was becoming difficult enough to breathe, let alone speak.
“Please,” she croaked out, begging.
There was nothing but evil in the depths of Barnaby’s black eyes and a terror Miranda had never experienced before filled her being. This was the end and it was all her fault.
As searing pain spread up her arm, Miranda dropped her head, the tears flowing down her cheeks as she tried to keep the screams of pain inside. Uncle Jonathan was no help and Epworth was only going to be more seriously injured if he kept trying to help her when it was useless.
In the distance squawking of birds drew closer, seagulls she assumed, and they’d be the last pleasant sound she’d ever hear. A familiar echo of home.
Except, the birds weren’t in the distance but were coming closer and closer and she glanced up when Barnaby let out a roar as he swatted at the yellow birds that circled and pecked at his burned flesh.
As he let go of her wrist to fight off the birds, Miranda scrambled back, nearly tripping on her skirts, but Epworth was there in an instant, scooping her up in his arms and backing away from the menacing ghost.
What seemed like from out of nowhere, Sacha, a local witch appeared, holding a bucket. The two yellow birds then transformed into the twin witches, Rowena and Gretchen and the three began chanting, a language Miranda didn’t understand, as they circled Barnaby. He roared but could not break from their circle. Then Sacha lifted the bucket and tossed water onto Barnaby.
The ghost cried out as heavy smoke, similar to what happens when water is tossed on hot embers, rose and surrounded him. When it cleared, Barnaby was gone and where he once stood was only ash.
Relief flowed through Miranda as she once again became aware of the searing pain enveloping her wrist and the rest of her grew cold, shaking and suddenly weak. As darkness invaded her vision, Miranda’s last thought was that if Epworth wasn’t holding her that she’d surely faint.
Miranda went limp and heavy in his arms. Not that her slight form was a burden, but it was the weight of someone who was no longer conscious—or dead, and Wesley glanced down in panic. Her skin was deathly pale, and there was a blue tinge about her lips. Worse, her wrist looked as if it had been held over a flame.
“We need a doctor!” he yelled.
“Take her to Madam Boswell,” one of the three strange women said.
Madam Boswell was the fortune-telling Gypsy. “She needs a doctor.”
“She can help,” the raven-haired woman insisted.
“She waits for you,” another said. “Hurry.”
Though none of this made any sense, now was not the time to question, and Wesley ran to the gypsy camp all the while carrying Miranda in his arms, holding her close and willing her to live.
As he crossed the field, an old, hunched woman exited a red vardo, her arms laden with jars and pointed to a pallet beside the fire.
Wesley placed Miranda upon the blanket and put a pillow beneath her head as the old woman knelt and took Miranda’s wrist, tisked and frowned, then dipped her fingers into a jar of creamy golden lotion and began rubbing the burn.
Wesley knelt on the other side of Miranda, holding her uninjured hand and mentally berating himself for not believing her. She’d been afraid to step on Keyvnor land and he’d dismissed that fear, nor had he believed her story about Barnaby. Then there were the birds…“Where did they come from?” he asked.
“Who?” the old woman countered.
“The three women and the man.” Or was he a man? Barnaby had reached right through him as if…he were a ghost. Wesley’s face grew cold as if all the blood had exited his features.
“Witches.”
Wesley hadn’t believed in witches before either. He believed there were people who thought they were witches, but he’d not believed that there were actual witches who possessed magic and could do spells.
“Where did they come from?” he asked. “Nobody else was on the road. And how did they know to bring a bucket of water?”
“I’ll explain all after I’ve treated Miranda,” the old woman answered.
Miranda was the most important right now, but Wesley’s mind was reeling with questions. He expected the gypsy to bandage Miranda’s wrist after she’d applied the cream, but she didn’t and kept rubbing more into the burn. His eyes widened and he leaned forward for a closer look. The more the old gypsy rubbed the arm, the more the