I head up the hill, my back to the fire and my eyes on Old Liberty’s steadfast beam.
When I reach the stone tower, the door is open, just a crack. Flashing yellow light seeps out. That must mean Abby’s upstairs. Waiting for me. My heart beats faster at the thought.
I take the stairs up the tower two at a time. It’s so stifling that I have to pause to catch my breath at the top before emerging into the lantern room, shielding my eyes from the white-hot light.
The French doors leading to the outer gallery are open. She must be waiting at our dangling spot. I undo my braids and shake out my hair, letting it flow long and loose down to my waist. I imagine Abby’s fingers tangling in it as she kisses me. Out on the gallery, I have a bird’s-eye view of the fire. It’s huge, and dangerously close to the lights of town. The height coupled with the scent of smoke makes me dizzy.
A part of me worries that this was all my doing. I wonder if that surge of power I’d felt back in Bellflower’s tent created the blaze. If I could start a fire through sheer force of will, what else might I be capable of?
I turn from the railing and make my way around the curved side of the lighthouse to our dangling spot, but Abby isn’t there.
“Abby?” I call out. “You out here?”
I edge further along the metal catwalk, until I’m halfway around the side. Still no sign of Abby. The beam whooshes over my head, lighting up the forest below. My pulse quickens. Something ain’t right about this. She’s playing a game. She must be.
“Abby?” I call out again. “Now, it’s too early in the morning for games. You wanted me here, and I’m here.”
There’s no answer. I start imagining the worst—that she might have lost her footing and fell, or worse yet—jumped. I’d never known Abby for the melancholic sort, but with her pa about to die and a marriage to Harlan Northrup on the horizon—
A wave of nausea hits me at the thought.
Suddenly, a loud rush of wind comes from above, like the rustling of a large bird’s wings.
Everything goes still. The air. The trees. My breath.
I turn slowly, already knowing what I’m going to see. Who I’m going to see.
Bellflower.
Sure enough, he’s standing there, smiling his devil smile. “Here we are. Alone at last.”
“You,” I growl. I back away from him, until I’m up against the stone wall. “Where’s Abby? What did you do with her?”
“I haven’t harmed a hair on her head. She’s sound asleep, poor thing. She found her pa passed out cold, and forgot all about you. It won’t be long now,” Bellflower says with mocking sadness. “Hours, not days.”
I try to rush back to the tower doors, to run to Abby, but Bellflower snaps his fingers, and it’s as if I’ve run into a brick wall. Suddenly, I can’t move. I’m like one of his congregants, frozen in time.
“You’re not going anywhere, little rabbit. Not until I’ve had my say.”
“What do you want with me? What do you want with my family?” I manage to squeak out.
“I’ve been tied to your family for many, many years. Over a century. We’ll get to all that soon. Now. Will you promise to be still and listen?”
“Yes,” I say weakly.
He snaps again, and my invisible bonds release. I pull in a deep, heaving breath, and nearly retch. Bellflower closes the distance between us, and reaches out to touch my cheek, whisper light. “You’re very special to me, Gracelynn. Precious.” He studies me for a moment, his eyes hooded and dark. “I’m here to help you, not hurt you. I’ve already done you a favor. Gotten rid of a little problem of yours.”
Despite the heat, a chill creeps across my shoulders. “What are you talking about?”
“That Northrup boy. Harlan. He meant to ravage you.” Bellflower scowls. “Repugnant. They just found his body, charred almost beyond recognition, but it is him, I assure you. He’ll trouble you—and your lovely Abigail—no more.”
“You started it, didn’t you? The fire.”
“Perhaps.” Bellflower shrugs. “Or perhaps you did. You’re certainly capable of it.” He glances over his shoulder at the fire, which has gone completely still in his eerie thrall, flames shimmering in place. “Fire purifies, cleanses. It’s beautiful.”
“Is that what you told Anneliese before she burned?”
“Anneliese. Anneliese.” He sighs in irritation. “Her name wasn’t Anneliese. That’s just what that ridiculous German boy Friedrich called her.
“Her real name was Betsy. Betsy Sutter. And she was meant for a greater purpose, just like you are—a purpose she denied.”
“You’re talking in circles, Bellflower. I ain’t got the patience for your riddles.”
“How about a story, then? People tell all sorts of stories about the Sutter family, don’t they? The most well-known tale is that Owen Sutter killed his family after he discovered his wife had a lover among the Natives. Ridiculous. Then, there’s the myth he committed incest with his oldest daughter and the guilt destroyed him. Also false.” Gentry’s lips curl into a smile. “Or my personal favorite—that he made a deal with the devil, and it drove him mad. There might be a thread of truth in that one.” He winks.
“Betsy was special from the moment she was born. A true witch, with raw, innate powers. Her blood sang with it. I came to Sutter’s Hollow when I felt the tug of her essence. At first, I was formless and hungry, only a spirit in the ether. I played games with the Sutter girls, ripping their bedclothes off at night, cackling in the wee hours of morning. I haunted them in many forms. A black dog. A maiden dressed in green, swinging from the highest branches of the locust tree. A cantankerous, foul-mouthed old woman with an affinity for Scripture. They nicknamed her Mary.” Bellflower chuckles to himself. “Playing Mary was my favorite game. She was how I knew I had a gift for ministry.”
“Pardon me, but you’re not makin’ a lick of sense.”
“In time! All will be clear in time.” Bellflower paces back and forth in front of me like he does when he’s preaching. “Soon, word of the ‘witch’ haunting Sutter’s Hollow spread. Old Owen was driven mad by the attention. He hated my games. Hated it even more when I came to his wife late at night and made her quiver and moan in ways he never could. He begged me to depart—to leave his family alone. So, I made him an offer. I’d depart, if he’d promise his youngest daughter to me when she came of age.”
“Anneliese.”
“Betsy,” he corrects. “Beautiful blue-eyed Betsy. Owen knew what I could do if he denied me. I played my part. Hung back and watched, quietly. It wasn’t my fault Owen’s madness made him mean. When his killing notions took root and came to fruition, I protected Betsy. Delivered her safely into the hands of young Friedrich Werner, then wandered from town to town out east, toying with the locals, until she was ripe for me. Only, instead of a bodiless spirit, I came back as—”
“Nathaniel Walker.”
“Yes. You’re very clever. Nathaniel was a young, naive pastor that made a deal of his own with me and invited me in.” Bellflower passes a hand over his face, and his dark eyes change to blue as his dirty blond hair shifts to black. “I healed his beloved mother and then took his body for my own. I’ve been inhabiting it ever since.”