascaded over Agnes’s shoulders now, revealed its decades-long existence. Despite the time that had passed, she could remember how bright the flowers around her had been as she’d sat in the small garden with her book. The title at the top was small and messy, but still legible: “Aggie Reading, by Penny.”

 

“I don’t help people for the money,” Agnes finally said. “I will not kill a man for you in exchange for a bit of gold.”

 

Rage flashed in the girl’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a surge of fresh desperation. “It’s not for me. It’s for my mother.” The girl inhaled shakily, suddenly seeming to fold in on herself. “I need you to kill my father.”

 

Agnes turned to look at her, watching as the girl’s downcast emerald eyes brimmed with tears. “Sit down and let me make you some tea to help you unwind,” the witch insisted. “We can talk about everything else then. I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”

 

The girl said nothing, but she left her cloak on a hook by the door and settled into an enormous armchair. The witch finished making her tea, a soothing blend of lavender and chamomile with an extra spoonful of honey—her favorite recipe, taught to her long ago by the same friend whose drawing she looked at every day—and set it on the table in front of the girl before draping her softest blanket around her. Agnes noticed with satisfaction she held it tighter.

 

They sat in silence for a long moment, only broken by the fire crackling in the hearth.

 

“He’s killing her. Every day, I have to watch him smother her while I fight, too, not to drown. It’s all his fault. She doesn’t even draw anymore.” She played with the hem of the blanket. “I wouldn’t say he was ever a good father, not to me at least. He never wanted a daughter, but he was a good husband, and he loved my brother so much.” Her grip tightened around her mug. “After he died two years ago, my father…changed. He doesn’t let my mother leave the house, not even to tend to her garden.” The girl took another drink from her mug, gaze distant. “Her flowerbeds must be so overrun.”

 

“And you think the best solution is to murder him?” There was no judgment in the witch’s voice.

 

“I think it’s the only solution. My father is well-known, to put it lightly. My mother doesn’t have anyone else, and she can’t just leave him. Even if she had a way to support herself, he’d find her.”

 

Agnes nodded. He was a nobleman, she supposed. They were notoriously possessive under the guise of protection and very particular about the people around them. She’d been barred from Penny’s wedding to a nobleman for her social standing (or lack thereof), which they’d deemed safer anyway since Agnes would be more likely to be found out as a witch if she attended.

She considered the girl, who looked so much smaller now without her fury to hold her up.

 

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” Agnes said. “For now, get some rest. I will let you know when I make my decision.” She expected pushback but received none and picked up her knitting needles in the meantime.

 

Within an hour, the girl was asleep in the chair, and Agnes’s mind was working as quickly as her needles. She fought to keep her eyes off that drawing, but she just kept thinking of her old friend, of Penny, whose hauntingly desperate green eyes had pushed her to stab her knitting needles through a man’s heart. That was supposed to be the end of it. That was supposed to save her from a marriage that would keep her prisoner. The next husband was supposed to take care of her. She grew such lovely flowers and brewed such comforting teas from the herbs in her garden. Her heart was warm and open and Agnes would have done anything to keep it safe.

 

By the time she’d decided what to do, she had a completed scarf in her hands. Really, she should have known her answer all along. The magic that had imbued itself into the fibers certainly did. This time, it wouldn’t be so messy. The girl wouldn’t have to spend hours scrubbing her hands in order to feel clean. The witch shuddered at the memory of the hot, sticky feeling that hadn’t left her hands for days. No, this time would be easier and far less bloody, an entirely hands-off murder.

 

Agnes, who hadn’t slept a wink, had just sat down for breakfast when the girl awoke. The sun had just risen, and she sat at her window, watching as it filtered through the trees around her house. She allowed the girl to come to her when she was ready, trying not to watch her as she picked up the drawing from the mantle. A moment passed.

 

“My mother drew this,” she said. “You’re going to help me.” It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a command either. It was simply an acknowledgment of the truth.

 

The witch looked back at her, then gestured to the scarf she’d wrapped on the table. “Yes. If you think you are ready to have his blood on your hands, then convince him to put this on. It will wrap itself around his neck, and he will fight to breathe just like your mother fights now.”

 

“Thank you. I have to do it,” the girl said. “For her. I’m sure you understand.”

 

And she did. She knew, deep within her, that she had been doomed to take another life from the moment the girl had knocked on the door. For Penny, for the girl who loved homemade tea and called her “Aggie” and had never turned her in, she would do anything to keep that light in her eyes alive for one more day. She would come alive again, of course, just like the flowers in her garden.