Wretched cow. How dare she threaten to report Esme! Something had to be done about Phoebe, but it needed to be something that couldn’t be traced back to Deirdre.
Deirdre waited a few moments until the sounds of the other girls had grown distant and the anger coursing through her diminished. She flew to her room and closed the door. Esme was still downstairs, helping her own cohort arrange flowers for the ballroom. She pulled the grimoire from beneath her bed and removed its tapestry cover. The book had been tampered with—she could see from the way its metal closure had been refastened—clumsily, with the clasp only halfway threaded through the eye. She had suspicions Constance had snooped in their room, at Phoebe’s bidding.
It was well past time for some sort of recompense.
Deirdre tucked herself into the narrow space between her bed and the window and opened the grimoire. She rested her hand over the surface of a page and closed her eyes, moving her hand slowly over the parchment. She’d learned this was the best way to use the spell book. It already knew what she wanted, what she needed, just as it had when she sought it for the purgative teas she’d drunk after her trysts with Robbie. She’d never used the book for anything other than simple charms and tisanes. The closest she’d come to actual conjuring was when she and Esme dabbled with the divination methods—crystal and rock scrying—which they had only done in good fun.
Pa’s admonishment to do no harm rattled her. What if her intentionswereto do harm? Would the book still obey her?
Deirdre closed her eyes and turned the page, passing her hand over its surface again. “Show me something I might use, book. I only want to teach Phoebe a lesson. Only to humble her.”
Suddenly, almost as if she were dowsing for water, she felt a tug on her finger. She opened her eyes.
A simple drawing of a common white mushroom lay beneath her fingertip.
In the shadows, the darkness smiled.
The next morning, Deirdre woke before dawn and crept down the gaslit streets to the park across from St.Michael’s church. Deirdre easily spotted the mushrooms in the damp, musty reaches of the oak grove, where they sprouted like pale, squat parasols. She plucked one carefully, then wrapped it in a handkerchief and secreted it in her pocket. Gentry’s specter perched on a moss-draped oak branch, watching her. Always watching.
Later, as the girls gathered for breakfast, Deirdre made sure to sit next to Phoebe. The other girl was in high spirits, her cheeks flushedwith excitement as she chattered to Constance about her new ball gown and the young men she hoped to dance with.
Once Constance had excused herself from the table, Phoebe turned to Deirdre, as if just noticing her presence. “I have a conference with MissMunro tomorrow,” she said giddily. “MissCaruthers’s fiancé proposed by letter. She’s departing after the ball to plan her wedding. It seems I’m next in line to be our cohort captain.” Phoebe raised her teacup and sipped from it. “I think you know what that means, MissWerner.”
Deirdre pressed her lips together. “I certainly do.” More work. More chores. As captain, Phoebe would have an added measure of power over Deirdre. If she refused to comply with Phoebe’s orders, she might tell MissMunro about her and Esme, which would mean expulsion and a train back to Tin Mountain for Deirdre. For Esme it would mean much, much worse. An asylum. Deirdre would never let that happen.
“I’m glad we understand one another.” Phoebe smiled at her, catlike, and went to fetch more toast from the buffet.
At last, Deirdre had her opportunity. She glanced from side to side, furtively. Most of the girls had left the breakfast hall and had gone back to their rooms. No one would see. Quickly, she pulled the handkerchief from her pocket, broke off a piece of the mushroom’s cap, and crumbled it in her hand. She sprinkled the mushroom into Phoebe’s porridge, gave it a quick stir, then washed her fingers in her finger bowl.
It should be just enough to make Phoebe sick. Just enough.
A few moments later, Phoebe returned. She shoveled the tainted porridge into her mouth with her toast and chased it with the rest of her tea. “We’ll get started with the new chore list on Monday. I’ve some mending I need done as well. You wouldn’t mind taking it on, would you?”
“Of course not,” Deirdre said, lifting her chin. “I’d be happy to.”
“Good.” Phoebe stood from the table, her eyes cold. “I’ve not the slightest notion what she sees in you.”
After Phoebe had rustled off, an uncomfortable feeling settled between Deirdre’s shoulders. This vendetta of Phoebe’s seemed personal. More than shallow bullying. Was there some history between Phoebe and Esme? Esme had never hinted as much, but there was a provocative tone of jealousy in Phoebe’s parting words.
Later that day, Deirdre and Esme were perched on ladders, hanging crepe paper bunting from the ballroom’s doorframes under MissMunro’s supervision, when Constance rushed in, her face ashen. She took MissMunro 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 inThe DelineatorI’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?”
