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So Annie, now a teenager, had been with Hubbard for more than half her life. The thought was chilling, and the idea that a six-year-old could corrupt anyone was beyond comprehension, but this story explained both her abject look and the girl’s peculiar name: Annie Undercroft. “While Françoise gets you something to eat, I can show you where you will sleep.” I’d been up to the third floor that morning to inspect the small bed, three-legged stool, and worn chest set aside to hold the witch’s belongings. “I’ll help carry your things.” “Mistress?” Annie said, confused. “She brought nothing,” Françoise said, casting disapproving looks at the newest member of the household. “Never mind. She’ll have belongings soon enough.” I smiled at Annie, who looked uncertain. Françoise and I spent the we
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