The Witch of Tin Mountain(55)

But I cannot. I will never leave my home. This land is a part of me. I will remain—even if death comes to claim me.

August 17, 1831

I have had another vision. Nathaniel will come for me soon, with his cold demon heart. He will have his vengeance for my refusal to bear his unholy child. The townsfolk are his willing hands—the very same people I helped and healed are now my accusers. The scent of excrement and offal assails me each time I go out of doors and their wicked, common words are etched in my memory. All the power I have left is in my blood and in the land. For Jakob’s sake and for my progeny’s sake, I will sacrifice. I have seen the far-off future. I have seen my daughters—my legacy. They will bring a reckoning to Tin Mountain and purge the land of this oppression. This is not the end.





TWENTY

DEIRDRE





1881




Deirdre stood on tiptoe, grasped the banister for balance, and swiped at the stairwell’s corners with her flannel-wrapped broom handle. There. Finally. No more cobwebs. A satisfied smile curved her lips. It was the day before Miss Munro’s summer ball. While Deirdre’s chore list had grown longer by the week, the added work kept her from worrying about things at home and kept her eyes from the shadows.

He was there, now, his specter hovering on the second-floor landing, watching her go about her work. Deirdre frowned up at him. Willed him to go. He was ever toying with her, like a cat with a mouse. She shut her eyes as his sinuous voice wound through her head, promising foul, decadent things.

She thought of Esme’s lips.

Esme’s hands.

Esme’s whispered words in the night, driving away her fear.

Phoebe Darrow came stomping down the stairs, a mop bucket in her hands. She passed right through Gentry’s specter, none the wiser, and set the bucket in front of Deirdre. Water sloshed over the edge, soaking the floor. “It’s your turn to mop the landings, Miss Werner. And be sure to get the corners.”

Deirdre propped her broom against the wall and began dusting the trim work above the stairs. “Miss Caruthers told me to dust. Mopping the landings is your task this week.”

Phoebe drew herself up, crossing her arms. “You’ll need to do both today. I have a carbuncle on my knee.”

Deirdre knew Phoebe was lying. She always had an excuse for not doing the harder chores when they came on rotation.

“I’ll get to it, if I have time. It’s better to mop after you dust, anyhow.”

Phoebe looked Deirdre up and down, and leaned close, her voice low. “I heard you,” she rasped. “Last night. And the night before that, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You and Esme.”

Blood rushed to Deirdre’s face. They had tried to be quiet with their lovemaking, but the plaster walls were thin, and their beds squeaked terribly. “You don’t know a thing about me and Esme.”

Constance chimed in from three steps below. “I heard you, too.” She doused her cloth with lemon oil and began polishing the freshly dusted balustrade. “We know the real reason Esme was sent here, after all.”

“It was Miss Munro’s or the asylum for her,” Phoebe said, tsk-tsking. “That’s what they do to girls like you. They put them in asylums and give them ice-cold baths. Whip them until they’re right in the head. It’s worse than prison, they say.”

Deirdre had heard of such things. She thought of Tessa Ray and wondered if her screaming had ended within the walls of that asylum or only gotten worse.

“Don’t worry,” Phoebe said, her voice wistful. “I won’t tell Miss Munro about you and Esme. If you’ll take on my chores. But out of concern for your soul, you should know the thing you’re doing with Esme, it’ll send you straight to hell if you don’t repent and turn away from your sin. My daddy’s a preacher. He’s taught me all about it.”

“Seems to me your daddy wouldn’t take the time to tell you about such things if he weren’t worried about you falling in with the same lot.”

Phoebe pressed her lips together and her face went as scarlet as the flannel in Deirdre’s hands. “I know what else you get up to. The other girls say you have a book in your room. A devil’s book. They say you’re a witch.”

How had anyone found out about the grimoire? Esme would never tell.

“People sure do say a lot here, don’t they?” Deirdre said tightly.

“The Bible has a good bit to say about witches, too. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” she intoned. “Maybe you and Esme are doing more than gobbling each other late at night. Maybe the devil is in there with the both of you.”

Deirdre bristled. She glanced up at Gentry’s shadow, saw him smirk.

Down the stairwell, Constance had disappeared, just as she always did when Phoebe took one of her mean spells, though she was ever willing to stir the pot. She and Phoebe were alone.

The other girl’s feet perched at the edge of the landing. A sudden urge came over Deirdre to shove her—she could almost see Phoebe losing her balance and tumbling down, her dress tangling around her legs as she tried to catch herself. With the water-slicked floor, it would seem an accident. Deirdre took a step forward, fingers flexing at her sides in readiness. The temptation to shove Phoebe was so keen it nearly made her delirious.