Later that day, Deirdre and Esme were perched on ladders, hanging crepe paper bunting from the ballroom’s doorframes under Miss Munro’s supervision, when Constance rushed in, her face ashen. She took Miss Munro aside and whispered in her ear.
The headmistress pressed her fingers to her lips and shook her head, then hurriedly trailed Constance upstairs.
“What was that about, I wonder?” Esme asked, pinning her end of the swag on the doorpost. “Constance seemed upset.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh well. We should start getting ready as soon as we have this done. I’ve the most wonderful idea for your hair,” Esme said. “I saw a drawing in The Delineator I’ve a mind to copy.”
“Mm.” Esme’s words faded to a low hum in Deirdre’s ears. She swallowed to quell the sour taste in her mouth. What if she’d given Phoebe too much? She disliked the girl, but she’d merely wanted to teach her a lesson and enjoy the ball without her meddling and judgement. Pa’s warning about coming to the book with intention vexed her once more. Perhaps the book knew the depths of the darkness in her heart and had reflected it back to her.
If she could poison someone, what else might she be capable of doing?
“Deirdre. Are you listening to me?” Esme’s voice rose in irritation. “I asked if you had a corsage in mind for tonight. If not, I can make you a posy with the leftover roses from the centerpieces. The white ones would look grand with your green dress.”
“Yes, that sounds splendid. I . . . I need to go to the washroom.” Deirdre climbed down from the ladder, nearly stumbling on the bottom rung.
“You’re all out of sorts. Are you falling ill?”
“No, it’s only my menses,” she said. “They’ve come in hard this month. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Deirdre rushed up the stairs, her skirts gathered in her hands. On the second-floor landing, she heard a hoarse gagging, followed by a groan. She shuffled silently to Phoebe and Constance’s door. It was open a crack. She carefully leaned forward to peek inside.
Phoebe lay on the bed, atop the covers, her shift drenched with sweat. Her face glowed a sickly, yellowish white. Miss Munro sat on the edge of the mattress, mopping her forehead with a cloth. Suddenly, a gut-wrenching spasm shook Phoebe. She leaned over the bed to vomit into the basin on the floor. Miss Munro turned away, squeezing her eyes shut. The stench wafted through the door and assaulted Deirdre’s nostrils—it was rancid, sour. Bile.
She had done this. Out of a sense of petty vengeance.
A low, menacing chuckle came from the end of the hall. Deirdre whirled to face it.
Nothing was there. Not even the shadow she’d come to see as a constant companion.
Miss Munro threw open the door. “Miss Werner. Why are you loitering? We only have a few hours before the ball.”
“Is Phoebe taken ill?”
“Yes.” Miss Munro crossed her arms, pushing her sleeves up past her elbows. “No sign of fever, so it’s likely nothing to be concerned with. If she’s not better by evening, I’ll send for the doctor.”
“Might it have been something she ate?” Deirdre could have slapped herself. Why had she asked that?
“Did you not have the same thing as she at dinner last night? And breakfast?”
“Yes. I—”
Miss Munro waved dismissively. “It’s likely the heat. These digestive complaints happen often in summer. Not to worry. Miss Darrow may well make a full recovery in time for tonight. Miss Brewster has been relieved from her other duties and will tend to her.” She gave a curt nod. “Now, back to work. As soon as you’ve completed your chores, you may retire to your room to rest before the ball.”
The headmistress strode away, her back straight as a ramrod. Deirdre sagged against the wall, her eyes smarting with unexpected tears. Guilt and shame coupled with her fear. If anyone ever found out what she’d done, it could mean a punishment worse than expulsion from the school. If Phoebe died, she’d be a murderer.
Unless the grimoire might hold an antidote. Hope bloomed in her chest. It had given her all the knowledge she’d ever sought, so why not that?
Deirdre pulled in a rallying breath and turned to go when she sensed eyes on her back. She looked over her shoulder.
Constance’s pinched, wren-like face peeked out the dormitory door. “You. This is your work, isn’t it? You and your witch book.”
Deirdre hastily wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That book was my grandmother’s. It’s only recipes and such.”
Constance scowled. “Recipes for poison. I know what you did. I know what you are. And if Phoebe dies, you’ll wish it were you instead of her.”
TWENTY-ONE
GRACELYNN
1931
After Anneliese’s final journal entry, there’s an illustration of a crescent moon, and a single line of script before the grimoire falls away to the blank pages at the end. The words are rushed and nearly illegible, written in dingy, brown ink:
The curse can be broken only by the maiden, the mother, and the crone, who must speak Nathaniel’s true name thrice to cast him out.
His true name. As I’m pondering the words, a soft knock comes at the kitchen door. It’s mighty early for company. I climb down from the loft, tiptoeing past Caro. I open the door to find Calvina Watterson, Mr. Bledsoe’s maid, huddled against the porch post. She has dark purple circles underneath her eyes, and the rims around them are all red, like she’s been crying.
“I came about Mama,” she says, her voice choked by a sob. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“Lands, Calvina. Come on in.”
“I ain’t got long to chat. Mr. Bledsoe’ll be expectin’ me soon.”
“Of course. Just sit for a spell and tell me what’s happened.”
Calvina bobs her head and steps over the threshold. I pour her a cup of chamomile and catmint tea. Her hands shake as she takes it from me. Her fingers brush mine, but her thoughts are so faint I can barely hear them. “You want cream?” I eye the empty spot next to the stove where the sugar dish used to sit. “We’re all out of sugar.”
“No, them’s precious things. I like it plain, anyways.” She takes a long sip and studies me over the rim. “It were all a show, that night when that preacher healed Mama, Miss Gracie. She felt real good for a few days, then took a hard turn—got down in her hip worse than I ever seen.”
Dammit. I knew Bellflower’s gifts were a sham. A demon’s parlor trick, just like his good looks. He’s toying with the townsfolk—using them. But to what end?
“I found her after I got home from Mr. Bledsoe’s last night. She’d been tryin’ to bring food in from the springhouse when her hip gave all the way out and she fell. She said she drug herself along the ground for a bit, then got tuckered out. She laid there all day, in that hot sun.” Calvina’s breath hitches. She takes a long swallow of tea before she speaks again. “She’s at Doc Gallagher’s place now. He said it’s a broken hip. They’re taking her to the big hospital today, soon as they can get an ambulance down from Springfield. It ain’t lookin’ good, though. How am I supposed to pay for a funeral? Mama deserves better than to be laid in some potter’s field.”