The Witch of Tin Mountain(65)



He laughed. “I knew you wanted me just as much as I want you.” He placed a finger on her fevered mouth and pulled away. Deirdre sighed in disappointment. “I promise, I will make true on my word. But now is not the time. Now, we must save that poor girl you’ve poisoned, and for that, I need your blood, my darling. Only a little.”

“Yes, of course,” Deirdre said. As if in a trance, she went to the desk she shared with Esme. Esme’s pearl-handled letter opener lay atop the blotter. Deirdre took it up, its slender blade gleaming in the wan lamplight. “What should I do?” she asked drowsily.

“Just close your palm over it and draw it through. Your tender flesh will yield.”

Deirdre did as he asked, wincing at the bite of the blade. He was by her side in a flash of movement, eyes aglimmer with their queer silver light. Blood filled Deirdre’s hand and dripped to the floor.

“Promise me,” he urged.

“I . . . I promise.”

“Yes,” he hissed, and hungrily brought her palm to his mouth. A heady rush of lust swam through her at the feel of his tongue lapping against her skin. When she pulled her hand away, the mark had already healed, though it still burned beneath the newly formed scar that stood in a red crescent on her palm.

“I’ll look forward to our reunion, Miss Werner. I’ll come to you again when the time is right.” He gave her a wicked smile, full of carnal promise . . . then stepped into the shadows. He was gone.

Deirdre clasped the grimoire to her chest and hurried downstairs.

“There you are!” Miss Munro stood to greet her, a look of irritation etched on her face. “I was about to come looking for you. A lay pastor arrived from St. Michael’s. I had to show him to Miss Darrow’s room. He’s praying with her now.”

“I’m sorry. I had to go to the washroom.” Deirdre offered the grimoire to Miss Munro and stepped back, her arms crossed over her waist. The headmistress opened the book, turning the pages faster and faster. When she got to the end, she scowled as she read. For a moment, Deirdre worried the book had betrayed her. But when Miss Munro closed it with a decisive thwack, then returned it to Deirdre, she smiled warmly.

“Just as you said, Miss Werner. Only recipes. And a rather good one for gingerbread I might ask to borrow for the holidays.”

A wash of relief went over Deirdre, and she beamed, dropping a perfect curtsy. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You may return to the dance, if you wish.”

“I . . . I couldn’t do that.” She had to make sure that Gentry would make good on his word. “Not with Phoebe in such a state.”

A few moments later, Esme emerged from Phoebe’s room and stepped into the hall. Deirdre took note of the redness in the corners of her eyes and the deep rivers her tears had cut through her powder and rouge. “The pastor asked me to leave, so that he might say prayers for Phoebe’s soul,” Esme said. “She’s no longer awake. It won’t be long.”

“Well.” Miss Munro cleared her throat. “I’ll pay the orchestra and dismiss our guests before I notify the coroner. We can’t have all of Charleston gossiping about a hearse showing up during a party.”

After Miss Munro swept downstairs, Esme’s quiet weeping became heaving sobs. Deirdre did her best to soothe her distress. “There, now. Don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it.” Esme hiccupped and wiped at her eyes with Deirdre’s offered handkerchief.

“I’ve never seen you so upset. I didn’t realize you and Phoebe were that close.”

“Well. We were at one time. I was her . . .” Esme bit her lip and turned to the window.

“Her what, Esme?”

“Friend. Her first roommate.”

“You were more than roommates, weren’t you?” Jealousy and anger overtook her. She grasped Esme by the shoulder, turning her. “I might have known that was the reason she’s been so cruel to me. She was jealous!”

“Oh, Deirdre.” Esme sank onto the settee and rested her head in her hands. “Please don’t be angry.”

Deirdre sat next to her, holding the grimoire on her lap. She felt as if something inside her had shattered into a thousand brittle pieces.

“After Sam, I was terribly lonely. One night, Phoebe confessed that she’d never been kissed. One thing led to another, and—”

“I don’t need to hear more.” Deirdre put up her hand.

“Things went sour after that. I blame her religion, mostly. She knew her father would never approve of our friendship once he found out about my inclinations. Last winter, after returning from Christmas holiday, she started shunning me and took the room downstairs with Constance.”

“That hypocrite,” Deirdre said, seething. Her guilt over poisoning Phoebe thinned with her jealousy. “She threatened to tell Miss Munro about us! Held it over my head.”

“I was afraid you’d be angry. And you are. I don’t love her. I swear it. But she’s dying. Am I not supposed to make peace with her and with myself for what happened between us?”

“Her bullying isn’t the worst of it. She’s been sending Constance to our room to snoop. She told Miss Munro I have a witch’s book and that I poisoned Phoebe. I could be hanged for that, Esme!”

“Why, that’s ridiculous. You’d never do such a thing.”

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