“I’m sorry, Deirdre. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was only with Ingrid once. And then ... this.”
“How long have you known about the baby?”
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair. “She told me in May. Right after you left.”
“I hate you,” Deirdre spat. The tears came boiling out of her eyes, hot and fast. “If you only knew what I’ve given up for your sake.”
“I’m sorry. I meant everything I said in my letter. I did. We could still do everything we did before. Ingrid will never know. I don’t love her.” He took another step toward her. “You’re all I think about. Those sounds you make. Your body.” His hand brushed her waist and she flinched away.
Disgust rolled through Deirdre. “I wanted to be your wife, Robbie! I wanted to have your children. Now I can’t stomach the sight of you. The two of you deserve all the unhappiness that will surely befall you.” The words held all the gravity of a curse.
“Don’t you dare speak those words over me and my house, Deirdre Werner.”
“Are you afraid of me?” Deirdre barked a laugh.
“Maybe I am. A little. People talk. Say you brought on that flood and everything that followed.”
Deirdre lifted her chin. “I want my portrait back. I paid good money for that.”
Robbie reached into his trousers pocket and produced the cabinet card she’d sent him. “I keep it with me all the time. You sure looked pretty.”
Deirdre snatched the photograph, remembering how she and Esme had argued over Robbie’s loyalty on the day she left Charleston. Dearest, darling Esme. Steadfast and true. Deirdre swallowed back a sob.
“I’m real sorry about your ma,” Robbie said.
“So sorry you had to pull me over on the side of the road to have one last poke! All you think about is yourself. You always have. I hope Ingrid knows how faithless and feckless you are.”
“I didn’t mean it to be like that. I don’t know what came over me back there, on that bridge—didn’t even feel like I was there, just like I was watching.” Robbie reached for her again. “Ain’t there any way we can work through this, Deirdre?”
“No. And don’t come calling for my help when Ingrid’s time comes. Maja delivered every one of her babies on her own and so can Ingrid.”
Deirdre turned on her heel and walked away, her back straight and proud.
Once she was in the cool safety of the cedars down the mountain, she fell to her knees and sobbed out her hurt and grief. This was all Gentry’s doing. She’d fallen into his trap, into his web. It had been him, there on the bridge, taking hold of Robbie’s body so he might trick her and take what she’d promised with her own blood. She was sure of it. She saw his hand in everything now—how he’d used Phoebe to drive her and Esme apart. How he’d manipulated her to poison Phoebe so she might weaken to him. She was too foolish, too lovelorn and impulsive to see it before. Rage pummeled through her. She screamed, the torn edges of her voice shattering the silence and bouncing off the trees. High above her, a limb cracked, and then crashed to the ground.
TWENTY-NINE
GRACELYNN
1931
I wipe the sleep from my eyes and blink at the wan light coming through the tiny window above me. It ain’t yet dawn, but the moon is a waxing crescent, casting everything in the jail cell in an eerie gray pallor. I sit up, my head throbbing from hunger and dehydration.
If I’ve counted the days right, it’s the morning of my trial.
Yesterday afternoon, I overheard Sheriff Murphy talking in hushed tones to his deputies. They ain’t got permission from any prosecuting attorney to try me for any sort of crime. There’s been no hearing. No formal charges. It’s because they ain’t got proof, just circumstantial evidence. But they’re gonna do it anyway—in a kangaroo court of their own making, with Bellflower as magistrate.
Everything to this point has been set up by Bellflower. The deaths after his false healings. The fire. Harlan. All arranged to turn thetownsfolk against me. He wants to make me desperate, so I’ll cave to his will. Become his vessel—whatever that means.
I’m still pondering things as I rise and pace my cell like a cat in a cage, running my hand along the bars. I’ve tried and tested them all, focusing my will. I try again, clenching one of the bars until my palm stings and burns. Iron.
As dawn pinks through the window, I sit and stand, stretch and flex muscles that are so tight and dry they might snap. In the distance I can hear the steady rhythm of hammers. I wonder if they’re building a gallows for me. Or a pyre. Will there be a jeering crowd, calling for my death, like there was for Anneliese? Will the whole town turn out to see me hang or burn?
I palm Abby’s shank, rolling it back and forth in my fingers.
Sheriff Murphy’s keys rattle in the lock. As I hide the shank inside my brassiere, he comes in, dressed in a freshly pressed uniform. He’s carrying a tray of food, and my mouth waters at the smell.
“I brought you a proper breakfast, MissDoherty. You’ll need it for what’s to come.”
