Chapter Text
Eddie finds the book in this thrift shop like an hour outside of town. Sometimes he just drives somewhere, anywhere, on any road, just to see what he can find. Most towns are even smaller and shittier than Hawkins, but not always. He likes to go to thrift stores and shit, because he can find some seriously interesting stuff. He’s something of a magpie, always collecting shiny things.
It’s on an old school desk, the heavy wrought iron and hardwood kind. It’s half on top of an old chalk slate, the sort that people used in school before paper was easily bought. It has a gnarly old cover, heavy, faded red leather and heavy scrolls of dirty gold. It has a weird…sigil or symbol or…something stamped on the front of it. Three crescent moons interlock, under a second set of crescent moons, under a third set of crescent moons, each larger than the last.
It looks fucking rad. He could use it in a campaign, for a prop. Or just lay it out in his room, as something cool to look at on the few occasions he allows a one night stand in his bedroom. (Most don’t make it past the van, if he’s being honest.) Or hell, it’s just cool to look at. He likes the atmosphere it creates.
Picking it up, Eddie checks the tag – a whole twenty-five cents. Oh yeah, this bad boy is coming home with him.
Flicking the book open, Eddie flips through it. The pages are yellowed and the ink fading, and the typeset looks old. Dropping the pages back down, he checks for a copyright and date. There is none – just a handwritten note, in fading Copperplate script: For good morrows and brighter futures – in moderation!
That’s fucking weird. Eddie digs the hell out of it. He whistles as he continues around the thrift shop, poking in each booth. He doesn’t find another cool looking book, but he does find a pretty cool old poster for Lon Cheny’s Phantom of the Opera! He can’t pass that up, either.
Later that night, he’s got the poster tucked away in his closet – he’s got plans to put it up when he gets his own place, so when he brings people back it’s not just wall-to-wall bands – that he opens the book again. There’s no index. There’s not even really chapters. Just hunks and hunks and texts about, goddamn, all kinds of shit. Potions and alchemy, spells and charms and hexes, the proper time to plant, to cut hair, to try for a child. It’s a little pocketbook of…folk magic or something.
“Fucking neat,” Eddie laughs. He skips forward a few pages, and finds, in stark black and white:
To Summon Your Heart’s Desire
On a night of the new moon, go into a wild place, free of man. Can be done alone, but works well with coven. Place nine acorns in a pattern of grace. Use the feather of a non-carnivorous bird – no carrion! – to sweep away the old and lingering. Build a small fire. Line with firs and other sweet smelling things, especially lavender. Meditate not on your wants but your needs. Be open to the universe to provide even the most unexpected of gifts. Recite:
Iarraim a bhfuil de dhíth orm
Iarraim é sin a chuirfidh slán mé
Iarraim an rud atá in easnamh
Iarraim aontacht foirfe
Lucky, Eddie is a fucking nerd. He got really deep into languages after he read Lord of the Rings for the first time (yes, he can speak Elvish and Orcish, no he does not tell chicks that). So yeah, he knows that what he's seeing is Irish Gaelic, and the library has to have something to help figure out how to pronounce it.
That’s when he decides, on the spot, that he is absolutely going to cast a spell. Bounding out of his bed, he runs into the kitchen in his boxers, flicking on the light. Checking out the wall calendar, he sees that there’s a week until the next new moon – awesome. He’s got time to get shit in order.
Listen. Eddie’s not crazy. He knows it probably won’t do anything. But if nothing else, he will now be able to honestly say he’s performed a magical ritual in the woods at the dead of night. That’s pretty cool, right? And if by some miracle it does work – well, he’ll know, because he’ll wake up rich as Midas, twice as handsome, and with a record deal.
“Win-win,” he cheerfully declares, before ambling over to the fridge. Might as well get a snack, while he’s up.
*
Chrissy doesn’t have a lot of friends. Sure, she knows a lot of people and they know her, but they aren’t friends. She can’t be herself around them, which is claustrophobic, and they have no idea how insanely difficult her homelife actually is. They always want to do things like go out to eat, go to the mall and end up with some nachos, watch a movie and eat popcorn. Chrissy has to sit there and pretend to eat, playing and picking at it all, until the hunger gets to be too much and she stuffs her greedy face. Then she’s hiding in the bathroom, fingers down her throat, bringing it all back up and crying because she’s afraid it’s already gone to her disgusting thighs.
So yeah. Chrissy doesn’t have a lot of friends.
Her two best friends are Bambi and Trixie Fletcher. They’re eight years older than her and her cousins – their mothers are identical twin sisters, just like Bambi and Trixie are. Chrissy was supposed to be a twin, too, but sometimes this thing happens where one fetus sucks up all the blood and stuff from the other fetus, and the weaker one dies. Mom has never quite forgiven her, and Chrissy has certainly never forgiven herself, because what kind of monster kills their twin in the womb?
Though sometimes Chrissy thinks that her sister (Prissy – short for Priscilla) got the better end of the deal. She never had to deal with Mom, though maybe Mom wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she got the twins she wanted. If it wasn’t just Chrissy, with her crooked teeth, sluggish metabolism, and laziness.
Bambi and Trixie tell her all the time that Mom is wrong – Mom and Aunt Linda, their mom, because the twins fucking loathe their mother. Chrissy doesn’t blame them. She hates her mom, too, and her Aunt Linda. But they also crave the approval of their mothers, so they’ve lived their lives toeing the line, starving, aching, breaking their toes and screaming through leg cramps as they learned to dance like swans.
Well. Not the twins. Not now. They’re fully grown adults at twenty-six, and they’ve lived away from Hawkins for years. But they come home often, because Chrissy is still in Hawkins, and there’s no one in the world that they love more than Chrissy. Well, Chrissy and J.J., her older brother.
See, they’re only four people on earth that really understand what it is to be the child of Laura Cunningham or Linda Fletcher. The only ones that know how food is measured, as vomit is measured, as waists are measured, as suitability is measured.
They spend a lot of time together at the lake house. Pop-Pop – their mother’s father – built it in the fifties, for his family. They have a big dock on Lover’s Lake and a private little cove surrounded by heavy trees. It’s really old fashioned, but Chrissy loves it. It has a sunken living room with thick dark yellow carpet, and the twins always stock the kitchen full of food, and their parents never go out there. Pop-Pop took them when they were kids, on long weekends and holidays.
Not their parents. Not Grandmother. Just Pop-Pop, J.J., the twins, and Chrissy. Her best memories are of the summer sunlight glinting off the lake water, of charcoal smoke in the air as Pop-Pop cooked dinner, and the laughter of four children finally allowed to be careless and free.
The twins like to do this thing where they just show up places. No advanced warning. They don’t call and ask, “Hey, Chris, are you busy this weekend?” They just show up and steal her away to the lake house. Which she’s fine with – and it’s the one time her mother never complains about her going out, because she knows that Trixie and Bambi help Chrissy with dance and cheerleading and homework.
What she doesn’t know is that they get disgustingly high, eat themselves sick, and then smoke more pot. Bambi says it’s a coping mechanism, and Bambi would know, because she’s in grad school. She’s getting her master’s in psychology. Then she’s going on for her Ph.D, because Bambi says a girl can never have too many degrees to her name. Especially if she’s pretty – people rarely take them seriously, even with the degrees.
Chrissy walks out of school on Jason’s arm, as she always does, a fixed smile in place and her mind a thousand miles away. She’s thinking about life after graduation; she hasn’t decided if she’s going to New York, where Trixie and her boyfriend live, or to California, where Bambi attends Berkeley.
A loud horn blares – Chrissy almost jumps out of her skin, hand flying up to clutch her chest. Then she catches sight of Sheila, Trixie’s car, a 1973 Chevy Monte Carlo Landau. It’s dark red with bright chrome, long and sleek and fast as sin. Trixie’s had a lot of work done to it – new engine, glass packs (whatever those are), new pipes.
Behind the steering wheel, Trixie flicks back her long, strawberry blonde curls and tugs her dark sunglasses down her nose. “Baby Chris-Chris!” she shouts. “Come on, babe, we’re going to the lake!” Sam, her boyfriend, is in the passenger seat. He’s leaning far over, all hunkered up because he’s like six foot, six inches, and has a hard time fitting, uh, anywhere. He’s waving at Chrissy, all happy and excited like a golden retriever.
Laughing brightly, Chrissy jerks away from Jason. “Gotta go!” she chirps. “My cousins are here!”
“Um, Chris?” Jason gives her The Look. Stiff smile, hard eyes, tight jaw. The look that says Chrissy, you aren’t doing what I want you to do. “We’re going to a party tonight. You promised.”
Chrissy knows that she’s going to have to deal with Jason, her mom, her dad, and Jason’s parents for flaking on him, but…well. She doesn’t have a lot of friends. She wants to spend time with the ones she does have.
“The twins live out of state,” she reminds him. “They’re not here all the time. I see you every day.”
“The twins,” he grits out, still smiling, “aren’t going to be your husband.” He says things like that a lot. Things to remind her that their parents have already decided – Chrissy’s going to marry Jason (which means he gets her trust fund), and Jason is one day going to become a senator. She’s going to stand beside him and smile and wave. She will bear his children and keep his home. She will be silent and small, pretty and good.
Chrissy thinks that all sounds utterly terrible.
Trixie lays down on the horn, scaring a flock of gawking boys who are drifting towards her car. “Chris!” she shouts again. “Get in the car or I’m sending Sam out to pick you up!”
When she says to pick you up she really means that Sam will get out of the car, stride over, and literally pluck Chrissy off the ground. He’ll carry her back, stuff her in the big backseat, and then they’ll drive away. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve done this to Jason, and Chrissy is always grateful for it.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, already backing away. “I really have to go. I’ll call you later!”
Then she’s fleeing, grinning at Trixie who is pushing her door open and stepping out. She pops her seat forward, allowing Chrissy to clamber in the backseat.
“That’s a sweet ‘75,” Andy calls out. He’s looking more at Trixie than the car, but that’s kind of a given.
“It’s a ‘73, jackass,” Trixie says, pushing her seat back before getting in. Then they’re heading out. Trixie has a way of nosing herself into traffic without getting hit that Chrissy doesn’t understand, and an old Ford honestly just pulls over and lets them by.
Chrissy laughs loudly, slumping down in the backseat. “Oh my God, I’m so glad you came home this weekend! I was dreading going to this party tonight.”
“Boo, high school parties,” Trixie says, making a face in the rearview mirror for Chrissy's benefit. “We’re so much cooler to hang out with. Actually, uh, I’m going to be staying for a little bit. Sam and I.”
“Oh.” Blinking rapidly, Chrissy narrows her eyes a little. “Is Bambi not here?”
“Not until next weekend,” Trixie says, waving one hand in the air. “She’s got smart girl shit to take care of. But I got a wild hair and we went ahead and drove down.”
Chrissy loves it when Trixie gets a ‘wild hair.’ It’s something Pop-Pop says – getting a wild hair – and it means it’s time to do something crazy. Sometimes it’s only a little crazy, like buying ten new nail polishes at one time, but sometimes it’s big, like driving from New York City to Hawkins.
“Did you get a lot of time off?” Chrissy asks. “Isn’t there a new production of Sleeping Beauty starting soon?” Trixie is a prima ballerina. She’s with the New York City Ballet Company – a feat Linda never fails to rub in Mom’s face. Chrissy has two options in life, really: marry Jason and become a perfect senator’s wife, or become the best ballerina the world has ever seen. These are the only two options Laura Cunningham will ever accept for her daughter.
Chrissy would be fine with having a couple cats and opening her own small dance studio. She’d like to teach little kids how to move. How to love their bodies, really love them. How to appreciate the grace, strength, and beauty they possess. Dance is the only time Chrissy has ever felt at home in her own skin.
Laying across the big backseat, Chrissy folds her hands across her stomach and grins up at the roof. She’s really happy Trixie came this weekend. She’s been craving a break.
*
Jason Carver is having a bad week, which Eddie loves to see. He’s petty like that. Carver walks around like his shit doesn’t stink, like he’s the best thing that ever happened in the world, much less Hawkins, a perfect golden boy no one else can measure up to. He’s got a wealthy family and big house, a new Corvette and the perfect girlfriend. A girlfriend that has publicly ran away from him every afternoon after school ends, disappearing into the shiny red Monte Carlo.
Eddie knows about the Fletcher twins, because everyone fucking knows about the Fletcher twins. When he was middle school, they were Captain and Co-Captain of the high school cheerleading team. Strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, legs for miles, big smiles. They fucking terrified him.
Once, one of the twins tapped Gareth on the shoulder and said, “Hey, someone put a kick me sign on your back, heads up.” Gareth shot milk out of his nose and all over the lunch table, almost died from lack of blood flow to his brain, and spent the next year giving both girls misty cow eyes any time one walked by. They fluttered in and out of the middle school a lot – they were really involved in Chrissy’s life, even back then.
(Not that Eddie is much better off when it comes to Chrissy, but at least he plays it a little cooler. Most of the time.)
The Fletcher twins just appear in Hawkins randomly, without warning. They’ll leave after a while, and Chrissy will go back to standing beside Carver and smiling at nothing, her eyes vacant, and Eddie will return to wishing he were brave enough to just talk to her. He knows he could make her laugh.
It doesn’t even make sense, because Eddie’s good with chicks and guys. He’s pulled more than his fair share of tail, but you put him remotely near Chrissy Cunningham and his brain leaks out of his ear and leaves him a simpering fool. It’s pathetic. He can’t decide if he’s anxiously awaiting the day he’ll never see her again or if he’s going to spend the rest of his life regretting never taking a risk and just talking to her.
None of that is the point, however. The point is – Jason Carver is having a bad week, and Eddie Munson lives to watch it. So he’s in the parking lot after school, leaning against his van and smoking a cigarette, waiting for the roar of the Monte Carlo to cut through the stillness. When it comes he grins, sharp and sly, waiting to see Chrissy once more bounce away from Jason with little apology.
The car swings into the space between the school and the first row of the parking lot. Lots of people gawk at the car, which Eddie doesn’t blame them for, because goddamn. That’s a nice car. He can tell it’s seriously modified, probably for racing. He wonders if all rich girls end up with muscle cars most guys would sell their dicks to own, or if it’s just this one. More people stare at the woman in the car, and again, Eddie can’t blame them. She’s hot.
Not as hot as Chrissy, but whatever. To each their own.
The twin in the car lays down on the horn, before waving lazily at Chrissy.
Chrissy bounds away, backpack bouncing on her shoulder. Eddie can see her smile from here, and it makes him feel a lot of ways. Happy, mostly. Some longing. Okay, a lot of longing, but whatever.
Carver has long legs. He catches up with her quickly. His hand grabs Chrissy's narrow arm and jerks her back, so her head whips and her bag falls from her shoulder. “Jason, ow!” Chrissy cries out, loud enough that at least half the parking lot can hear it.
Two things happen at once: Eddie lunges off the side of his van and flicks his cigarette away with a firm, “Oh, hell no.” At the same time, the driver side door of the Monte Carlo swings open and the Fletcher twin present leaps out of the car with a loud, “Excuse me, motherfucker?”
“Stay out of this!” Carver spits towards the twin. But she’s already in it, charging up to him and grabbing two fingers from the hand that’s on Chrissy’s arm. She wrenches them back, so hard that they pop, and Carver screams and almost hits his knees.
“Listen, you mouth breathing little shit,” the gorgeous woman snarls in his face, like an avenging angel. “You ever touch my Baby Chris-Chris like that again, and I will make my boyfriend hold you down while I cut your pitious excuse for a cock off. Do we understand each other?”
“You can’t – you can’t –” Jason is gasping, jerking, trying to get away – and he’s strong, Eddie knows the dude is strong. But she’s stronger, apparently. “I’ll tell my father!”
“Like I give two shits about your father,” she spits, sneering. Then she pushes him back – keeping a grip on his fingers, so that when he flies back they straighten back out with a second snap and a loud scream.
“You bitch!” Jason howls. “You bitch, you broke my fingers!”
“Trixie,” Chrissy says nervously, holding her undoubtedly sore arm with one hand. Her cousin is too busy glaring Carver down to notice her. She tries again, “Trixie, please.” After another moment of lingering eye contact, she releases the basketball player, who staggers back to his friends. He’s clutching his hand to his chest and baring his teeth, furious and in pain and humiliated.
Eddie wishes he had a camera. He’d love a picture to commemorate the event.
“Are you okay?” Trixie asks, reaching out to delicately touch Chrissy’s shoulder. “Shit, that’s your bad shoulder. It’s not dislocated, is it?”
“I don’t think so,” Chrissy says. “Just jammed, maybe.”
“Fucking prick,” Trixie spits, guiding her cousin towards the car. “Come on, Chris-Chris. Let’s go home. I’ll have Sam help me pop your shoulder and we’ll ice it. Seriously, babe, when are you going to break-up with him?”
“You know Mom won’t let me,” Chrissy says, before the passenger side door is slammed shut behind her. Eddie sort of feels like a feather could knock him over, because excuse him, but did he just hear what he thought he heard? Not only is there trouble in paradise, but apparently, Chrissy doesn’t even want to be dating Carver.
Fucking sweet. Not that Jason put his hands on Chrissy – that’s unacceptable, no matter what – but everything else? Hell yeah.
That means he’s got a line in. Not right now, obviously. The girl was just assaulted. He’s not a fucking creep. But in the next few days? The next week? He can figure out something to say to her. Hell yeah he can! It’ll be fine. It’ll be great.
Eddie’s gonna nail this.
*
Not even Trixie can con her way out of dinners at the country club when she’s in Hawkins. It’s why she and Chrissy are in the big master bathroom at the lake house, settled on one of the three vanity stools as they apply their make-up. There only used to be two, but Sam found a beaten up stool in a thrift shop and redid it, put on new pink upholstery and carefully painted the legs gold. Trixie put rhinestones on it, because everyone loves rhinestones. It’s Chrissy’s stool, now.
“So, I was poking around in Pop’s office,” Trixie says, surveying herself critically in the mirror. She adds another stroke of blush to each cheek, before nodding in satisfaction. “I found this weird old book.”
“Of course you did,” Chrissy says, her words a little strained and oddly stretched. She’s putting on her eyeshadow, and she has to hold her mouth open to do it. She’s not sure why, but the twins and their mothers do the same thing. It feels vital, however. “He’s got lots of weird stuff.”
“No, like, super weird.” Pausing, Trixie turns on her stool. She loudly shouts, “Sam! Come here!” Then she turns back to the mirror, reaching for her mascara. She applies two thick coats, before going for the eyelash brush.
Frowning, she braces her wrist on the vanity and scowls at her reflection. “Where is he?” she mutters. Then she shouts again, even more loudly, “Tiny, where the fuck are you?”
“What?” he bellows from somewhere near the front of the house.
“You could just, like, get up and go talk to him,” Chrissy points out dryly.
“I’m putting on my make-up,” Trixie says defensively. “We’re on a fucking schedule, Chris.”
Sam appears in the doorway, slumped over to lounge with one shoulder on the door jam and his hands tucked under his armpits. He’s a massive guy, probably the biggest guy Chrissy’s ever seen. She knows he’s strong, too. She’s heard stories about fights he’s been in, trouble he used to cause – and all the trouble he’s gotten Trixie out of. It’s really good that her boyfriend is such a big guy, because Trixie has a loud mouth and doesn’t shut it often enough.
Chrissy loves her for it, but it does cause a lot of problems.
Sam’s appearance alone is enough to keep people from taking fights with Trixie too far. When he’s present, at least. It’s when Trixie is alone that she really has to worry.
“Hey, sugarbear, would you go get me that weird book?”
“The one that’s bound in human skin?”
“It’s not human skin, you ghoul.” Trixie frowns a little. “That’d be kind of cool if it was, though.”
“Gross,” Chrissy comments. She applies her lip gloss with a careful hand. It’s a new shade – soft and very pink. She’s not sure she likes it. Turning she points at her mouth. “Too much?”
“Oh, no, I love it,” Trixie assures her. “Makes you look like apple pie and Sunday dinner.”
“Mm,” Chrissy hums, her eyes rolling back. “Apple pie.”
“Right?” Trixie moans, clutching her stomach. “I’m so fucking hungry, Chris.”
“Country club,” Chrissy reminds her sternly. “We can’t eat before we see our mothers. They’ll know.”
“I know, I know,” Trixie grumps. “It’s just not fair. I’m twenty fucking six, I should be able to eat whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want.”
She and Bambi have been going to therapy. They’re the ones that convinced Chrissy to talk to Ms. Kelly, the guidance counselor. It…hasn’t really helped. But a lot of what Ms. Kelly says has stuck with Chrissy, because it’s the same things the twins have told her. That no one has the right to control her utterly, not even her mother, and that she has the right to nourish her body. That deserves to eat, no matter how much, no matter what it is, no matter the reason.
Hard pills to swallow, after eighteen years believing otherwise.
“Check this thing out,” Sam says, brushing his dark hair out of his face as he strolls back into the bathroom. He drops a book on the vanity between the cousin’s, tapping the cover. It’s old, faded red leather and has a strange sort of picture on the front of it. Three crescent moons interlock, under a second set of crescent moons, under a third set of crescent moons, each larger than the last.
Sam opens the book to the second page, pointing at an old inscription.
Howard,
Don’t get in over your head, my love.
E.A.T.
Chrissy is completely taken about the monograph – of course it’s signed by someone literally named eat, because life is cruel like that.
“Your Pop-Pop had a lover,” he laughs.
“Pop-Pop fucked his way across Europe if the man is to be believed,” Trixie says, finally settling a lipstick shade. It’s a sort of berry red, and it looks very good with her coloring. Chrissy gives her a thumbs up. “The interesting stuff is what’s inside. It’s all spells, and magic, and like…when to plant crops and stuff.”
“Cool,” Chrissy says, because yeah, that’s cool. It’s not the most interesting thing in the world, but it’s pretty neat. “I like it.”
Placing her lipstick back on the tray, Trixie fluffs her curls before reaching out and taking the book up. She flicks through the pages, until she finds the right one. Holding it open, she shows it to Chrissy.
To Summon Your Heart’s Desire
On a night of the new moon, go into a wild place, free of man. Can be done alone, but works well with coven. Place nine acorns in a pattern of grace. Use the feather of a non-carnivorous bird – no carrion! – to sweep away the old and lingering. Build a small fire. Line with firs and other sweet smelling things, especially lavender. Meditate not on your wants but your needs. Be open to the universe to provide even the most unexpected of gifts. Recite:
Iarraim a bhfuil de dhíth orm
Iarraim é sin a chuirfidh slán mé
Iarraim an rud atá in easnamh
Iarraim aontacht foirfe
“Uhhh,” Chrissy breathes, blinking down at the old ink and yellowed paper. “Okay?”
“Chris! It’s a literal magic spell to get what you want!” Throwing her hands in the air, Trixie gives her an excited look. “I mean, come on!”
Here’s the thing about Trixie – she’s kind of a witch. She reads tarot cards and auras, has crystals and oils, and has an altar in her apartment. Their mothers must never know these things, because if Trixie was ever outed…Chrissy can’t even imagine how bad it would be.
Chrissy wouldn’t put much stock in it, but too many creepy things have happened around Trixie. She knows things are coming before they happen. She always knows who’s calling before she answers the phone. Sometimes she’ll dream about something, call Chrissy to warn her or give her heads up, and then it happens – days, weeks, or months later. And her tarot readings? Creepily accurate.
So, yeah. Trixie’s a witch, and she’s found a new book of…spells…and Chrissy supposes this means that Trixie has another wild hair.
“We’re going to do this?” Chrissy asks, pointing at the book. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure!” Trixie gives her an offended look. “Have I led you wrong yet, Baby Chris-Chris?”
“Well, you still call me Baby Chris-Chris, so…”
“I will when we’re in the nursing home,” Trixie assures her. Chrissy can see it, too: three old women in wheelchairs, white haired and toothless, all cackling together. “Anyway, the new moon is this weekend.”
Chrissy shrugs and agrees, because really, Trixie hasn’t led her wrong yet. Well, except for that time she convinced her to cut her bangs a little shorter – that was awful, Mom was furious – but everyone is allowed one or two mistakes. And anyway, it’s not like this will have far reaching effects. Something will happen, something good, but small, and Trixie will be smug about her secret magical powers. Bambi will tell her it’s all in her head, but that’s because Trixie’s weird little ticks scare her a little. Sam will just grin and shrug, because Trixie could probably turn into the Hulk and he’d still love her.
And Chrissy? Well, Chrissy will be with her friends. She’ll be Baby Chris-Chris, Chrissy Anne, Chris, and that’s all she wants. To be a part of a group, part of a crowd. To belong. Not as Chrissy Cunningham, big smile, flat eyes, waving pom-poms, on Jason’s arm. Just…as herself.
So really. It can’t go wrong. She’s already got what she wants, at least partly.