It’s too late. There’s no antidote forAmanita bisporigera—the destroying angel. Aptly named, don’t you think?
Deirdre whirled on Gentry. His specter lounged against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes cold and filled with malice.
“You. You made me do this, didn’t you?”
Gentry laughed. “No, little rabbit. It was you. Only you. We are two of a kind, you and I. Always doing whatever it takes to get what we want.” He pushed off from the wall, and walked toward her, soundlessly. “You wanted that girl. Wanted her sweetness on your lips. Did you truly think no one would ever find out about the two of you? Phoebe is only the first of many who will judge you—who will condemn you for your lust. Will you poison them all?”
“It’s not lust. I love Esme. There’s nothing wrong with what we’ve done.”
Gentry chuckled softly. “Would your steadfast Robbie agree? And to think you once judged your poor, sickly mother a whore.Yoursin is far worse, little rabbit. It’s driven you to murder. ‘The wages of sin are death.’”
His words filled Deirdre’s ears, taunting her with guilt and shame. “Hush up. Just go away! I’ll fix this. I will.”
Gentry laughed again and faded from view just as Esme swung open the door, clutching a handful of white roses.
“Deirdre, are you all right? I was worried when you didn’t come back downstairs.”
Deirdre shut the grimoire in frustration and sank onto her bed, defeated. “I’m sorry ... I’ve a headache coming on.”
“It’s all right. Nancy helped me hang the rest of the bunting. Who were you talking to just now?”
“No one.”
“I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone. You sounded agitated.” Esme sat next to her, the usually sweet scent of the roses made metallic and harsh by the headache. “You aren’t the only one who’s feeling ill. Nancy told me Phoebe’s sick, too. I hope it isn’t catching.”
“That’s too bad. I hope she recovers in time for the ball. Fetch me a cool cloth for my head, would you? I’d like to lie down for a spell.”
Esme did as she asked, then curled next to Deirdre. “My poor darling,” she said, smoothing the cloth over Deirdre’s eyes. “Rest well.”
As she fell into a fitful sleep, Deirdre doubted she’d ever rest well again.
Deirdre stood before the photographer’s floral backdrop, doing her best to not sweat away the layers of powder and rouge Esme had painstakingly applied. The first attempt at the photograph hadn’t gone well—a gnat had landed on her nose, and Deirdre had swatted it away just as the shutter closed, ruining the dry plate exposure.
The sounds of the orchestra warming up drifted from the ballroom into the main hall. Outside, the young men MissMunro had invited—the sons of Charleston’s best families—were gathered on the veranda, enjoying cigars and brandy.
Deirdre’s pulse beat behind her eyes. Maddening pain. The kind that could only be made better with morphia and lack of worry. She had neither.
“Now, MissWerner, is it?” The photographer’s tinny voice interrupted her thoughts. The gnat buzzed near her ear. This time, she did not swat it away. “Turn to the side. Just a bit. Hands clasped softly in front of your waist. There. That’s it. Your gown is lovely. Lovely. Nose to the light. Now, take a deep breath and hold it. Don’t move, not even a blink.”
He went behind his tripod, took off the lens cap, then put it back on again. “Perfect, MissWerner. Absolutely perfect.”
Deirdre exhaled with relief. “Thank you.”
As she passed through the atrium, Deirdre overheard a thread of a conversation, “... still feeling poorly. Weak. The doctor thinks it might be a poisoning ... MissMunro will be questioning girls tomorrow ...”
The other girls were talking. Gossip about Phoebe’s illness would spread quickly and gain steam in the crowded ballroom. Deirdre strove to keep her head. With Constance already suspicious, she’d likely be questioned first. She’d need to slip away tonight, at some point, and find a place to hide her book.
The string quartet entered the foyer and sat before the hearth, striking up a bright tune. The last few girls joined the receiving line. MissMunro bustled toward the door. She looked years younger tonight—her usual grim demeanor lightened by her lilac dress and the soft curls framing her face. The hired footmen brought on for the evening threw the entryway doors wide, and the young men filtered through, dressed in white tie, with waxed mustaches and pomaded hair.
Deirdre gracefully curtsied and smiled, practicing the refined manners she’d learned over the past few weeks, but inside, she was filled with turmoil. She offered her dance card to her suitors and tried her best to remember their names as they exchanged pleasantries about the weather and the tides.
As for Esme, she was in high demand and had a full dance card within the first half hour. The orchestra struck up a Viennese waltz, and the first of her partners, a tall, strapping fellow with a riot of blond curls and broad shoulders, led Esme to the dance floor. Deirdre tried her best not to be jealous. Their hidden afternoon kisses and whispered secrets would have to come to an end eventually. They’d both marry soon, as they must, and their forbidden love would become a memory left to grow bittersweet, like overripe fruit on the vine.
A Mr.Briggs came to claim Deirdre for the first dance, and though she tried her best to follow, she found him an awkward partner, as he was three inches shorter than she and unsure on his feet. He sniffed constantly, and the sour scent of kippers wafted from his mouth.
As Esme spun by in her own young man’s capable arms, she caught Deirdre’s tortured gaze and giggled. Thankfully, the music died down and it was time to switch partners.
“Might I borrow you again later this evening, MissWerner?” Mr.Briggs asked.
