The Witch of Tin Mountain(89)

She hoped it was enough to keep whatever darkness might be lurking in the shadows well away.

Deirdre held a knife high to the heavens, where the blade might catch the moonlight and be purified by it, then read the incantation from the grimoire, written in Anneliese’s hand.

“I stand today and ask for the gods’ favor and the blessing of the eternal Mother. I mark a sign of my sacrifice with willing blood, so that they might find my purpose true and strong.”

Deirdre drew the knife across her palm, once, then again, in the shape of a cross, blotting out the scar she’d made when she’d bound herself to Gentry.

Ebba sang out in Swedish, raising her hands heavenward.

“As the Virgin blessed her own beloved Son, I bless my own flesh and bind it with my blood. For protection and a shield against those who would seek to harm her—in body or in spirit.”

Deirdre knelt on the stone, and using her thumb, made the sign of the cross on the sleeping infant’s forehead. “My shield I place on you, for as long as you live, my daughter. May you be protected and hidden from evil, as long as you live.” She kissed her baby’s small hand, and stood, turning to Ebba. “Give me your hand, my friend. Swear to me that you will keep your vow of silence for all of your days.”

“I swear it, Deirdre.”

Deirdre made a shallow cut on Ebba’s palm. The girl winced, then smiled. They pressed their bleeding palms together, locking eyes. “By the blessed mother Mary,” Deirdre said.

“And the blessed mother Frigga,” Ebba echoed.

“So mote it be.”

Deirdre and Ebba stood looking at one another for a long moment, the heaviness of their oath lingering between them. They were sisters now, bound by a blood covenant.

Finally, Deirdre spoke. “Tomorrow will be harder.”

Ebba nodded, her eyes filling. “Hidden things have a way of turning up, Deirdre. But we will try.”

“We will. We must.”



By night, St. Louis was silent, the city hunching over the river and its barges. Deirdre stepped from the paddle steamer. Ebba followed, carrying Valerie. “The orphanage is around that corner, next to the cathedral. I can see the spire from here,” Deirdre whispered, low enough that the few people on the pier wouldn’t hear her. “St. Mary’s.”

They walked solemnly, in silence, until the cathedral loomed in front of them. Next to it was a three-story brick building, with a statue of the Virgin Mary behind its gates. A single light shone through one of the downstairs windows. They went up the steps. At their knock, a world-weary sister answered, blinking at them with tired eyes.

“May I help you?”

Deirdre motioned toward Ebba. “I’ve brought my sister’s child, and my own. As neither of us are married, we are destitute and cannot afford to raise them properly.”

The nun raised a suspicious brow. With Ebba being only twelve, the lie was a little far-fetched. “We’ve only room for one infant, not two. With the winter being as harsh as it was, we’ve too many orphans and not enough beds.”

“No.” A wave of panic flew through Deirdre. To her great shame, she began to cry. “Please. Can’t you take them both? They’re good babies.”

The elderly sister sighed, her eyes softening “I cannot. I can sense your desperation, my child. But please know that the baby you choose to give up will be cared for and loved. Infants are easily placed in good homes.”

Deirdre looked down at the child of her own flesh and blood. In fifty years, Ambrose Gentry would return to collect on her foolish debt. To collect her only daughter and the promise she’d made out of desperation.

She only hoped the ritual from the grimoire had worked. Hoped it would hold. She supposed she would know in fifty years’ time.

Deirdre took one long last look at her daughter. She was sleeping, breathing calmly in and out. She’d never know the difference. She’d grow up far from Tin Mountain. Safe from curses and oaths and vengeful demonic preachers. She kissed the baby softly and handed her to the nun. “Please take care of her. Her name is Ophelia.”





THIRTY-THREE

DEIRDRE





1931




Deirdre woke, shrugging off the heavy mantle of time and the trance she’d fallen under. Old memories taunted her. A tear traced the line of her cheekbone and slipped into her ear. Esme. Mama. Ophelia.

She’d dreamt of her daughter most of all—willowy and tall, with fair hair and clever blue eyes. It had been foolish, giving up Ophelia. It hadn’t done a damn thing to undo the oath she’d made. Ebba had been right. Things hidden always had a way of turning up.

Deirdre had suspected Gracie might be her own from the moment she’d arrived on Tin Mountain, skinny and underfed, with that tangle of blonde hair and those blue eyes—the Werner eyes. And now she knew the full measure of the folly she had created. She’d protected Ophelia with her ritual and her words. But she hadn’t thought far enough ahead—that Ophelia might have a daughter of her own.

But he had, and he’d tricked her.

She had to protect Gracie.

“Deirdre, are you awake?”

Deirdre turned her head. Ebba floated into focus. Her oldest friend. Her truest friend. “I need water, Eb.”

Ebba brought a glass and Deirdre drank it down, chasing the dryness away. She sat up, her head swimming. “How long was I asleep?”