Page 33 of The Women of Wild Hill
“Yes, I would. Open the gates.”
Rose obliged. And as soon as his car was through, she locked the gates behind him. He drove right past them, and the girls walked back to the cottage. By the time they arrived, he’d let himself in and was fixing to pour himself a whiskey from one of the crystal decanters in the living room.
“Sadie keeps the good Scotch in her room,” Ivy told him. “Shall I get it for you?”
He slammed the decanter back down on the table. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he demanded.
Ivy brought down the bottle she’d been keeping for just this occasion. She even poured her uncle a drink.
“Is there anything we might be able to help you with?” Rose asked.
“Not unless you know how she did it,” Charles sneered.
“Our mother has done a great many things. Which specific thing would you like to know about?” Ivy asked.
Charles drained his Scotch and Ivy immediately poured him a second. “How she stole my servant.”
“Oh,” Ivy replied matter-of-factly, as though she’d been waiting all along for the subject to be broached. “Our mother had nothing to do with that. We were responsible. I provided Molly with a potent abortifacient. Then my sister and I gave her enough money to escape from your clutches. If we could have put you in jail for your disgusting and depraved deeds, we certainly would have. Unfortunately, the laws of this country don’t work in our favor.”
“You?” Charles slammed his empty tumbler down on the mantel, and Rose jumped. Ivy calmly took her hand and pulled her two steps backward.
“That should be far enough,” Ivy told Rose.
“Are you certain?” Rose asked, though she didn’t seem terribly worried. Charles had frozen with a quizzical look on his reddening face.
“Oh yes,” Ivy assured her.
Then, hand in hand, they waited and watched.
Charles staggered forward two steps before he collapsed face down on the Turkish carpet.
Rose clapped her hands with glee. “Right as always!” she congratulated her sister.
“Cyanide,” Ivy said. “Fast but easy to detect. We’ll have to bury the body somewhere it won’t be found.”
Rose frowned. “Mother will murder us if we pollute Wild Hill with Charles’s body.”
“That’s why I took the liberty of preparing a hole in the basement,” Ivy told her.
Rose
One morning when they were twelve years old, Rose and Ivy were playing by the estate’s front gate when a pair of teenage girls in matching pinafores passed by on their way to school. Ivy ducked out of sight, leaving Rose on her own. That annoyed Rose, who didn’t want to speak with them. Their auras were murky and green as pea soup.
“Hello there,” one of the girls said to Rose. “You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you,” she managed to muster. Everyone said she was pretty. She was tired to death of it. The things they said about Ivy were far more interesting. They called her whip-smart, tempestuous, impish, and unkempt. All Rose ever got waspretty.
“Are you one of the Duncan sisters?” the other girl asked sweetly.
“Yes,” Rose confirmed. She knew she shouldn’t trust them. She could see straight into their mean little hearts. And yet she couldn’t resist taking the bait.
“They say your mother is a witch. Is it true?”
“Who says that?” Rose demanded, a jolt of panic instantly straightening her spine. Ivy had recently read a book about Anne Boleyn, who’d been executed for witchcraft. Ivy had described in great detail what Anne’s head must have looked like in the moments after it was lopped off. No one could paint a picture with words the way Ivy could.
“Everyone says Sadie’s a witch,” the girl informed Rose. “Even the pastor. Is it true?”
“Of course not!” Rose insisted. “She’s the best mother in the world!”
