The Witch of Tin Mountain(27)

“He just told me a little bit about my Oma. Anneliese.”

“Oh? He’s never told me much about her. The old folks who knew her say she was a witch.”

“They say that about you sometimes, too, Mama. Ain’t true. She was just a midwife like you are.” Pa hadn’t forbidden her to talk to Mama about Oma Anneliese, only the grimoire. Still, if he’d meant for Mama to know more about his family, she would already know after twenty years of marriage. If she could keep Mama’s secrets, she could keep Pa’s, too.

“And what did he say about that preacher?”

Deirdre bit the inside of her cheek. “Pa remembered his kin from the war. They were horse thieves and such.” The lie came easy enough, almost as if someone had whispered it in her ear.

“Well, when you go to Mrs. Bledsoe’s, don’t think because you’re out of my sight that you can go running off with Robbie. I aim to see change in your manner, daughter. Though your pa turns his head to your ways, I won’t soon forget your disrespect.”

Deirdre choked back the bitter laugh in her throat. “And I ain’t forgot about you and Mr. Cash, Mama. Now that Pa’s home, you’ll likely fawn all over him until he leaves again. Pa’s gettin’ up in years. I reckon as soon as he passes, you’ll take your widow’s pension and marry Mr. Cash, and that’s the real reason why you don’t want me hitched with Robbie. Just think of the talk.”

“Don’t you dare test me, girl,” Mama hissed. “If you want to marry Robbie, you’ll bite your tongue and hold it.”

So that’s how it was going to be. Tit for tat. Something dark and full of teeth clawed at Deirdre from the inside. Her whole body thrummed with it. She stared Mama down, unflinching.

Mama gasped and backed away from the tub. “Your eyes, Deirdre . . .”

“Leave me be, Mama. Pa’s already given his blessing with Robbie. You don’t get to tell me what to do no more.”





NINE

GRACELYNN





1931




Granny kneels on the floor in the alcove under the loft, one hand to her lower back where her arthritis gripes her the worst. She pulls a folded quilt aside, revealing a cedar chest covered with faded hexes painted in red, green, and yellow. She unhooks the latch and opens it, the hinges squeaking in protest. Inside, atop a layer of musty blankets, sits a tapestry satchel overlaid with a bouquet of dried lavender. She turns to me. “Go on. Take it out. See what’s inside.”

I kneel next to Granny and draw the satchel out. It’s heavier than I expect. Inside, I find a book—its leather cover wrinkled like a corpse’s skin. Runes—sigils like the markings over the doorways in Ebba’s house, are burned into the spine. Symbols of protection. A faint buzzing plays beneath my fingers as I open the book. The writing scrawls across the pages, faded and nearly illegible. “What is it?”

“It’s a grimoire. A book of shadows.”

“Lands.” A witch’s book. I’d heard of such things. Sacred, personal journals full of charms and spells. I turn the pages slowly. They feel fragile and thinner than a Bible’s pages, like they might flake into nothing if I’m not careful. Drawings illuminate the text, worked in between the words and symbols. The image of a flaming tree stretches across two pages, its branches licked with red and orange. “It’s sure pretty.” The drawing seems to come alive under my touch, the fire flickering and moving. Heat blossoms beneath my fingertips, travels up my arm, and sets the rash between my shoulder blades to tingling. I gasp and pull back.

“You felt it? Just like I did.” Granny nods. “She’s chosen you, all right. That burning you felt, that mark on your back, it’s just the beginning.” Granny takes the book from me and closes it. “This is a powerful book, Gracelynn. The answers to anything you’d ever need to know are found in its pages. Women have had these sorts of books for centuries—it’s how they brought their old ways to the new country, so their daughters and granddaughters might learn the kind of work we do and more, besides. This grimoire is a living thing. It’s been in our family from the beginning, and in our family it will always remain.” The crease between her brows deepens. “It can be used for many, many things, but you must come to the book with clear intentions and a mind not to harm. Otherwise, the work might go wrong.”

“But why are you giving it to me? Shouldn’t you give it to Val, or even Caro, seein’ as they’re your blood?”

“Anneliese has chosen you. That’s why you’re marked.”

The rash between my shoulder blades tingles again.

“You’ve had dreams lately, haven’t you? Strange ones? Maybe even visions like I have.”

I nod.

“It’s Anneliese. She’s calling you. Just like she called me.” Granny runs a gnarled hand over the leather cover of the book.

“Blood ain’t got much at all to do with family—family is about love. Anneliese wasn’t Opa Friedrich’s blood, neither, but he raised her no different. Oma Elizabeth took in my Pa after Anneliese died and loved him like her own son, just like I love you.” Granny weaves her fingers through mine and gently squeezes my hand. “Anneliese can sense you’re special. I’ve always known you were special, Gracie. Knew it from the first time I laid eyes on you, with your tangled hair, them gangly, long legs, and a spirit made older by its troubles. You looked up at me with your big blue eyes and I felt a tug in my heart that knew no measure. It was me that convinced Val to take you in, because you belonged with us. With me.” Tears pool in Granny’s eyes and spill over. “The power in our family . . . it’s real enough, but the love is even more real, Gracelynn. Power don’t always look the way you think it should. I had a lot of learnin’ to do, just like you.”