“What do you think they would have done, a group of girls living on their own with babies?” Patricia asked, a sudden bright flare of anger that woke up her face. “Bellanger gave the world something to focus on. He made it scientific progress instead of witchcraft. If it had been just us women there, death would’ve come for us much sooner.”
This new story fit jaggedly over the one I’d already known, rubbing raw at the edges. I remembered Bellanger smiling down at me, my hand in his, the sense of safety and belonging. Patricia and maybe my mother hadn’t wanted any of that—they’d wanted him to arrive and then vanish, unknown to me forever—
“So you see why your mother would never come here. I’ve followed her disappearance on the news, but as far as I’m concerned, she vanished years ago.” Grief moved across Patricia’s face, wince-quick. “I’ve told you everything I know about the letter. The whole ugly story. If there’s nothing else—”
After a silent consultation with Cate, I rose and showed Patricia my mother’s line in the notebook. “It’s not just the letter, Patricia. We were hoping you could tell us more about Fiona. My mother was interested in her, and we think it’s because of what Fiona could do. Her powers.” I spoke steadily. Patricia knew more about the Homestead than anybody else I’d encountered so far; no need to play coy.
As she read, a muscle near Patricia’s eyebrow twitched.
“You were there with Fiona at the Homestead until the very end. You and my mom. If you know what she was talking about—”
“You want to know about Fiona?” Patricia stood, suddenly resolute, and I stepped back. Her small figure was swamped by all that fabric, only her white face and hands exposed. “Come with me,” she said. “I can do better than tell you, Josephine. I can show you.”
21
April 24, 1975
My darling Josephine,
Here we are at your fourth birthday already. I remember looking down at you when you arrived and marveling at you, my little one, but also worrying for you. You were so very alone when you were born. The only one of your kind. A true first, the rarest being on the whole planet. At the time, I didn’t know if there’d ever be more of you. I didn’t know if you would thrive at all. Your mother has always done her best to look out for you, but I worried that she couldn’t fully understand how special you are. You’re her dear, sweet little girl, and she doesn’t always see the specialness that lies underneath. That’s my job.
The grandest news is that just last week, your Aunt Lily-Anne gave birth to our perfect ninth baby. She has completed the puzzle you have started: Girl Nine to your Girl One. With her arrival, I’ve proven the critics wrong and accomplished everything I set out to do. There are nine of you where before there were none. Take good care of your littlest sister. I have a suspicion that she will need a big sister in her life, for she seems to be quite the special Girl. Show her the sisterly love you’ve shown the others: Isabelle, Catherine, Gina, Emily, Delilah, Bonnie, and Helen.
Your loving father always,
Joseph Bellanger
22
The basement held a subterranean chill, and the hairs on my arms rose as we descended a long stairwell. I remembered climbing into the attic to see Emily French a few days ago. This space was all gray concrete, slick and smooth. A secret tunnel under the house. I could barely connect it with the farmhouse above. A large white projector screen stood against one wall. In front of it, a simple black couch. No windows. No doors other than the one we’d come through. I looked at Cate, anxious, excited, lower belly pinched with nerves.
In one corner, a table held a clunky projector, all wheels and gears. Patricia gestured at the couch. “Have a seat, girls.”
We sat next to each other. In front of us, that looming blank screen. Cate smiled at me sidelong, encouraging. I was deeply and fiercely grateful for her presence here. If she’d stayed back home in Arkansas, I’d be doing this alone right now.
Patricia clicked the lights off. Startling blackness for a moment. The rising whir of the projector. The screen came to life, striped and dotted with interference, transforming into a tilted view of a room, large and gloomy. It was the Homestead. I recognized the kitchen table, long and low and rough-hewn, covered with dishes. The simple freestanding sink. I remembered this place. For a moment it was so clear, as if I’d never left.
The camera took a moment to adjust, swooping in a seasick curve, wobbling over to the table, and narrowed in on a little girl. She sat there, almost too small to see over the edge, her face drawn and sullen, her hair glowing red even in colors muted by time. She stared off into space. A two-year-old. She seemed younger, bird-boned.