Amen.”
As I repeat the prayer again, sheer terror floods through me. Invisible hands yank Beckett to his feet, his shirt collar knotted. His head snaps back, as if he’s been punched. He tries to fight, just as I did, wrestling against Weston’s evil grasp as my voice rises in crescendo, the last words of the prayer a shout. And then, abruptly, it’s over. The room falls silent again, the birdsong resumes, and Beckett limps to his feet, wiping a thread of blood from his lip.
I fly to him, checking him over frantically, running my hands up his chest.
“I’m fine, Sadie. I’m fine,” he reassures. But I see the haunted look in his eyes, the fear. I think of the pouch of asafetida and cemetery dirt the granny woman gave me, sitting on my nightstand. It’s nearly empty. I sprinkled my threshold, Marguerite’s, the entry leading to the attic stairs, as well as the library threshold, but I didn’t use it at the door to Beckett’s room. I hadn’t thought to. Now I see my mistake. I won’t be so careless again.
Beckett and Marguerite wait in the car as I approach the granny woman’s cabin, its low-slung roof loamy with moss. The same redheaded woman who was outside the tent at the festival sits on the porch swing, smoking a cigarette and rocking back and forth, heel to toe. She looks up as I draw near, grinning. “Back already, huh? Mama’s inside. She’ll fix you up.”
The air inside the cabin is stolid and earthy, the rafters hung with drying herbs. The granny woman comes out of a curtained alcove, hersilver hair glowing in the dim. “Oh, it’s you,” she greets me, squinting. “I figured I’d be seeing you again. He still botherin’ you?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. He didn’t harmme, because of this.” I pull the medal from beneath my shirt collar. “But he attacked my beau. I need more of that powder you gave me, please.”
“Of course. Wait here, child. I’ve something else for you, too. You’ve been on my mind lately.”
She turns back to the alcove, rummages around behind the curtain as I listen to the clink of glass bottles. She emerges with a knotted burlap sack. “Your warding powder is inside. I also put everything in there that you’ll need to build an altar.”
“An altar?”
“Yes. A wall of protection for your home. Set it up tonight. Keep those candles burning and he shouldn’t bother you or anyone else in the house.”
While the thought of lit candles around Marguerite terrifies me, I nod politely and thank her all the same.
“Now, take this work seriously, girl, because it’s serious work,” she admonishes as I leave. “You know where I am if you need me again.”
“Thank you, Miss Deirdre,” I say, smiling at her from the porch.
She leans forward to look out the door. “That man in the car? He’s your beau?”
“Yes.”
She chuckles warmly. “He’ll be your husband, soon enough. Mark my words. He has the glow of love on him.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” I say, blushing. “Not at all.” I press three dollars into her hand, and wave at the redheaded woman, who merely stares at me as I depart.
Beckett looks at me quizzically when I slide into the front seat, tucking the satchel between us. “What is that? Smells like rotten eggs.”
“It’s asafetida powder. And it works. Just trust me.”
He grins. “If you say so.”
I glance back at Marguerite, dozing in the back seat, her head lolling to the side as Beckett backs down the steep drive and turns onto the narrow mountain road. It’s a crisp fall day, still warm enough to leave the top down on the Duesenberg, but with the promise of winter in the wind.
That night, after I’ve tucked Marguerite safely in bed, I clear a space on the dresser in my new room and pour out the contents of the satchel. There are two white candles, a black one, a prayer card with the image of Saint Michael slaying a fanged serpent, coarse salt, and a large pouch of asafetida and cemetery dirt. A handwritten note is tied to the bag, with directions for setting up the altar.
I carve my name and Beckett’s on the white pillar candle, as instructed, with Marguerite’s and Harriet’s names beneath, as Harriet is due to return to work tomorrow. I place it in the center of a mirrored tray atop the dresser. To the left of the candle, I prop the prayer card against the mirror on the wall. Saint Michael. Our protector. Outside the circle, facing me, I place the black candle, representing Weston. The enemy.
I carefully pour a ring of salt around the white candle, then light the black candle. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle before the warding words leave my lips. “Weston. I know you’re there. I sense you. From this day forward, you may harm me no more, nor anyone I love. Do as you will but leave me be.”
Next, I move to the white candle and light it, the flame flaring in the darkness. “I am my own, as are those that I love. No harm may befall us. We are protected. No evil can enter this home.”
I then repeat the prayer to Saint Michael, closing and binding the spell with his protection before making the sign of the cross. A weight seems to lift from the room as I finish, a brightening of the shadows as the candle flames flicker gently, magnified by the mirrors beneath and behind.
A few moments later, Beckett knocks on the door adjoining mine. I turn from the altar as he enters the room. A faint bruise stains the skinbeneath his right eye—undeniable proof of Weston’s attack. “You were serious,” he says, smiling. “It looks like a church in here.”
“It works. I can feel it. I can’t explain how.”
“I don’t know if I believe in magic, but I suppose anything is possible.” Beckett brushes a hand over his injured jaw and closes the distance between us. He wraps his arms around my waist, pressing his forehead to mine. “Sadie, I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m sorry for all of it.”
