“Give me your hand.”
I reach out hesitantly and take her extended hand. Her touch is soft and warm. Comforting. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply. A few moments later, she lets go of my hand. “I wish I had better news for you.”
Dread builds to a low hum, at one with the constant ringing in my right ear. I’ve never met this woman a day before in my life, but I have the feeling she knows everything aboutmewith a single touch. “Go on. Tell me.”
“The women in your family are under a curse. A spiritual attachment that goes back for generations.” She closes her eyes, opens them again, a look of distant, personal pain on her face. “This entity lingers because of something that happened down your family line. A mistake someone made in the past. This spirit wants vengeance. The only way you’ll ever be free of him is by discovering the root of the curse. You must confront the wrongs of the past and make atonement—or the one who wronged him must, if they’re still alive.” She presses her lips together. “Have you had an easy life, honey?”
I think of my long line of losses, all the heartaches and hardships stacking one atop another like masonry and brick. “No. I haven’t.”
“Just as I thought.” Her eyes slide from my face to my hands, which she takes in her own, gently squeezing them. “Find a way to break the attachment and give this spirit the peace he seeks, and you’ll be free, along with all the generations that come after you. You’ll find your answers in the past.” She stands. “Those things I gave you will helpprotect you in the meantime. If you need more of that powder, or anything else, you can find me up the road in Tin Mountain. Deirdre Werner.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Werner. What do I owe you?”
She waves me off. “It’s ‘miss,’ and you don’t owe me a thing. I never charge for what I do. I’m called to help others. But if you want, you can leave whatever feels right to you with Val out front.”
I emerge into the night, blinking, and offer the redheaded woman a silver dollar. Her eyes light up. She snatches it from me and deposits it in the bucket at her side. “Thank you kindly. Mama help you?”
“I think so.”
“Good. You come back anytime, ma’am, you hear me?”
I walk back to the hotel, stunned by the granny woman’s words. Her uncanny knowledge. I’ve heard of demonic possession—something the esoteric side of my church recognizes, but seldom speaks about openly. But she used a different word: “oppression.” And that’s what it feels like. A heavy burden, following me at every turn. With some surprise, I realize the heaviness has always been there—a constant presence in my life. The thought of Weston weighs on me with visceral fear and dread. I got “on his bad side” when I chose Beckett, and he’d nearly made me pay with my life. While he seems to be tied to his cursed portrait, with me gone, he’ll surely turn his anger elsewhere—onto the people I care about. Harriet. Marguerite. Beckett. Or some other poor, unwitting girl in the future. Someone like Sybil.
After hastily repacking my suitcase, I check out of the hotel and ask the desk clerk to call for a cab. The granny woman said that the answers to the curse could be found in the past. And I know just where to find them.
Harriet opens the front door at my knock. She rolls her eyes heavenward. “Oh Lord. You’re back.”
I set my suitcase on the floor and take off my hat, hanging it on the coatrack by the door. “I am. And I’m staying. I can’t desert Marguerite. It’s not right.” I take in Harriet’s tiredness, which she wears beneath her eyes and in her slow, sluggish movements. “Besides, Harriet, you’re worn to a frazzle. You can’t do this alone. Your family needs you, too.”
“Doc Gallagher’s nurse has been helping some.” She shakes her head. “Beckett won’t be happy about you being here, though.”
“I know. But he and I have been at odds before. Nothing I’m not prepared for. Where’s Aunt Marg?”
“In the library. Working. It’s all she wants to do these days. I can barely get her to stop long enough to eat. But she’s been feeling better lately. More lucid. Folks often rally toward the end. Can I get you some tea?”
“Absolutely not. Go lie down. Get some rest. And then I want you to go home. Take a few days off, with pay. I can manage. I just want to carry on and do what needs to be done.” Apart from my troubles with Weston, I still need to find Marguerite’s will. In the hospital, I was afraid Felix would swoop in and do his best to gain control of the estate. There are matters both corporeal and spiritual that need my attention, and I don’t intend to waste any more time.
I put my suitcase in the room across from Marguerite’s, where Pauline slept, then try the adjoining door to Beckett’s room. It’s unlocked. The large, four-poster bed is made, corners tucked neatly, a pair of worn, slouching boots sitting on the floor in front of his nightstand. I rest my hand on his pillow, where the slight indentation of his head is still visible. An earthy sweetness permeates the room. Clover, dried leaves, and sunshine. His smell. I hope, with everything in me, that he’ll understand why I’ve come back. That we can resume our affection and he’ll accept my love. Because I know that’s what this is, now. Love. Something worth fighting for.
Marguerite is painting when I enter the library. The portrait of Hugh is finished. It sits on an easel by the window, its vibrant autumn colors blending with the changing leaves outside. After witnessing theirtryst by the creek, and the promise Hugh made to Marguerite, my grandmother’s betrayal bears more weight. Why did she work so hard to drive Hugh and Marguerite apart, when she well knew the pain of hiding her own forbidden love?
Marguerite is working on the image of the young girl again, humming softly to herself. I approach her quietly, clearing my throat to get her attention.
She turns, her green eyes widening. She looks a decade younger, the wrinkles on her face diminished, a youthful glow blooming on her cheeks. “Sadie! You’re back. I’ve been so worried about you.”
“I’m just fine. Only had a little headache. That’s all. You’re looking well, Aunt Marg. Did you get some of that Tanlac Tonic from the ads?”
She chuckles. “No. But I’ve been sleeping better.”
“Who’s this?” I ask, motioning to her canvas. “She looks familiar.”
“Oh, that’s because she’s me, darling.”
I lean closer, admiring her work. “I can see that now. How old were you here?”
“Thirteen. I started this one a few years ago as a practice study. Now that all the others are done, I want to finish it before the autumn light fades away.” She looks out the window. “The days are getting shorter. The sun already so low.”
“Winter will be here before we know it.”
