The Witch of Tin Mountain(59)

“I’ll see what I can do.” I go to the pantry to fetch a muslin sachet filled with lavender and clary sage to help soothe her sleep, then see her to the door. As she pushes through the garden gate, something catches my eye off to the side, swinging from the maple tree in front of the fence. It ain’t one of our grapevine totems. It’s something else.

As I get closer, I see that it’s a rustic dolly, made out of burlap, with corn silk for hair. Somebody’s hung it with a makeshift noose from one of the lower limbs of the tree. There’s a piece of paper tacked to the skirt.

It’s not the only time ne’er-do-wells and bored young ’uns have done such things on our property, but this is more than stealing a chicken or dumping pig innards in our garden. This is hanging me in effigy. A chill walks across my shoulders. I tear the piece of paper free.

It’s a misspelled warning, written in a messy, childlike scrawl:

Witch’s hang eazier then they burn.

I crumple it and throw it in the ditch, where the scorching wind picks it up and carries it off down the road. Everything that’s happened lately has me wound up tighter than a cheap dime-store watch. Morris. Harlan Northrup. Granny. Bellflower and Aunt Val. Ma Watterson. Now this. Heat rises in my belly like a pot set to boil over. I was afraid before, but now I’m mad.

I think of Anneliese’s story. There ain’t no way to prove it, and it had been a mere guess at the time, but given Bellflower’s reaction yesterday when I’d spoken Nathaniel Walker’s and Ambrose Gentry’s names, there’s no longer any doubt the three of them are one and the same. Anneliese’s demon lover has come back in another guise, and after our encounter, it seems he’s got his sights set on me now, instead of Val. But if he thinks I’m gonna succumb to his seductions like Anneliese, or bow down to his threats without a fight, he’s got another thing coming. I may be new to witching, but I wasn’t born yesterday.





TWENTY-TWO

DEIRDRE





1881




Deirdre flew up the stairs, Constance’s accusation still ringing in her ears. She felt a headache coming on, as they often did with her menses, sending shards of spiking pain behind her left eye and sharpening her panic. Had she made a mistake? Plucked the wrong sort of mushroom? It was possible—she was in a different climate, with unfamiliar flora and fauna. Deadly mushrooms easily mimicked their less lethal cousins.

In her room she hurriedly brought out the grimoire, flipping through its pages and pacing the floor. There had to be an antidote—something that might undo her foolishness. Deirdre’s finger traced line after line of Anneliese’s trailing script, willed the grimoire to show her the answer. She would do anything to make this right. Anything.

It’s too late. There’s no antidote for Amanita bisporigera—the destroying angel. Aptly named, don’t you think?

Deirdre whirled on Gentry. His specter lounged against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes cold and filled with malice.

“You. You made me do this, didn’t you?”

Gentry laughed. “No, little rabbit. It was you. Only you. We are two of a kind, you and I. Always doing whatever it takes to get what we want.” He pushed off from the wall, and walked toward her, soundlessly. “You wanted that girl. Wanted her sweetness on your lips. Did you truly think no one would ever find out about the two of you? Phoebe is only the first of many who will judge you—who will condemn you for your lust. Will you poison them all?”

“It’s not lust. I love Esme. There’s nothing wrong with what we’ve done.”

Gentry chuckled softly. “Would your steadfast Robbie agree? And to think you once judged your poor, sickly mother a whore. Your sin is far worse, little rabbit. It’s driven you to murder. ‘The wages of sin are death.’”

His words filled Deirdre’s ears, taunting her with guilt and shame. “Hush up. Just go away! I’ll fix this. I will.”

Gentry laughed again and faded from view just as Esme swung open the door, clutching a handful of white roses.

“Deirdre, are you all right? I was worried when you didn’t come back downstairs.”

Deirdre shut the grimoire in frustration and sank onto her bed, defeated. “I’m sorry . . . I’ve a headache coming on.”

“It’s all right. Nancy helped me hang the rest of the bunting. Who were you talking to just now?”

“No one.”

“I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone. You sounded agitated.” Esme sat next to her, the usually sweet scent of the roses made metallic and harsh by the headache. “You aren’t the only one who’s feeling ill. Nancy told me Phoebe’s sick, too. I hope it isn’t catching.”

“That’s too bad. I hope she recovers in time for the ball. Fetch me a cool cloth for my head, would you? I’d like to lie down for a spell.”

Esme did as she asked, then curled next to Deirdre. “My poor darling,” she said, smoothing the cloth over Deirdre’s eyes. “Rest well.”

As she fell into a fitful sleep, Deirdre doubted she’d ever rest well again.



Deirdre stood before the photographer’s floral backdrop, doing her best to not sweat away the layers of powder and rouge Esme had painstakingly applied. The first attempt at the photograph hadn’t gone well—a gnat had landed on her nose, and Deirdre had swatted it away just as the shutter closed, ruining the dry plate exposure.