The Witch of Tin Mountain(88)

No one in Tin Mountain could ever know about the baby.

But he would know about the baby.

She still dreamt of him sometimes. Her shadow demon. Still imagined him watching her as she lay alone in the darkness, awaiting his seed to flower fully in her womb. He’d said he’d return in fifty years, but what if he refused to wait? What if he appeared as soon as the child was born, to spirit her away to some snarling netherworld?

It was a girl. She was sure of it. Had dreamt of her, too. The beautiful woman she would become.

Her stomach hardened and clenched once more, stealing her breath. Deirdre grabbed hold of the bedpost and worked her way to the floor, on her hands and knees. She rocked slowly, rounding out her spine and arching like a mad cat, measuring her breath and counting through the pains. The shaking time would come next, and her body would take over for her then.

Valerie stirred in the crib, letting out a long, reedy cry. Deirdre swore. She worked her way up from the floor and crossed to the crib, picking the baby up and shushing her back to sleep. The child was always restless. She was thin, too. Deirdre had been tempted to bring Valerie to her own breast for sustenance, but was afraid it might trigger an early labor, so she’d had to suffice with syrup-sweetened goat’s milk from Ebba’s farm.

Just as Valerie had settled, a knock came at the door. Deirdre froze, her breath hitching with another contraction. The knock came again, louder this time. Valerie woke fully, her face reddening as she wailed.

“Deirdre! It’s Ebba.”

Oh, how happy the bright sound of Ebba’s voice made her! But Ebba couldn’t know about this baby. No one could know about this baby.

“Deirdre! I know. I have known about the baby all this time. Open this door!”

She crawled to the door and pressed her forehead to the cool wood. “Is there anyone with you?”

“No.”

Deirdre cracked open the door. Ebba stood there, an angry look furrowing her brows. She clutched a hatchet in her hands. Deirdre’s eyes widened.

Ebba shrugged. “To cut the pain. Or cut down the door if you refused to open.” She strode past Deirdre. Shoved the little ax beneath the bed, then went to Valerie’s cradle and began rocking it with her foot. “You are stupid, doing this by yourself.”

“How did you know I was with child?” Deirdre worked her way slowly to the bed and crawled atop the eiderdown.

Ebba tapped her head with her finger. “I know things and see things. Just like you.”

Deirdre moaned as another cramp claimed her breath. She opened her knees. “Come have a look, down there,” Deirdre managed. “Tell me if you can see the baby’s head.”

Ebba washed her hands in the basin, then knelt between Deirdre’s legs. “Yes. I see her hair. Almost time?”

“Yes. Almost time.”

Within minutes, Deirdre was trembling from head to toe. The urge to push overrode everything. Ebba urged her on, with gentle words and singing, until, with a triumphant last push, the baby slipped free. It was a girl, just as she’d known it would be. Deirdre rubbed the baby briskly to warm her and brought her to her breast, unexpected tears springing to her eyes. “Fetch the scissors, over there, Ebba. Pour boiling water over them, and bring them, along with a length of twine. You remember what we did with Hannah?”

“Ja. Tie the cord in two places, tight. And cut between the knots?”

“Yes, I’ll help you through it.”

An hour later, Deirdre was weary, but wrapped in a kind of drowsy, lovesick fog. She looked down at the perfect baby sleeping in her arms, her crisp cupid’s bow mouth, and the feathering of blonde eyelashes resting on her cheeks. She had little hair, but what she did have was fair as Ebba’s. She wasn’t a monster at all—just another sweet, innocent babe who had never been asked to be born. Deirdre stroked her cheek gently, pushing back the stab of bittersweet pain that coursed through her. Her eyes darted to the corners, searching among the shadows, dreading the glint of silver she might see lurking there. But thankfully, blessedly, Gentry did not appear.

Valerie woke and gave a short, sharp cry. “Bring her to me,” Deirdre said. “I can feed her from my breast now.”

Ebba rose from the rocking chair next to the bed and brought Valerie. Deirdre guided her to her breast. At first, the baby seemed unsure what to do, as Deirdre had only ever fed her the goat’s milk from a false teat. But soon, she’d latched on, her little mouth fierce with hunger until she was milk drunk and satiated.

Deirdre’s mind spun with possibilities. She might raise them like sisters. Twins. She could tell people their father was dead—a young man she’d met out east and married there. After a time, no one would be able to tell they were three months apart. She could even leave Tin Mountain and start fresh somewhere else with both girls, but with no money and no husband, it would be hard going. Esme had not responded to Deirdre’s letters, but Deirdre felt no animosity. That chapter in her life had closed. She was on her own. Always would be.

Keeping the babies wasn’t a possibility. She would steel herself and do what must be done. The grimoire had shown her. The sooner she followed things through, the easier the loss would be to bear.



Deirdre opened the grimoire, lit a candle for each cardinal direction, then stood next to Ebba on the wide, flat rock where she and Robbie used to tryst. The moon shone high overhead, casting enough light to see by. Her baby lay sleeping in the center of the stone, swaddled in white fabric, and protected by the pentacle she’d drawn across the stone with salt and imbued with prayers to her mother’s God and the Virgin who bore Him, and to the older gods of her ancestors.