Page 41

October 10, 1925

Early the next morning, I rise without disturbing Marguerite, and cross the hall. I knock lightly on Beckett’s door. There’s a muted rustling from within, as if he’s dressing. “Come in,” he says gruffly.

I ease into the room. Birdsong ripples from the window, open a crack to let in the cool air. I linger there awkwardly, fingers laced together, still unsure of where we stand with one another and incredibly conscious of the fact that I need to figure out my place in his life before we help Marguerite settle her affairs.

“What happened last night?” he asks. “I’ve never seen Marguerite in such a state.”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about.” I perch on the chair by the window. “I found her will yesterday, in the attic. She ... wanted to leave everything to my mother. I had to tell her she died. She didn’t take the news well.” I cross my legs at the knee. “Didn’t anyone phone or write to tell her?”

“If they did, I never heard about it.”

“I’m not surprised. Aunt Grace was probably afraid to upset her.” I clear my throat. “But it’s important because my mother’s death leaves the will open to contest unless Marguerite has it revised. My brother already has designs. So does Louise.”

Beckett comes to the window and looks out, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. I cover it with my own, relief coursing through me at this show of tenderness. “We’ll call Peter Bruce on Monday,” he says. “Her attorney. Have him come here. If she wanted this house to go to your mother, then it should rightfully go to you.”

“Yes, but Marguerite needs to have the final say. Her feelings might have changed. She might want to leave it to you instead. You’ve been like a son to her.”

“Maybe. But no matter what, Sadie, this is your home.”

“And yours,” I say, squeezing his hand.

He looks at me then, with a softness in his eyes I’ve not seen in some time. Hope blossoms in my chest. I reach up, touch his cheek. He leans into my hand, his lips brushing the inside of my wrist.

I stand to face him, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears. He hesitates for the sparest moment, then pulls me to him, kisses me, his lips testing mine. Our kiss deepens, becomes hungry and needful as his fingers work loose the buttons on my dress. When the cold breeze from the window touches my skin and his hands warm my breasts, I gasp, delight fracturing my reserve. He backs me toward the bed, and I kick free of the rest of my clothing as he kneels on the floor and slowly traces the inside of my thigh with his tongue, looping my leg over his shoulder.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoes through the room. My eyes fly open. The mirror above the dresser lies shattered on the floor. Beckett lifts his head. “What the—”

Something sends him toppling sideways, with a cry of surprise. I scramble to cover myself with my discarded dress and clutch the Saint Michael medal, speaking the prayer aloud into the room:

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.

Be our defense against the

wickedness and snares of the Devil.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,

and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts,

by the power of God,

thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits,

who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.

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, her silver 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 harm me , 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 skin beneath 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.”

“Hush. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Now that it’s safe,” I whisper, leading him to my bed, “let’s finish what we started this morning.”

Afterward, we lie together, limbs entwined beneath the sheets. I nestle against Beckett’s chest, breathing in his salty skin, pleasure drunk and happy. The candles dance and play hypnotic shadows on the wall. “I want to spend every night in your arms from now on,” I say. “No more of this false propriety or keeping separate rooms.”

He laughs softly. “Harriet will tease us about living in sin.”

“Oh, I think Harriet already knows what we’ve been doing.”

“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about this morning. About this house, and Marguerite’s will.” Beckett grows quiet, contemplative. His hand circles low on my back, tracing the divots in my hips. “I’d like to marry you, Sadie. Make this right. If you’ll have me. That way, no matter what Marguerite decides, this’ll always be your home. You won’t have to worry about anyone taking it from you.”

“Marry you?” My heart leaps. I duck my head beneath his chin. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Oh, Beck. You’ve just made me the happiest girl on earth.”

We make love again, slower this time, indulging in one another. As I watch him drift off to sleep, my mind whirs with wakefulness, with his promise, with the earnest simplicity of his proposal. I don’t need a flashy diamond or a big church wedding to prove to the world that someone loves me. I need only Beckett and thousands of perfect, peaceful moments just like this.