It was very similar to the story Rose had told Callie just this afternoon.
“Well, that might be true,” acknowledged the archbishop. “The priests certainly wanted to rid the Celts of their Pagan practices. I do know that some of the original families who hired the mourners claim they still exist. The Church might have tried to erase or even absorb early beliefs, but they often persisted, or reemerged as something else. In this case, a portent; the banshee became something from the spirit world predicting death.”
“But they’ve never been considered human, have they?” Towner asked, repeating something Rafferty had said earlier.
“Not that I know of,” the archbishop said.
“I’ve heard them referred to as spirits who predict death,” Mink Woman said, making a moaning sound.
The baseball player followed with Twilight Zone music.
Towner glanced at Rafferty as if he might have something to add, but he said nothing.
“But surely, human or spirit, no one believes they’re killers,” Towner said.
“Do you think, inside, every one of us is a killer?” All eyes turned toward Callie as she spoke.
“What?” Towner asked.
Callie was unaware she had spoken the words aloud, and they shocked her. She had no idea where they came from or what they meant, but she could feel Rafferty’s eyes on her, staring. Great, now I’ve got the chief of police suspicious of me. “Nothing,” she said. “Sorry.”
It was almost midnight by the time they finished dinner. Finn herded everyone back to the library for port and cheese. Callie found herself at the rear of the group and stumbled at the threshold. “You’re tired,” Towner said. “I don’t think anyone would mind if you skipped the port.”
“I am tired,” Callie said, catching Towner’s subtext immediately.
“I assure you, I won’t be far behind,” Emily said, joining them. “It’s lovely having you in our home, Callie. We’ll meet in the morning.” She smiled. “Not too early, though. We girls need our beauty sleep.” She sounded sincere enough, but her expression and her words seemed at odds.
“I’m heading home,” Marta said.
“Do you need Paul to walk you through the woods?” Emily asked, just as her husband came back to round up stragglers.
“I can walk you,” Finn said.
“No one needs to walk me home.” Marta’s tone was clipped. “My car is still right outside.”
Callie excused herself, thanking everyone and saying good night. She was vaguely aware of the eyes on her as she started up the stairs. She tried to walk without holding the railing, but it was difficult. She hoped she hadn’t embarrassed herself too much during dinner. Towner had been right to give her an excuse to leave the group.
She made her way back to her room. It was warm and softly lit, her bedclothes were laid out, and a fluffy robe had been placed next to them. She wasn’t just tired. She was exhausted. And drunk. She undressed and put on her nightgown, thinking of how she had promised to meet Emily for their session the next morning. She hoped she wouldn’t have a hangover. As she was putting her dress in the closet, she knocked her jacket off the hanger, and something tumbled to the floor: the parchment envelope Ann had given her. “Put these herbs under your pillow each night to stop the evil spirits from invading your dreams.” Callie scoffed out loud.
Not bloody likely.
She glanced out the window in time to see Paul’s car pull out, and she watched as he went down the driveway, stopping just momentarily before turning left toward Salem. Off to see Ann Chase, she assumed.
She sat on the bed and exhaled, reclining onto the pillows and staring at the packet. The room was warm. She shook the herbs and then brought the envelope to her nose and sniffed it. It smelled like hemp. How appropriate. And something else. Anise. It wouldn’t help her sleep. Nothing ever did.
At least meditation would relax her. She sat on the bed and leaned back against the pillows, letting herself sink into a trance. It was something she did every morning and again every night. But tonight it wasn’t working. The smell of the herbs was too strong.
Callie tossed the envelope into the fireplace and watched it begin to burn, gasping when it suddenly exploded into flames. A bolt of pure light shot across the room, barely missing her as it grazed the couch across from her bed without leaving a mark. It extinguished itself as quickly as it had flared, putting out the fire as well, leaving the room in total darkness. The sound of the wind screaming down the chimney sounded like Rose’s banshee. In the distance, Callie swore she could hear the bells from St. James’s Church ringing…
No one had come back for her. All night long, she had done as Rose had told her to do. She did not open her eyes, and she didn’t come out of her hiding place. Her fingers were clenched around the rosary, hurting her palm, making it bleed and sting. But now she felt the late fall sun warm through the leaves of the hedge, and she could hear the church bells ringing, carried on the wind. Slowly, she pushed through the bushes and made her way downward through the tangle of trees, following the gravel path until she came to the crevasse.
At first, she believed they were alive. The movement of the trees, as the wind played their branches, created a hypnotic rhythm, and, for a moment, their stilled bodies seemed to dance, the blood from their wounds pulsing with the rhythm of her own heart. The scent of impending weather was on the east wind. The music of the spheres played a mournful requiem through the tangled branches, and, finally, it was the music that made her understand what she was seeing.
It was her mother and the goddesses. And all who had come before. Salem’s accused and executed. This was a blood grave.
Those hanged never admitted to witchcraft. Those who confessed were spared.
—ROSE WHELAN, The Witches of Salem
The gift certificate Towner had created was propped up on the glass table of the orangerie where Callie had agreed to meet Emily this morning. It was a room of glass, full of light and ocean breeze. Potted citrus trees lined south-facing windows, their scents perfuming the ocean air. “I’m sorry my son is being so rude this morning.”
“How so?” Callie asked. She was exhausted from her nightmares; still, she noticed how yellow Emily’s skin looked in the morning light.
“He appears to have spent last night in Salem.” Emily glanced out the window at the expanse of unseasonably green lawn, and Callie followed her gaze. “He’s not a very good host, I’m afraid. He invited you; he should be entertaining you.”