“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. MissMunro 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. MissMunro turned away, squeezing her eyes shut. The stench wafted through the door and assaulted Deirdre’s nostrils—it was rancid, sour. Bile.
Shehad 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.
MissMunro threw open the door. “MissWerner. Why are you loitering? We only have a few hours before the ball.”
“Is Phoebe taken ill?”
“Yes.” MissMunro 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—”
MissMunro waved dismissively. “It’s likely the heat. These digestive complaints happen often in summer. Not to worry. MissDarrow may well make a full recovery in time for tonight. MissBrewster 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 purplecircles 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.”
