The Hand That Trembles

November 4, 1871

The mark on my wrist has begun to move.

It shouldn’t, of course — it’s only ash and soot, traced from a drawing in the book’s margin. But when I carried the breakfast tray down to the dining room, I spilled coffee across a guest’s sleeve because the cup rattled in my hand. The mark throbbed beneath my cuff — faint, but constant, a pulse that isn’t mine.

Baxter came by to fix a cracked hinge on the front door. He noticed the glove I’d kept on, though it wasn’t cold enough for one. “You’re trembling,” he said. I laughed it off and blamed the chill, but the lie scraped on my tongue. The truth was humming under my skin, a vibration like a swallowed secret.

The book calls it a binding sigil. It warns to use it only on the willing. I never gave permission. I only copied the shape. Now, when the house falls quiet, I hear whispers behind my heartbeat — words spoken through water, forming syllables I can almost understand.

I tried to scrub it off after supper. The more I did, the darker it became. By lamplight it gleams faintly blue, like fire trapped beneath glass. When I press my palm over it, I can feel something stir — patient, breathing, waiting for its turn.

I don’t know if my hand trembles from fear, or if it’s trying to escape me.

It hums when I sleep.