The Witch of Tin Mountain(74)

“No, Deirdre. You’ve already cursed yourself. Now, if you mean to leave, don’t linger on. Just go.”



Deirdre wasn’t a thief, but she was desperate. She tapped gently on Miss Munro’s office door. When she didn’t hear the headmistress’s usual crisp greeting, she nudged the door open with her toe. Just as Deirdre had hoped, she was still out on her Friday errands.

Deirdre shut the door softly behind her. She’d heard talk from the other girls that Miss Munro kept a stash of money in her desk. Though it pained her to do so, she went through every drawer, quickly rifling through the contents. Finally, in the second drawer from the bottom, she found a leather pouch. It was so heavy the strain of lifting it taxed her wrist. She opened it and found it full of silver dollars. She counted out ten of them—that would surely be more than enough to get her back to Tin Mountain on a second-class railcar. She secreted the money in her dress pocket, then shoved the pouch back into the drawer and closed it.

Luckily, with the impending storm, there wasn’t a soul to see her go out the front door and down the walk. When she reached the gate, she turned to look at Miss Munro’s Finishing School for Young Ladies of Character one last time. She’d learned plenty during her time at Miss Munro’s—how to appreciate works of philosophy and poetry by Ovid and Homer. She even had enough Latin now to pray properly with her dying mother. But even with her improved knowledge and manners, she’d never belonged here, among the pampered, indolent girls who’d grown up at the end of long oak alleys with servants to attend their every need.

They’d reminded her she didn’t belong, nearly every day.

Esme came to the dormer window in their room, watching her like a half-lit haint. Deirdre lifted her hand. Esme stared at her for a long moment, then the curtain fell back into place.

It was all for the best, her leaving. For both of them. Deirdre squared her shoulders, took a deep breath of the salty, rain-laden air, and walked away.





TWENTY-SEVEN

GRACELYNN





1931




The line of trucks threads up the mountain, roaring in an angry rumble. They’re led by the sheriff’s patrol car, a flashing red light on its roof.

“What d’you think’s happened?” Abby asks.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” I lie. If what Bellflower told me in that vision is true, Harlan Northrup is dead and Abby’s about to find out her wedding’s been called off in the worst way possible.

The patrol car whips up the drive, spraying gravel. Aunt Val crawls out of the back seat. Caro tumbles out after her. Caro’s face is swollen and puffy, like she’s been crying. “Gracie!” she hollers. “You gotta get—”

“Hush your mouth!” Val scolds, jerking Caro’s arm.

Caro starts whimpering. It takes all I have not to launch myself over the porch rail and slap Val all the way to Sunday.

The sheriff steps out as a truck pulls up alongside his car. A group of men haul ass out the tailgate. They’ve got burlap hoods on. A few of them have shotguns. My heart jumps like a jackrabbit. The men stomp through Granny’s garden, crushing her tender peonies with their boots. Sheriff Murphy clears his throat, a wary look in his eyes. “Miss Doherty?”

“You know who I am, Sheriff . . . ,” I slur. The fever is just beginning to break, but my head’s still muzzy with it. Sweat beads along my hairline and rolls down my face. “How can I help you?”

“I’ve come with a warrant for your arrest.”

I could almost laugh if I felt better. “On what charges?”

“Arson.”

I raise my pounding head and look him straight in the eye. “Arson? First off, I didn’t start no fire. And I didn’t have nothin’ to do with Harlan, neither.”

There’s a rumble from the crowd of men. Some of them start cussing.

Murphy frowns. “Harlan Northrup?”

It takes me a minute, in my state, to realize my mistake. Goddamn this fever and my addled brain. The only reason I’d known anything about Harlan was because Bellflower told me he was dead in my vision.

A vision no one else saw.

“How’d you know about Harlan?” Sheriff Murphy takes two steps toward me. I see the metallic glint of handcuffs in his fist. “We just found him dead in Hosea Ray’s field about half an hour ago.”

All the air leaves my lungs, like somebody’s kicked me in the gut. I’ve just incriminated myself.

Abby wails and the sound cuts through me like a knife.

My mouth has gone dry, but I swallow hard. “You’re accusing me of murderin’ Harlan now, too? That’s what this is about? How’d you get a judge to sign that warrant so soon? There ain’t even been time for an investigation.”

This is all Bellflower’s doing. I can see his hand in all of it. Folks need a good reason to kill a witch in these times—saying she casts spells ain’t enough. Murder and arson would be.

“Several witnesses came forward. Saw what you did. Now you can go willingly, ma’am, or you can go at gunpoint. Those are your choices.” He reaches for me, and I jerk backward, but then realize if I resist, it just makes me look guiltier.

“All right. I’ll go willingly. But I want a lawyer. I ain’t answering any questions until I have a lawyer.” I offer my wrists and the cold metal slides over them as the handcuffs click into place. I turn back to look at Abby and Ebba. “I want y’all to bear witness. You tell the world if anything happens to me, you hear? Y’all stick together. Take good care of Granny, Ebba.”