The Witch of Tin Mountain(46)

“Don’t point. It’s rude.” Esme gently took Deirdre’s hand and lowered it. “And besides, there’s no one there at all. It’s only a shadow.”

Gentry was most certainly still there. He was real, though his form cast no shadow on the ground. “He’s there.” Her voice keened high, growing frantic. “He followed me all the way from Arkansas.”

Esme stood abruptly and moved in front of her, blocking Deirdre’s view. “I do believe the drink has gotten to you. You’ve likely never had Madeira before, have you? Or perhaps you’re taking ill.” Esme put her hand to Deirdre’s forehead and frowned. “No fever. You haven’t had any laudanum?”

“No,” Deirdre said, standing on shaky legs. “No laudanum.” She peered over Esme’s shoulder. Gentry was still there. Waiting, like a cat in the shadows. She willed herself to be calm. If no one else could see him, she’d need to learn to manage her reactions. She’d need to master her fear, or she’d end up in an asylum. “I think I’m only overtired.”

“Are you sure you’re all right? You’re pale as a sheet. Perhaps we should get you to bed.”

“Mmm.” Deirdre nodded quickly, her pulse still thrumming. “Yes. Bed sounds good. Will you help me take down my hair?”

“Of course.” Esme smiled, but Deirdre noted a wariness in her manner that hadn’t been there before.

As they walked past the other girls, languidly sitting in the rattan chairs that lined the porch, humming with talk of bouquets and summer teas, Deirdre felt Gentry’s eyes burning into her back. Pa had been wrong to send her away. Leaving Tin Mountain hadn’t solved one thing. Gentry had followed her, and now, she had no one at all to protect her.

She had a mind that devil would follow her wherever she might go.

Once in their room, Esme lit an oil lamp and helped Deirdre undress down to her shift, then untangled her braids while she sat at the small vanity, rubbing her scalp with nimble fingers to ease the ache of her heavy hair. Then she took up a silver brush, and raked it through gently, until Deirdre’s hair made a wild, crimped halo around her face.

“There,” Esme murmured, her hands resting on Deirdre’s shoulders. “You look like Circe.” Their eyes met in the warped glass. Esme’s glittered with life, her pupils wide and sparkling.

“Who?”

“The beautiful witch from the Odyssey, who seduced Odysseus and turned his men to pigs. You’ll read it in classical literature. It’s an epic poem. Quite exciting.”

A draft came from the window, surprisingly chill. Deirdre shivered. She wondered if Gentry was still out there. Wondered if he could scale the ivy-covered wall. Wondered if she might find him leering over her bed in the night with his eyes well-deep and full of dark promises.

“Might we close the window?” Deirdre asked softly. “I’ve taken a chill.”

“If you’d like.”

Deirdre settled on her lumpy mattress and pulled the covers to her chin. Esme turned down the light, and soon the creak of the other bed came from her side of the room. Within moments, Esme fell asleep. Deirdre listened enviously to the steady rasp of her breathing. She had the urge to cross the room and curl next to her new friend so she might enjoy the comfort of her closeness, but she resisted.

Instead, Deirdre forced her eyes to stay open, though tiredness weighed down her limbs, leaden and heavy as bricks. The palmettos cast strange patterns on the plaster walls—their fronds like sinister fingers, reaching to grasp at Esme’s sleeping form. She listened to the great house settle and tracked the waning and waxing light until morning came. Finally, just as sleep began to take her into its arms, the gong downstairs rang seven times, summoning thirty girls from their beds.





SEVENTEEN

GRACELYNN





1931




As I walk home from the depot, I notice something about the hills. They’re quiet, watchful, with nothing stirring but the sound of the wind through the cedars. I usually find that kind of quiet peaceful. But this morning, something feels off.

For one thing, it shouldn’t be this hot this early. I take off my cardigan and use the sleeve to mop at the sweat dripping from my temples. The sun is crawling above the tree line now, burning the sky a sickly orange. I head for the shady shelter of the woods. A few minutes later, the train’s whistle sends up a lonesome call. Morris will be on his way soon.

I try to put my worries about Morris aside and set my mind to all the things I need to do when I get home. Caro’s work trousers need mending, and then I’ll make up some bland hardtack to stock the cupboards, just in case winter comes in as hard as Granny said it would.

I’m halfway across the Ballard Creek bridge when I hear the singing.

It’s high and clear. A child’s voice. I stop and listen. It’s pretty. An old folk song about fairies in the firelight. Curious, I follow the sound through the trees, the sun slanting in low beams through the branches like light streaming through the windows of a church.

I get worried, thinking somebody’s young ’un might’ve wandered off and got lost. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened in Sutter’s holler. I pick up my pace, following the sound toward the bluff, craning my head to see over the edge of the holler.