Page 2 of Of Faith and Fangs

“And never once fallen ill yourself,” Mr. Brown added, a note of awe in his voice. “Everyone knows the Lord’s hand is upon you, Miss Bladewell. Those you pray for find peace, even in death. Not to mention, you’re not much younger than my Mercy. She may listen to you as my pleas meet deaf ears.”

I looked down, uncomfortable with their regard. I wasn’t special. Just lucky, perhaps. Or maybe unlucky to have watched so many die while remaining healthy myself.

“The Lord protected you then,” Daddy said, his fingers tightening on my shoulder, “and He will protect you now.”

I understood then what they were asking. “You want me to visit Mercy at the sanatorium. To pray with her.”

“To save her,” Mr. Brown corrected, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Perhaps not her body—the doctors say she’s unlikely to recover given her condition. But her soul. To bring her back to Christ before it’s too late.”

The weight of their expectation pressed down on me. I was just a girl—what did I know of saving souls? But I couldn’t deny the call I felt. The purpose that had driven me to my knees day after day.

“The sanatorium is no place for a young lady,” I said, but the protest sounded weak even to my ears.

“You’ve seen worse,” Daddy reminded me. “You’ve sat with the dying before. Held their hands as they passed.”

True enough. Death and I were old acquaintances, though not quite friends.

“Please,” Mr. Brown said, the word torn from him like a confession. “She has no mother to guide her. And I—“ He broke off, his hands clenching into fists. “I’ve failed her somehow. Failed to see the darkness taking root in her heart.”

I thought of Mercy Brown. I’d seen her in church, a girl a few years older than me with hair nearly as dark as night and a restless energy that always seemed at odds with the solemnity of worship. I’d heard whispers about her—that she asked too many questions, that she read books no proper young lady should touch. I’d never given the gossip much mind. Mercy never paid me much attention, but when she had, she’d been kind.

“Why me?” I asked. “Surely there are others with more experience, more wisdom—“

“Because God has marked you,” Daddy interrupted, his voice taking on the resonant quality he used from the pulpit. “He has kept you safe from the consumption that took your mother, your cousins. That’s no coincidence, Alice. That’s divine purpose.”

I remembered those long nights by sickbeds, scripture readings that seemed to bring comfort even as death approached. The strange peace that sometimes came over the dying as I prayed. Was that God working through me? Or just the natural surrender to the inevitable?

“She asks for you, specifically,” Mr. Brown added quietly.

I looked up sharply. “Mercy asks for me? But we hardly know each other.”

Mr. Brown nodded. “She mentioned you in her last diary entry. Said she’d heard of your... gift. Your immunity. She said—“ He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “She said perhaps you had a power that could help her.”

A chill ran through me at the word “power.” It sounded too much like the language in that witchcraft book.

“Not power,” I corrected firmly. “Faith. If I have any gift, it comes from God alone.”

“Of course,” Mr. Brown said quickly. “That’s what she needs to understand. That true salvation comes only through Christ, not through the dark arts.”

One of the remaining candles guttered, throwing strange shadows across Mr. Brown’s face. For a moment, he looked like someone else entirely—someone harder, colder. Then the light steadied, and he was just a grieving father again.

“Will you go to her?” Mr. Brown asked. “Will you try to save my daughter’s soul?”

I closed my eyes briefly, seeking guidance in the darkness behind my lids. What would Mama have done? She’d always taught me that faith meant action, not just words. That we served God by serving others, especially in their hour of need.

“Yes,” I said finally, opening my eyes. “I’ll go. I’ll pray with her. For her.”

Relief washed over Mr. Brown’s face. “Thank you. Thank you, Miss Bladewell.”

“The Lord works through the willing heart,” Daddy said, squeezing my shoulder in approval. “Alice, you’ll go tomorrow. I’ll make the arrangements.”

I nodded, though uncertainty gnawed at me. What did I really know of witchcraft, of the devil’s temptations? I’d lived a sheltered life, protected by Daddy’s strict rules and our congregation’s vigilance against sin. Was I truly prepared to confront the darkness in a dying girl’s soul?

“I’ll need to prepare,” I said, thinking of the Bible verses I should review, the prayers that might reach a heart turned toward evil.

“Of course,” Daddy agreed. “Mercy may be afflicted by a devil, one that will not hesitate to lash out at you if it perceives your strong faith as a threat. You must be prepared for a spiritual battle.”

The phrase made me shiver. Battle. As if I were preparing for war, not merely visiting a sick girl.

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