25

The Sixth Charm: The Devil’s Sign

OCTOBER 1940. The devil takes many forms.

Jorry carries a birthmark. He is the first of the academy students the Lady charms because there, under his left ear and just above his shirt collar, is a patch of red in the shape of a hand. A hand that holds up two fingers in the shape of horns, two fingers meant to ward off evil.

But Eleanor knows it can also be the devil’s sign.

Eleanor finds him outside, exercising, alone in the sleeting rain, the peculiar boy. He needs her, doesn’t he? Needs to be rescued from parents who would demand such behavior. Needs to be rescued from the curse of his birthmark. She stands in the shadows. She doesn’t know that Katherine watches from the window above, but the Lady is hidden nonetheless.

“You poor thing,” she says, touching his arm with her fine, delicate mechanical hand, hugging the black greatcoat with the other. The wind whips it around her ankles. “I hope you carry a token.”

He stops moving. “Huh?”

“You must know, since you have the mark, that you also have need of protection.”

He’s puzzled. “Protection? From what?”

“Why, from evil,” she says, feigning astonishment.

“What? Nonsense.” He rubs his hand over his short wet hair.

“No one has ever told you? My, my.” She pulls the hood of the greatcoat tighter about her face as she leans close to him, the rain a curtain between. “’Tis an old Celtic wisdom, that those with birthmarks are especially vulnerable to the ministrations of”—she lowers her voice to a whisper—“the devil.”

Now Jorry touches his neck. Holds his hand over his birthmark. “I never heard the like.” He snorts with derision, though his eyes betray uncertainty. “And there are no devils.”

“Perhaps your parents were sparing your feelings.” She leans so close now. “I can help. I have just the thing to ward away evil.” He narrows his eyes now, and she shifts direction. “Of course, there really are no devils, as you say. A boy as wise as you are knows that. Why, look how clever you are, exercising despite the weather.”

He preens, the rain in rivulets running over his face.

“And as clever as you are, you’ll see that this charm I offer is pure silver. Quite old and valuable. I would give it to you because,” she pauses, “you are the cleverest of all.” She places the charm in his palm. “They’ll know how clever you are when they see this about your neck. They’ll know I favor you.”

His smile becomes a sneer. “Silver, hey? A favor? I should wear it then. Thank you, my Lady.”

“My deepest pleasure.” The wind slaps her greatcoat against her shins as she turns away whispering the words, the foolish boy following, the chatelaine weighing against her hip.

He is the cleverest! Jorry lifts the charm in the rain as he walks. The devil horns. Huh. Whatever foolishness she says about devils and evil, he only cares that the charm is made of silver and is a favor for his cleverness. Besides, if she’s right—though she couldn’t be, but at any rate—then he’s protected. He slips the chain around his neck.

He hears words but he can’t make them out. They seem to come from the ground beneath his feet, rolling up from the ground like thunder, terrible, ugly, piercing. He tries to lift his feet, tries to dance away.

The agony that comes next rips deep, deep, tears something inside him, a knife-thrust to the gut, but he can’t get the chain off, can’t stop it, can’t . . .

Your soul will sleep within its keep. It is your bane, this chatelaine.