Chapter 2

“Oh, Princess,” Esmerelda said, “if you are nothappy, I can try to help; please, let me help.” And her voice was tender, exquisite, firm: she could command the world, Ursula thought, and the world would love it. No wonder strands of magic fell at her feet and dripped from her fingers; Ursula herself wanted to do precisely that.

She breathed, “Not Princess, just Ursula, please, just—me,” and their eyes met; the witch’s changed, then, green blooming brighter and more breathless.

“So.”

“So…?”

“Ursula. And Esme.”

“Esme?”

“If you’d like.”

“I would. Like. Yes.” Words. Not big enough. Overflowing. Ursula’s body tingled and grew alert and awakened: aware of each herb-scented breath, of the indolent autumn air, of the brush of a shirtsleeve, the weight of Esme’s looking at her.

“I believe,” Esme murmured, “you asked me a question. You know how these workings go.”

“I know it’s about…” She licked lips, moistened them. “Desire.”