“Bring her to me, brethren,” he commands, a wicked smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I’ll drive out the demon who vexes her.”
The men hem me in, leering. Somebody swipes at my scarf, grabbing the tail. It’s still knotted under my chin. I yelp as I feel it tightenlike a noose. It’s Harlan Northrup. I can smell the sweet-sour tang of the sawmill on him. He winds the scarf around his wrist like he’s winding cotton, pulling me closer and closer until I nearly taste the tobacco on his breath and his hands close around my arm. “You little bitch,” he whispers. “Let’s see how uppity you are now.”
I claw at the fabric, wheezing as my air bottoms out. Nobody comes to help me. Nobody cares. Just as my vision starts to flicker and go dark, he releases me. I haul in a breath, my throat stinging with pain. I frantically look for a way out, but there are hands everywhere, grasping at me, pulling me forward. Bellflower steps down from the altar and stares at me a long while, then reaches out, stroking his hand along my neck. At his touch, the pain flees. So, there’s something to hishealingtouch after all, even if it’s a false balm that fades away with time.
“Kneel, sister,” he commands gently. “And I will pray for you.”
“No,” I rasp. “I’ll never kneel before a man. Especially you.”
“Spoken like a true Werner.” He leans close to me. “Kneel, you foolish girl, or I will set them on you like dogs. Just as I set them on Anneliese. Take the hand that I extend to you and live.”
“No.”
“I can hurt you more than you ever knew you could hurt.”
I bark a hoarse laugh. “Go on. Sic your horde on me. You can try to hurt me. But I already know what it means to hold pain deep inside, Bellflower. My daddy taught me just how much a soul can suffer.”
You should have never been born, you worthless chit.His last, whiskey-soaked words to me, the night before he found his death. The heat sears through me again. I narrow my eyes and focus all my will. My head throbs so strongly, I think it might crack open. There’s a loud crash behind the pulpit. The acrid scent of kerosene fills the air, followed by a sickening flare of yellow-orange light.
“Fire!”
TWENTY-FOUR
DEIRDRE
1881
Death was in Phoebe’s room. It hung heavy in the fetid, stinking air. The breeze from the open window did nothing to quell it. Deirdre blinked and pulled in a tight breath, covering her nose with her hand to block the stench.
Phoebe wasn’t moving. Her skin looked twice as yellow as it had that morning, and her eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and smudged with grayish purple. Esme knelt next to MissMunro, her ivory skirts pooling around her. “Phoebe, it’s me. Esme. Can you hear me?”
The dying girl let out a rasp of rancid air and turned her head slightly toward Esme. “Why ...”
As Deirdre watched the two girls, an uncomfortable suspicion needled her. Something about the way Esme spoke to Phoebe seemed much more intimate than she ever knew them to be.
Constance burst into the room, carrying a ewer of water. She shoved Deirdre to the side and the pitcher sloshed, splashing water onto the floor. “What’sshedoing in here?”
MissMunro stood and crossed the room, taking the ewer from Constance. “Never you mind, MissBrewster. Now go to the rectory and wake Father Sunderworth. Have him bring the Eucharist. It would bring MissDarrow much comfort to have him here.”
Constance scowled at Deirdre, her nostrils flaring, and turned on her heel. MissMunro shook her head with a weary sigh. She poured warm water in the basin, dipped a fresh cloth into it, and wrung it out, then handed it to Esme. “MissBuchanan, if you could relieve me for a few moments, I’d have a word with MissWerner in the hall.”
Deirdre’s stomach tumbled to her feet. She followed the headmistress out, her feet clumsy. MissMunro gestured to the settee at the end of the hallway, overlooking the school gardens. Deirdre reluctantly sat, pushing her sweaty palms across her lap, over and over. From downstairs, a cheerful polka floated up. The lively music was an ironic counterpoint to the deathly atmosphere of the room down the hall.
“Someone mentioned you might have had something to do with MissDarrow’s sickness.” MissMunro peered at Deirdre over her spectacles. “I’d hope not. But if so, you’ll need to confess it to me now. If she expires and the coroner comes, I won’t be able to protect you from an investigation. But, perhaps, if you might have done something accidentally ...”
Shouldshe confess what she had done? A cold sweat broke out along the nape of Deirdre’s neck and ran down her back. Just how much could MissMunro do to help her? Certainly, she had some level of influence with her money and standing, but would it be enough to keep Deirdre from the courtroom or the gallows?
Tell her nothing.
Deirdre jolted at the velvet deep whisper in her left ear. Her head jerked toward the open window. The wind had picked up, whipping thelinen curtains to the side and bringing the scent of confederate jasmine with it. She expected to see Gentry, but his shadowy form was not there.
“I ... I don’t know why Phoebe ... I mean to say, MissDarrow, has taken ill, ma’am. I wish I knew.”
MissMunro cleared her throat. “MissCaruthers told me the two of you had some sort of quarrel yesterday, in the stairwell. And MissBrewster mentioned a book in your room. A magic book, of some sort. With spells.”
Deirdre’s forehead pinched at this. “Constance shouldn’t have been snooping in our room. I only have a journal with a few family recipes. Nothing bad or evil.”
“Will you fetch it for me, so that I might have a look and put these rumors to rest?”
