The Stolen One by Suzanne Crowley Read Free Book Online Page B

the other side. You’ll be safe.”
    I started for the door. “Kat,” she called after me. I turned back. “Don’t let them.”
    “Do what, Grace?”
    “Don’t let them take my hands.”

CHAPTER 7
    A s I ran from the cottage, the sun was rising, setting a defiant amber glint across the dew on the downs. A sob escaped my throat as Christian emerged from the woods, shovel in hand. I could see the telltale clods of dirt and mud stuck to it—gravedigger’s gold, it’s called around here. Anna followed quickly behind him. I ran and threw my arms around her. I leaned back and tenderly put my hands on her cheeks. “Anna. Grace is fading fast. Go to her.” She pushed my hands away and burst into tears before running toward the cottage.
    “Grace is worried for her soul, but doesn’t want Father Bigg,” I said to Christian. “She wants me to fetch your father.” Christian stared at me, his shoulders set square and firm.
    “Do you want me to get him?” he asked.
    I nodded. “Christian,” I said. “It’s terrible. All of it.”
    He reached for my cheek, his hand warm. “What happened? Was it the child who brought the sickness?”
    “No, not a child.” I shook my head. “She was a fool, a little person. She was already deathly ill when we found her.”
    “Why? Why Blackchurch Cottage?”
    I looked him clear in the eyes and, not quite sure why, I lied. “I don’t know. She was mad with the sickness. We could hardly understand a word she uttered.”
    “And Grace couldn’t save her?” he asked, looking over my shoulder toward the cottage.
    “No,” I said. But I was still not sure myself. “Grace says she was too far gone. And now Grace is dying too. Oh God, Christian. What will we do?”
    He pulled me close and held me. “I’ll take care of you, Kat.” His voice was low.
    I melted into the warmth of him and whispered into his chest, “You must go for your father, Christian. It may be too late already.” He kissed my forehead before running down the lane that led to Nutmeg Farm.
     
    As a child, I once accompanied Grace while she birthed a babe in the middle of the night. It was Farmer Beachum’s wife, Lyddie, birthing her last child, another dreadeddaughter. I well remember the cries of the mother, animal-like shrieks of terror as Grace desperately tried to pull the turned child from the womb. The mother died not long after. Grace had sobbed as she held the babe in her arms. It was the only mother she’d ever lost, she told me, and she vowed to never midwife again.
    But Grace had not told me of my own mother, who died after giving birth to me. Did Grace raise me out of guilt for not saving my mother? Did she let her die, as she did Jane the fool? Did she steal me from my loved ones? No one wanted you —she’d said it often enough. But perhaps everything had been a lie all these years. Perhaps she was truly the witch everyone talked about endlessly in the village. The witch with the dirty hands.
    Later in the deep, dark morning, for a storm threatened, I stood in the bedroom doorway watching Uncle Godfrey, Christian, and Anna surrounding the bed, weeping with grief. Uncle Godfrey was on his knees, grasping Grace’s limp hands. Christian had his arm around Anna. And for a brief moment I thought my heart might rend in two.
    But I turned from them and walked out of the cottage into the gloom. I could not share in their grief. If she had truly loved me, she would have told me the truth.

CHAPTER 8
    W e buried Grace Bab the very next morning in the churchyard next to Agnes. It was imperative we do so, for her body deteriorated quickly, as though she were anxious to join the earth. It was Anna who laid her out, tenderly wrapping her in the fresh white linen I’d purchased from one of the weavers in the village—we burned every remaining scrap that Grace had not burned the night before. I shall never forget it as long as I live, Grace’s contorted face. Where is she now? Poor Grace, will you haunt