“I don’t remember that at all, Pa.”
“All the same, it happened. Surely, you’ve noticed the way people look at you, poppet? It’s more than your beauty. It’s what you are.Whoyou are. Your gifts make folks covetous—some will pay you for what they want, and pay you well, but there are some who would seek to steal from you instead.”
Mama’s step sounded from below. Pa took the book from Deirdre and hid it beneath the quilt. Deirdre crawled to the edge of the loft. “What is it, Mama?”
“I’ve a bath ready for you, child. Come clean up and get into some proper clothes before supper.”
After Mama swept back down the hall and into the kitchen, Pa unlatched the trunk at the foot of Deirdre’s bed, placing the book inside. “You can look at that Zauberbuch anytime you want, daughter. It’s yours now. But I don’t want your mama or anyone else reading a word of it. What’s written here is only for your eyes.”
“I understand, Pa. I do.” Mama didn’t have much use for magic and superstitions. Deirdre had learned to hide her gifts well—her seeing, her healing whispers—though they aided Mama in her work more than she knew.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and went down. Mama had the copper tub filled with steaming water in front of the hearth. Deirdre shrugged off her wrapper and her dirty, stained shift.
“What’s that, on your back? Turn around.” Mama reached out to trace a fingertip over Deirdre’s spine. She flinched. It burned hot and fierce as a wasp sting where Mama touched her. “You’ve got a mark. A rash.”
Deirdre craned her neck and tried to look. Red welts fanned up her shoulder, like the branches of a tree. “I can’t reckon where it came from. It stings somethin’ fierce.”
“I’ll put some lanolin ointment on it after your bath,” Mama said.
Deirdre climbed into the tub, the warm water unknotting her sore muscles and soothing her rash as she sank down to her chin. Mama filled the porcelain ewer with water and tilted Deirdre’s head back to wet her hair. “You didn’t say a word to Pa about Mr.Cash, I hope.”
Deirdre sighed. “I ain’t said a thing, Mama. And I won’t.”
Mama took up a cake of lye soap and began scrubbing Deirdre’s scalp with her fingernails. She was always too rough. “What did the two of you talk about?”
“He just told me a little bit about my Oma. Anneliese.”
“Oh? He’s never told me much about her. The old folks who knew her say she was a witch.”
“They say that about you sometimes, too, Mama. Ain’t true. She was just a midwife like you are.” Pa hadn’t forbidden her to talk to Mama about Oma Anneliese, only the grimoire. Still, if he’d meant for Mama to know more about his family, she would already know after twenty years of marriage. If she could keep Mama’s secrets, she could keep Pa’s, too.
“And what did he say about that preacher?”
Deirdre bit the inside of her cheek. “Pa remembered his kin from the war. They were horse thieves and such.” The lie came easy enough, almost as if someone had whispered it in her ear.
“Well, when you go to Mrs.Bledsoe’s, don’t think because you’re out of my sight that you can go running off with Robbie. I aim to seechange in your manner, daughter. Though your pa turns his head to your ways, I won’t soon forget your disrespect.”
Deirdre choked back the bitter laugh in her throat. “And I ain’t forgot about you and Mr.Cash, Mama. Now that Pa’s home, you’ll likely fawn all over him until he leaves again. Pa’s gettin’ up in years. I reckon as soon as he passes, you’ll take your widow’s pension and marry Mr.Cash, and that’s the real reason why you don’t want me hitched with Robbie. Just think of the talk.”
“Don’t you dare test me, girl,” Mama hissed. “If you want to marry Robbie, you’ll bite your tongue and hold it.”
So that’s how it was going to be. Tit for tat. Something dark and full of teeth clawed at Deirdre from the inside. Her whole body thrummed with it. She stared Mama down, unflinching.
Mama gasped and backed away from the tub. “Your eyes, Deirdre ...”
“Leave me be, Mama. Pa’s already given his blessing with Robbie. You don’t get to tell me what to do no more.”
NINE
GRACELYNN
1931
Granny kneels on the floor in the alcove under the loft, one hand to her lower back where her arthritis gripes her the worst. She pulls a folded quilt aside, revealing a cedar chest covered with faded hexes painted in red, green, and yellow. She unhooks the latch and opens it, the hinges squeaking in protest. Inside, atop a layer of musty blankets, sits a tapestry satchel overlaid with a bouquet of dried lavender. She turns to me. “Go on. Take it out. See what’s inside.”
I kneel next to Granny and draw the satchel out. It’s heavier than I expect. Inside, I find a book—its leather cover wrinkled like a corpse’s skin. Runes—sigils like the markings over the doorways in Ebba’s house, are burned into the spine. Symbols of protection. A faint buzzing plays beneath my fingers as I open the book. The writing scrawls across the pages, faded and nearly illegible. “What is it?”
“It’s a grimoire. A book of shadows.”
