Page 12 of The Women of Wild Hill
Brigid didn’t move. She’d gone so pale that a map of blue veins had appeared beneath her skin. “I know how Bessie died,” she said to her mother. “She was hanged.”
“You two go ahead,” Flora told the others. “I need to have a moment with Brigid.”
FLORA TOOK HER ELDER DAUGHTERby the hand and led her into the living room. There, she sat on the sofa and pulled the child onto her lap. Brigid buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, and they stayed like that until the girl was ready to speak.
“Did you watch Bessie die?” Flora asked softly when Brigid finally pulled back and wiped her eyes.
“No,” Brigid told her. “When people are already dead, I can’t see how they died. I just saw the red mark around Bessie’s neck.”
That, at least, offered a little relief. They were all still learning the limits of Brigid’s gift. Unbeknownst to her family, she’d suffered terrible visions for years. Until recently, she hadn’t been sure what they meant. Then, one morning during breakfast, Brigid had a vision of her fourth-grade teacher collapsing on the playground. As usual, she kept it to herself. But when she arrived at school, she begged Mrs. Lopez to stay inside at recess. Her warning was ignored, and fifteen minutes later, Brigid stood by helplessly as the teacher died of a heart attack in front of her class.
Flora arrived to pick Brigid up and was told that many of the other children were in shock as well. They recovered. Brigid didn’t speak for three days. She stayed in bed, her face so pale it blended in with the sheets, as she stared up at the ceiling with unblinking blue eyes. Her little sister spent most of those days beside her, whispering secrets in Brigid’s ear and calling her back from the realm of the dead.
As soon as Brigid began to talk again, she told her mother she’d discovered her gift. Flora had kept her composure until bedtime. Then she’d cried herself to sleep, thinking of all the horrible things her daughter would witness.
“That’s what happens to women like us, isn’t it?” Brigid asked her mother now. “They hang us like Bessie?”
“Not anymore,” Flora assured her.
“Are you sure?” Brigid asked. “We’re not in danger?”
“Yes,” Flora lied. Some terrible truths could wait until her daughter was older. “I’m positive.”
WHEN THEY JOINED THE OTHERSin the dining room, they found Ivy at the head of the table. She’d changed out of her robe and into garden overalls and a crisp button-down shirt. Phoebe, wearing a bright yellow sundress, sat on their aunt’s right-hand side. Flora floated down next to Phoebe, adjusting her pink kimono as she sat. Brigid pulled out a chair across from her sister. In her black shirt and shorts, she felt out of place at the table, like a mushroom tucked into a bouquet of flowers.
The weather, at least, was a match for her mood. The menacing gray clouds outside pressed against the dining room windows. The rain intensified, and the winds picked up speed. They rattled the windows and whistled strange tunes down through the chimneys. In the woods nearby, sharp cracks rang out as powerful gusts snapped thick branches. The electricity failed as they began to eat, but the four of them barely noticed. Aunt Ivy lit a candle and the flames flickered as drafts danced around them.
“We forgot to tell you. We can smell storms now,” Phoebe informed Aunt Ivy.
“Is that right?” Ivy was pleased.
“Can’t everyone?” Brigid muttered.
“Most people can do lots of things they never bother to do,” Ivy said to humor her. “The trick is figuring out what your gifts are and how to make use of them. That’s what I’m here to help you both do.”
“Will we have lots of gifts?” Phoebe had discovered she couldheal small creatures using energy that radiated from her hands. That gift brought her great pleasure. It was a shame that her sister hadn’t been quite so lucky when the Old One was passing out powers.
“Certainly. And the ones you have will get much stronger. When my mother was your age, she could smell storms, too. After she moved to Wild Hill, she learned how to conjure them.”
“Why would anyone want to conjure a storm?” Brigid grumbled.
Ivy set down her fork, which meant a lesson would follow. “The women who came before us could all do marvelous things,” she said. “We’ll soon find out what else they passed down to you. There are many wonderful gifts in our bloodline. My mother always claimed that one of our distant ancestors used to talk to the monster that lives in Loch Ness.”
Phoebe giggled.
“I don’t want any more gifts,” Brigid announced.
Brigid was usually blunt, but the force of her sister’s words took Phoebe by surprise. “You don’t?” she asked.
“What good is the one I already have?” Brigid demanded.
“Sweetheart...” Flora sounded pained.
“She doesn’t need to be coddled,” Aunt Ivy chided Flora before she turned back to Brigid. “What good is your gift?” she repeated incredulously. “My dear, you have one of the most important gifts ever bestowed upon our family. And you can’t imagine how to make use of it?”
Brigid fought tears as she thought about Mrs. Lopez and the little boy at the beach. “I know when people are going to die, but I can’t do anything to save them,” she said. “It’s an awful gift, and I wish I didn’t have it.”
Ivy reached over and took her great-grandniece’s hand. “There is no darkness without light. And no light without darkness. You can see when someone is going to die. That means you also see when someone will not. You’ll always know when your life or yoursister’s is not at risk. You will be able to do things that others won’t dare. Do you understand the significance of this?”
