Available February 21, 2026!
Book 4 in the Heart of St. Mary’s County Series
A healer? A witch? Or just a tragic soul?
Backstory
Moll Dyer is infamous in St. Mary’s County as our 17th century witch, driven from her home—and to her death—in the bitterly cold winter of 1698.
Moll’s story, although largely lost to history—and some doubt that she even existed—has reached legendary status in St. Mary’s County. In 2021, the mayor of Leonardtown declared February 26th of that year to be Moll Dyer Day, and it is now a multi-day event celebrated with town festivities. We also have a Moll Dyer whiskey, a “Meow” Dyer cat cafe, and many other references to our poor, maligned “witch.”
Moll was also reportedly the inspiration for the “Blair Witch” franchise’s fictional witch, Elly Kedward.
I became interested in Moll’s story after the 2024 death of my friend, Lynn Buonviri, who spent years researching Moll’s existence. Her work culminated in a book, Moll Dyer and Other Witch Tales.
The Madness of Moll Dyer is my take on what Moll’s life might have been like, and is also a tribute to Lynn.
Excerpt
Kenn, Devon, February 1634.
“Well, now, Lizzy, isn’t she as pretty as a primrose? Just as bald as I am, but those eyes!” The elderly man reached into the rough-hewn wood cradle and gently tapped the nose of its occupant. “Green like emeralds already. Such an unusual babe. What will your hair be, I wonder?”
The woman lying on a pallet next to the cradle rose up to one elbow. “Hard to know whether she’ll take after her father’s side or mine, Callum. William was certain she’d be a boy, wasn’t he, so when he says she’ll be fair-haired to go with her deep eyes, it’s a mite hard to trust it.” She sat up completely, her own fair hair tousled.
Callum laughed his usual low rumble. “Well now, your Thomas is middling dark, then Agnes and Dorothy following him reflect their mother’s beauty with their fair skin and blue eyes. My guess is that this wee one and her green orbs will finally take on her Irish ancestors and show you hair of fire. Like mine once was.” He patted the side of his head.
He looked back down at the infant girl, who lay nestled in cloths and blankets that had been handed down from her own siblings and before. “Little Mary, little Moll,” he sang softly in his gravelly voice. “Precious as a little doll.”
Elizabeth Dyer lumbered up to her feet. Callum refrained from observing aloud that it was apparent she wasn’t recovering as quickly from this childbirth as she had the previous three. He hoped his daughter-in-law would fare well through any future childbirths. His son had quickened Elizabeth four times in nine years and she was still relatively young and strong, so there would no doubt be more.
Not that Callum minded having the little ones around. Gave him a sense of purpose, they did, what with him living on William’s charity these days. Callum was glad to live under a roof—no matter how leaky and in need of re-thatching—but it didn’t do a man’s soul any favors to be beholdened to his son.
Best to forget the past, though. Dwelling on it wouldn’t bring Fiona back. It wouldn’t rebuild their cottage that had been burned down in county Roscommon by Protestant colonizers, authorized by the crown to replace Catholic landowners with those so-called “reformers.”
Dwelling on the past also wouldn’t ease the pain of fleeing to his son in Devon for whatever it was that passed for peace in England.
No, it was the present day that required his full attention. And the future, which included this precious little cailin and her two sisters and brother.
As if reading their grandfather’s thoughts, three children came bursting into the cottage’s door, each carrying a dead rabbit by its ears. Even Dorothy, just two years old, had a young hare dangling from her tiny fist.
“Shut the door, you imps!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Is it not bitter enough in here without you leaving the door hanging open?”
Back home, in County Donegal, Callum’s home had several windows with glass panes in them. Here, though, there wasn’t enough money for that. This cottage had two window openings with patched-together clothing forming a covering for the openings. Now, in the winter, the holes were stuffed with bags of straw, which prevented most light from getting in and provided little in the way of protection from the cold.
Spotting Callum, Thomas dashed over, ignoring his mother. “Granda, look, we have dinner.” The boy held up his prize. “Agnes and Dorothy each found one, but I had to get the rabbits out of their hiding places.”
The boy’s expression told Callum that naturally the silly girls required assistance from their older brother.
“The ground must have been nearly frozen, eh?” Callum asked.
Thomas nodded.
“Well done, then, digging them out of their warren.”
Callum smiled at the way Thomas beamed from the praise.
A flash of ebony fur streaked into the cottage at that moment, running up to Dorothy and snatching her baby hare with a menacing snarl and a strike of the paw. Seconds later, both thief and hare were gone.
“Granda, a black cat!” Thomas said. Callum’s grandson remained stock still, seemingly terrorized by an animal no one had ever seen prowling about before.
At the same time, Dorothy started crying, holding up her now empty hand.
This would not do. This would not do at all.
“Now, Thomas, we must be men when we see signs of bad luck.” The boy must not be allowed to be frightened. “Make your mam proud by showing her your hare.” He nodded toward Lizzy, which directed all three children’s attention to her.
Thomas nodded and led his siblings away.
While the other children chattered noisily to their mother, Callum looked down into the cradle again at the child, whose gaze seemed to be absorbing everything her grandfather did.
The old man was disquieted by the unnerving omens of both the child’s unusual looks and the cat’s ominous materialization from nowhere.
But little Moll had already invaded his heart, flooding him with an overwhelming affection. He wasn’t about to allow anything to intimidate or menace this cherished new member of the Dyer home.
Callum spoke quietly so that no one could hear besides the new child. “Margaret Mary Dyer, you’re a blessing to me and this family. But I’ll wager to say that not only will you sprout flaming locks of hair, but that there is an evil sprite out there, determined to plague you with terrible luck for all your days. But don’t you worry. I’ll protect you, I promise.”
Unedited excerpt copyright 2026 Christine Trent
Marie & Nash
Cecil’s County Store
Keepin’ It Local
St. Clements Island Museum
Piney Point Lighthouse Museum
The Old Jail Museum
Calvert Marine Museum