“The world is a rot, Thomas,” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp beneath the singing of the hymns. “But you are mine. I will keep you pure for the harvest.”
By the time the first frost of 1885 had blackened the pumpkin vines, the McKenna farm had become a fortress of silence. The transition happened with the surgical precision of a woman who believed she was taking orders from the Almighty. It began with the withdrawal. The boys were pulled from the local schoolhouse; their invitations to barn-raisings were declined with polite, chilling finality.
Delilah began visiting Reverend Thompson with a frequency that bordered on the obsessive. She sat in his dim study, the scent of lavender and rot clinging to her skirts, and spoke of bloodlines.
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