eyes had forgotten how to speak to each other. “Hello, little bird.
You fell out of your nest.”
“I’m sorry,” Cora whispered. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“You don’t need me for that, do you?” The witch’s grin wid-
ened to reveal teeth that looked impossibly old and yellowed in her
unlined face. “People are very good at hurting themselves. I never
have to do a thing.” She held up her fingers, which were dark with
something.
Blood.
Screaming, Cora scrambled back along the sofa, falling heav-
ily to the floor and knocking over a stack of books in an avalanche
of dust and paper. As she lunged up and ran for the door, the
witch’s voice came soft but inescapable behind her.
“No need to fear death, my dear. It’s already at your door. Bet-
ter to be caught than to run forever.”
Cora’s sweat-slick hands fumbled, finally turning the door-
knob. She fled into the sunshine, the cold sorrow of the witch’s
voice clinging to her shoulders. Minnie, a knife clutched in her
hand, was already halfway up the walk.
“Go!” Cora yelled, and, arms wrapped around each other, they
stumbled back home, breathless and weeping with terror.
The next morning their father was dead.
Maine
End of Summer, 1900
two
T
HE CASE IN ARTHUR'S HAND HELD ALL THE EVIL IN THE
WORLD. He could almost feel darkness and death swirling
off it.
Walking from the train station to the Johnson Boarding