He took the next day off from work and painted feverishly, looking at a dozen different pictures of his wife but not copying any of them exactly. Pale skin, as white as old marble. Yes. Hair to match, like a river of milk flowing around the soft curve of her neck. Yes! Yes! Eyes gray as moonstone.

By midnight, when he'd used up the tube of titanium white, he stopped to assess what he'd created. He found himself panting, sweating, staring at this strange transformed image of his wife--a woman as white as death whose wicked smile radiated both self-satisfaction and malice. What had he captured here? Some twisted vision that churned inside himself, or some aspect of her personality that he'd only sensed while she was alive? Whatever it was, painting this likeness had awoken something inside him. He needed to finish. Her wild white hair should be longer, wind-swept.

Desperately, he ran back to where he kept his painting supplies.

Partway there, however, he stopped in the living room and leaned against the wall. The room spun, and he blinked, suddenly transfixed by the circular arrangement of the chairs. It was where Charlotte and her girlfriends had sat chatting, or sampling the pastries they'd just baked, or whatever it was they did. He'd seen them often enough. Now, however, as he stood transfixed, he remembered a nightmare he'd had a few nights ago. It was the past, Charlotte was alive, and all her friends were here--but all the women except Charlotte were pale, thin, versions of themselves. Albinos maybe. It was the same way he'd been imagining Charlotte. Why was that?

He rubbed his eyes. Had that been a dream? Or--

No. That was ridiculous. It was late and he was confused. That happened now and then, especially since Charlotte died. The worst was the one that happened the night after the funeral. He'd seen Charlotte's friends walking around her grave and sprinkling ingredients inside as if she were a cake herself. Sugar. Flour. Colored sprinkles. They'd been chanting too.

Candy and evil,

and all things primeval,

That's what sweet witches are made of.

He shook his head. Sweet witches. It had been years since he'd heard those stories. Tales told by his grandmother late at night about women accused of witchcraft who were burned alive in a sugarcane field.

Jerrold shook his head and took several deep breaths. He was probably going insane. If that was what was going to happen to him, couldn't he have happy hallucinations? Like maybe his wife was still alive and had just made him the biggest chocolate cake ever?

Okay. He had himself under control now. He went to his "man-cave" and turned on the light, a single pale-yellow bulb that hung from the ceiling. The place was more of a closet than a room, really. Still, it had been his, and Charlotte left him alone when he was in here.

On one side, piles of painting supplies and stacks of canvases leaned against a minifridge. He had his landscapes there, and a few nudes tucked in the back, leftovers from his bachelor days that Charlotte didn't know about. He probably ought to take them out and look at them. Continuing to dwell on his wife wasn't healthy. He knew that and his high-priced therapists had concurred. He put his hand on the stack of canvases, considering whether to pull them out. How long had it been since he'd looked at them?

He shook his head. No. He didn't care about anyone else. Only Charlotte. He went to the paint drawer and rummaged through it. Titanium white was what he needed, not this cobalt or burnt umber. Please, God, he prayed, don't let me be out of white. Not now. Please.

Was that it? No. Gray. Wait. What was this?

At the bottom of the drawer was a smoothed piece of colored foil. He picked it up and carried it outside where there was more light. He stared in disbelief.

It was a wrapper from one of the chocolate roses, the very first one. Yes, of course, after that very first cake he'd saved the wrapper. A little remembrance of that first, very special date.

Squinting, he peered closely. Written in the corner of the wrapper, in small red letters on black, was the name, "Charms of Blood and Bones." The logo was a stick figure being stabbed by something.

He frowned, then turned to the internet where he searched for the store. The address turned out to be in a small side street of New Orleans. Business hours were listed as midnight to 3:00 am. It was only an hour's drive. There was time, if he went now, to get there before it closed.

Was this a sane thing to do? Would his therapist approve? He didn't care.