Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 18

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...Previous

   The sun was well up when Vicemerys crept into Marigold’s room. Even though she was there to wake the witch, she moved as quietly as she could. Vicemerys stood beside the bed, hands clasped at her navel, unsure of how to proceed politely.
   “Hello,” was her first attempt. It did not work. She spoke more loudly. “Hello? Er…good morning? Good day?”
   None of these elicited a response. The sorcerer reached out as if towards a venomous snake and prodded Marigold in the side; she pulled her hand back in a flash. Still, the witch slept. Vicemerys tried again, and again, and gasped when Marigold awoke with a start, turning over to squint blearily at her assailant.
   “Marigold Baker, I am sorry to wake you before your time. I could wait no longer. I have made a breakfast! There are cakes from a pan, and many eggs, and bacon. Please, will you partake of it before it grows cold?”
   Marigold had sat up, rubbing her face.
   “Of course, Vicemerys,” she murmured. “I would love to.”
   She really was quite hungry. She was even more tired, but when someone got up early to make her pancakes, Marigold went. She had not been expecting an overnight stay, much less in a drafty castle, and so had slept in most of her clothes. All she had to do was throw off the covers, throw on her shoes, and follow Vicemerys down the spiralling stairs.
   “I do hope the room was to your liking,” said the sorcerer as they descended. “Did the fire keep you warm through the night? It has been—“
   She turned and saw that Marigold was not there. She looked further up the staircase to see the witch bathed in sunlight. Marigold stood at a window, one of the sunniest in the castle, kneeling down to examine the four objects on the sill. Two vases, mismatched; a ceramic jug, and a small wooden bucket. All of them were filled with dirt. Each had a small tree growing in it, the biggest barely a foot tall. They were alive but sad.
   “These should be outside,” observed Marigold. “They’re going to outgrow their homes soon.”
   “They should,” agreed Vicemerys. “I must pick a nice place to put them.”
   “It’s still warm enough. You probably wouldn’t have to wait until spring.” Marigold tickled the leaves of the plant in the bucket, smiling. “What are they? Cherries? Pears?”
   The sorcerer toyed with her fingers a moment. Marigold watched her face work silently. The witch worried she might have caused offence.
   “Apples,” said the sorcerer quietly. “I had purchased an apple from the market at Steadney. It was in my pocket when we escaped. I thought it might be nice to grow some new trees from it, but I am not very good with plants. These are the only ones that lived.”
   Marigold took the few steps down to meet her.
   “Trees can be difficult to start,” said the witch kindly. “I’d say you’ve done very well!”
   Vicemerys smiled at her, thankful that talk of apples had been cut short. She led the way down into the main hall, to the grand doors that denoted a large room indeed. They’d been left open just wide enough for a person to walk through. Marigold slipped through first at a silent invitation from Vicemerys, and stopped, staring in awe.
   She had seen the long-disused dining room of Blank Manor only once, and had been struck by its grandiosity, even coated in dust. The fireplace the size of her bedroom, the table that seemed half a mile long, the carved chairs that each weighed about as much as she did. The floor there was polished wood, left to crack and splinter under the newest Lord Blank’s neglect. Also willfully ignored were the grim portraits of Blanks past, left to bleach and fade in the sunlight from the row of tall windows opposite the fireplace.
   The siblings’ dining room hit her with the same sense of awe; it was grandfather to the one in Blank Manor. A stone floor instead of a wooden one, patchworked with enormous rugs worn through by ancient feet and recent moths. Similarly threadbare tapestries hung from the walls. There were some portraits in between, though rarer than the numerous Blanks. Most of the subjects wore clothes of the age of true monarchy, unhindered by parliaments and laws. Marigold noted quite a few dark-haired women bearing a striking resemblance to her present hostess.
   The thick stone construction of the castle didn’t allow for lofty windows. Only a few stained glass panels smudged with smoke let in any natural light. Candles on walls and tables made up for it how they could, aided by the grand fireplace. Blasz was already seated, munching thoughtfully at a sausage speared on the end of a fork. Vicemerys glared at him as she sat down. She had laid out three settings on one lonely corner of the massive table; Blasz had taken the one at the head. She settled in across the corner from him, and Marigold next to her.
   “One is meant to wait until the guest has been served, Blasz!” declared Vicemerys. “It is considered polite.”
   He looked skeptical, but set his fork down.
   “That’s alright,” said Marigold. “That’s only for important people.”
   Still, he waited until Marigold had taken a square of toast to resume his breakfast. Vicemerys gave him one last warning look, then began to pour herself some tea.
   “We do not need to eat much,” said Vicemerys. “I am pleased to have a reason to do so!”
   “Oh, really? Is that a sorcerer thing?”
   “Certainly. We are able to take our energy from elsewhere. Though we find eating as pleasurable as anyone!”
   “Then, where in the world did you get all this?” asked Marigold. “I can’t imagine you had such a feast ready in the cupboards.”
   “I was awake most early,” said Vicemerys. “I went immediately to the market in Braichlie! Why, some were not even finished putting their stalls together as I purchased from them.”
   Marigold tilted her head, running numbers in it.
   “You made it all the way to Braichlie and back? And had time to make breakfast?”
   “Oh yes. It was a very easy jaunt.”
   “Right,” sighed Marigold. “Do you have to learn to do that, or does it come naturally?”
   “To do it well - which means, accurately - takes practice. It is especially difficult to reappear a reasonable distance above the ground. I twisted many ankles when I was young!”
   Marigold smiled at this as she dipped a corner of her toast into a runny egg yolk.
   “The crone,” said Blasz suddenly, addressing the bacon, “your mentor…what did she say about the man who came to her door?”
   He didn’t look at either of the women looking at him. Marigold was frozen, uncertain, wide-eyed; Vicemerys glared at her brother once more.
   “Blasz, we are trying to have a pleasant meal. That is a topic for another time.”
   “You find asking after a man’s demeanour unpleasant? That is all I wish to hear about.”
   “You know we cannot talk about him without—“ Vicemerys caught herself, glancing nervously at Marigold. The witch set down her still-dripping toast.
   “Crone, er, had a lot to say about him, actually,” she admitted. “About his chambers.”
   Vicemerys leaned back in her chair, hugging herself as if cold. Not looking at anything but the teapot. Blasz looked similarly sad, but he kept his eyes on Marigold.
   “She knew about them,” he said plainly.
   “She saw them,” corrected Marigold. “And was nearly killed for it.”
   Blasz did not look surprised.
   “She wanted to help him,” continued Marigold. “She tried to find people who would. I promise, if she could have done something, she would have.”
   “We know,” said Blasz, and meant it. “Many people wanted to help him. We understand that they couldn’t, knowing our mother as we did.”
   “Whatever happened to him? He’s not still…”
   “No. No, he also knew our mother. He had the chance to be free, and he chose against running from her for the rest of his life. I didn’t understand, but I trusted his judgment. I had to. I was only a boy.”
   “He is buried under a tree,” added Vicemerys. “Not far from the castle. Near his wife. She, too, died trying to confront our mother. We are glad your mentor did not meet the same fate.”
   “Crone told me that he’s the reason she managed to escape,” said Marigold. “He convinced your mother to let her go. She has him to thank, and she does, every day.”
   “That sounds like him,” said Vicemerys, with a shaky smile.
   “Apparently,” said Marigold, addressing Blasz’s question at last, “he was under a spell when he came to her door. He couldn’t say much of his own will. Crone knew something was strange, but she had you two to worry about first.”
   Blasz no longer seemed interested in eating. He set his fork down and stared morosely at the stack of toast.
   “I wish she would have worried for him instead,” he murmured. “He may have had a chance, then. He might not have been so broken all those years ago.” He looked into Marigold’s eyes. She saw remorse, but not blame. “That was why he did it. He told me it had been too long. That there was nothing left to go back to. There might have been, the night we were born.”
   Vicemerys set her hand atop her brother’s on the table.
   “The past is as uncertain as the future,” she said kindly. “It does us no good to dwell on it. Why, you could say that they might never have met. Or that someone might have stopped him from being taken. It only hurts us to think of such things.”
   Blasz set his hands to his temples, leaning forward onto his elbows.
   “I am sorry,” said Blasz to Marigold. “I should not have spoken of such things in front of a guest.”
   “That’s quite alright,” insisted Marigold. “I don’t mind. As long as it isn’t too hard for you to talk about.”
   Blasz shook his head. “Not anymore. It was difficult even to comprehend, at first. As we’ve grown, we’ve learned to accept it; though I don’t know if I will ever be at ease with it. And then, last night, when you said he had been given another chance…I did not know what to think.”
   “I think we should be glad,” said Vicemerys, “that so many people were willing to help him even in the face of a powerful sorcerer. All we could have asked is that they try their best, and they did.”
   Blasz gave his sister a wan smile in between his hands.
   “You said he did eventually go free,” observed Marigold. “When was that?”
   “As soon as I was old enough to understand that he wasn’t,” said Blasz, examining the table. He said no more. Vicemerys laid a hand on his arm.
   “I distracted our mother,” she said, “while Blasz snuck down to the dungeons. We had filled a pack with things that we thought he might need for the road home; warm clothes and boots. Matches and a lantern. A knife. He…used the knife. He didn’t even leave his chambers.”
   Blasz had closed his eyes. He shared a lot of things in common with his sister, but the images of Mr. Slater’s last moments were not among them. Those he bore alone, in silence.
   “He could have walked away,” continued Vicemerys. “We two were ready to keep our mother at bay no matter the cost, but that was not enough. His wife was dead. His home had been sold. He said he had no life to which he might return. I don’t know if that was true, but, it felt true to him, I suppose. I don’t know that I would do the same…but I don’t know what he went through. Not entirely.”
   Blasz squeezed his sister’s hand before he spoke. His voice was steady.
   “Mother was distraught when she found out. She never recovered. Her madness and grief fed off eachother until there was nothing left. We were able to keep her here; thankfully, we had both been given her gift, and could overpower her when needed. The last few years were difficult, but they ended quietly. More quietly than poor Old Skull’s.”
   “We gave her over to ash,” added Vicemerys, “and scattered her far from him. She may not have known it, but I truly think that was the first time she was at peace. She had lived for many hundreds of years, many of them alone. It is no wonder her madness overtook her. Though that of course does not excuse her actions,” she added hastily. “It merely explains them.”
   “There but for the Mither’s grace go we,” agreed Marigold. Vicemerys perked up, tickled by this new saying. Blasz nodded sagely as he mulled it over.
   “That is why Vicemerys and I pay visits to town. We like to try our best to feel that we are a part of the world. It is difficult now that Steadney is gone…we had started to make friends there. We have only been to Braichlie and Blankston a few times this year, and it did not feel the same. Once again, everyone is a stranger. Starting over after we had made so much progress is not easy, but when I feel ready to retreat from the world, all I do is think of my mother. Then it does not seem so hard.”
   “Everyone is quite kind to us,” assured Vicemerys, “but Blankston especially is much larger than Steadney. That many people in one place can be overwhelming. We tend to visit early in the morning or late at night.”
   “I hope you know,” said Marigold, “you’d be welcome to visit me any time. I’d be happy to show you around.”
   The siblings exchanged a hungry glance.
   “That would indeed be most welcome!” said Vicemerys. “Perhaps we might even…take you for ‘a pint’.”
   “I would love that,” said Marigold. “It so happens I know a great pub in downtown Blankston.” She finished up the last of her eggs and toast, and set her fork aside. “I really must thank you both for your hospitality, especially on such short notice. I should be going soon. I promised to check in with a friend of mine today. He was  concerned about me coming up here alone.”
   “Oh…of course,” said Vicemerys, trying to hide her sadness. “Perhaps I could accompany you? At least for part of the way?”
   “You could do better,” said Blasz. “Why not take her for a jaunt?”

   Like any rational person, Julian Bossard did not wish that town hall had been levelled by an explosion. At the same time, he did miss having something interesting to look in to. Murders were exceedingly rare in Blankston, and even rarer in the surrounding villages. Bossard could only recall three, not just in his tenure with the Guard, but in his life. Burglary was slightly more common, but required evidence in order to remain a priority. There was only so much Captain Bossard and his officers could do once the trail was cold. After that, most of what they dealt with were disruptions of the peace, pickpocketing, patrolling in case anyone disrupted the peace or picked a pocket, and looking official at ceremonies in town square. He hated that he loved it when Crown agents showed up because it meant something interesting might happen.
   The captain jolted to attention as he heard a knock on the door. The accompanying “Sir?” was muffled behind the wood.
   “Yes, Watkins?”
   “Mr. Belvedere’s here to see you.”
   “Send him in,” said Bossard, a bit too hastily. He shuffled the papers he’d been poring over into a neat stack. Mr. Belvedere entered as he did so, ducking under the doorframe. Watkins closed the door dutifully behind him.
   “I’m sorry to bother you once more, Julian. I promise I won’t be long.”
   “Oh no, please, take your time,” said Bossard. “It’s no bother!”
   Mr. Belvedere sat down across from the captain. He hadn’t removed his coat. He leaned forward onto his knees, studying the floor for inspiration. For a gracious way to start the conversation. He couldn’t find one, and so looked to Julian dead on.
   “Did you ever work with a young man named David Breckenridge?”
   Confusion and concern fought for place on the captain’s face.
   “Well, yes, I…why?”
   “I’ll get to that,” said Mr. Belvedere, waving a calming hand. “How do you know him?”
   “He was one of my constables. Only for a couple of years, but he did a fine job. I had to put him on leave a few months ago for behavioural problems.”
   “‘Was’ one of your constables,” observed Mr. Belvedere. “Sounds like you don’t expect him to return.”
   Julian looked wounded by his own words. He slumped back in his chair.
   “At first, I thought he might. Officers pull through that sort of thing all the time. It was Steadney, you know, that did him in. All those bodies. That carnage. He’d joined the force to break up barfights and catch thieves, not scrape organs off the sidewalk. I couldn’t blame him,” sighed the captain, “but I couldn’t let him roam free with all those pent-up issues. I told him his beat would be waiting when he’d sorted them out, and I haven’t heard a word of progress in six months. So, no, I’m not expecting him to come back.”
   “What were his issues?”
   “Just verbal ones, thank goodness. He was snappish. Short with other officers. Talking back too often to superiors. Nothing drastic, but he was getting worse by the day. He’d been warned several times about what it might mean if he continued.”
   “Never violent?”
   “No, thank goodness. But I don’t know what might have happened if I hadn’t put him on leave. I was maybe a little over-cautious, but I just wanted to keep everyone safe, David included. The last thing he needed in his state of mind was an indictment for assault.”
   “You think it might have gotten to that point?” asked Mr. Belvedere cautiously. Julian shrugged.
   “I mean, I can’t say for sure, but I know I didn’t want to risk it. Ambrose, why are you asking me this?” he said suddenly. “How do you know David?”
   Mr. Belvedere similarly found no gracious way to segue.
   “He’s a guard at Seagate Prison,” said the Elite man. “Graveyard shift. And, as it happens, the one who discovered Ms. van Allen’s body.”
   Captain Bossard had gone stock-still. His eyes were wide. His expression, pained.
   “It can’t be the same David,” he said numbly.
   “Dark hair,” said Mr. Belvedere, “slightly curly. On the shorter side. Married to Paula.”
   “Oh, fuck,” breathed Julian. “I had no idea. They never asked me for a recommendation. God, but, he really shouldn’t be working. Why would he…”
   The captain paused. He knew why. All he had to do was think back to that awful day. I’ll do anything, Captain, please, just don’t let me go! A wife to provide for could be a powerful motivator, as Bossard knew very well. He squared his shoulders, closed his eyes, and asked another question, the answer to which he feared he knew as well.
   “Why are you asking about his behaviour?”
   “I’m ruling out possibilities. That’s all.”
   “Ambrose, I’ve been honest with you,” snapped Julian. Worry made his voice tremble in a higher pitch than normal. Mr. Belvedere took his point. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
   “He lied to me about being a constable,” sighed the Elite man, “he got aggressive with me when I asked some personal questions, and I have a witness handy who claims that Ms. van Allen’s cell might have been unlocked several minutes prior to her discovery, when it is likely that David was the only guard in that wing. I was told by his wife that he was prescribed a tonic for his acute stress disorder that he then discarded, which does not fill me with hope as to his stability. He also took a job knowing that there would be no vetting process, for reasons I now understand but still do not trust. None of this is proof, but if I may say so in confidence to you, it’s the only shoe I have and it’s startin’ to fit.”
   Julian leaned forward onto the desk, massaging his face. After a moment of this, he said:
   “I could see him lashing out. I can’t see him committing murder.”
   “You told me you hadn’t seen him in months. And the last time you did, his condition was deteriorating. Are you quite sure that you know what he is and isn’t capable of at this time?”
   Julian didn’t need to answer. He bit, quite unconsciously, at his fingernail.
   “Are you going to bring him in?”
   “I can’t charge him with only a handful of anecdotes to my name, but there are still more questions to be asked of him. And of his superiors.” Mr. Belvedere stood, but made no move to leave. “If it comes down to it, Julian, would you be willing to repeat that story in court?”
   The young captain thought, but only for a second.
   “I guess I would have to, wouldn’t I?”
   “That would be becomin’ of you, if the situation is as it seems.”
   “I hope it’s not,” sighed Julian, as he shook his head slowly. “God, I hope it’s not.”
   Mr. Belvedere stood, straightened his coat, and nodded at the young captain.
   “Y’aren’t alone in that, Julian, but it is what it is. We’ll just have to see how it shakes out. Try not to lose any sleep.”

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 17

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous  

   The brother closed the door sullenly as the two women sized eachother up. The sister towered over Marigold, though her manner suggested she very much disliked doing so. Her fingers were hooked together just underneath the curve of her breasts.

   “We do not often receive guests,” blurted the woman. “I am sorry, I do not know the proper protocol.” She pressed her lips together in deep thought. “Though, I believe I must offer you tea?”

   “No, please, don’t worry about that,” insisted Marigold. She put out her lantern, the candles in the great hall providing plenty of light. “I’ve had lots today. And I don’t need to stay long.”

   The brother came to stand by his sister; wary, but not threatening. They both waited for Marigold’s cue. She gave the only sensible one.

   “My name’s Marigold. Baker.” She extended her hand towards them. They studied it with identical befuddlement.

   “Ah!” said the sister suddenly. “Yes, I have seen this!” She took Marigold’s hand, fingers, thumb and all, and wiggled it up and down. Marigold did not try to correct her. It would have taken a cruel person indeed to dim that excitement.

   “My name is Vicemerys,” said the woman. “My brother is called Blasz.”

   “Oh,” said Marigold, trying not to stare. “My. It’s very nice to meet you both.”

   Try as she might, she had not been able to hide her consternation. Vicemerys looked puzzled.

   “Were my introductions made in error?”

   “Oh, no! No, not at all, I…I’ve just never heard those names before. They’re so…beautiful!” managed Marigold. Vicemerys beamed at her. The young witch continued. “Are they, er…Aldochian? Maybe?”

   Sister looked to brother for help, then back at Marigold. “What does that mean? Al-do-sheen?”

   “It’s a country. Aldoch. Small? Mountainous? Keep mostly to themselves?”

   Vicemerys gasped. “Like us!”

   “Names,” cut in Blasz, “do not come from human constructs. They are Given. Is that not how you came to be called Marigold Baker?”

   “Well, my parents gave me that name, yes. Just as your parents named you…right?”

   The siblings looked at eachother, long and hard.

   “Our names were Given,” said Blasz, as they both glanced sidelong at Marigold, “by the powers that be. Is that not normal?”

   “It’s not common,” said Marigold diplomatically. The siblings appeared in the midst of a revelation.

   “Then…Given names must be unique to sorcerers,” said Vicemerys. “Is that true, Marigold Baker?”

   “I don’t know,” said Marigold, and that certainly was. “I’ve never met a sorcerer before. Unless, er…it seems like you two…”

   “Oh, er, yes, we are,” said Vicemerys. “Both of us. That much we know is strange.”

   Before Marigold could reassure her, Blasz spoke up.

   “How did you know to find us here? We do not speak of our gift outside these walls.”

   “Actually, I wasn’t looking for you, specifically. I didn’t know what to expect, to tell the truth.”

   “Still, you knew to find one with the gift. How?”

   “Blasz,” said Vicemerys, pleading. “They all know of the mad old woman in the hills. Do not pretend that you do not understand that.”

   He glared at his sister, but stayed silent. Marigold cleared her throat.

   “That’s…partially true,” she admitted. “I did hear stories, but I heard them from someone I trust. Someone who said she’d been here before and had met a sorcerer.”

   The twins both riveted on her, one skeptical, one merely curious.

   “Like I said, I’m a witch…in training. I’m learning from an old woman who’s been a witch her whole life. She told me she’d been called to this castle many years ago to help deliver a baby. Only, there were two. A boy and a girl. I imagine that was you.”

   “I should think so,” said Vicemerys. “Our mother never told us that she had been attended at our birth, though, I have no reason to doubt it.”

   “How would the witch have known to come?” demanded Blasz. “Mother kept to herself.”

   “She told me a man came to her door to ask for her,” said Marigold cautiously. “That was all.”

   The siblings had no immediate response to this. A radiating chill stole over them; not quite sadness, not quite shame.

   “Mr. Slater,” whispered Blasz. “Yes, I suppose it’s possible.”

   “I’m sorry,” said Marigold. “I hope I haven’t—“

   “No, please, do not apologize,” interrupted Vicemerys. “We asked, did we not? But, Marigold Baker, you are not here to learn about us. You wish to know more about…the town.”

   Marigold wanted to know everything they might have to tell her, but she had come here for a specific purpose, after all. She nodded.

   “If it’s not any trouble,” she insisted. “I know it’s getting late and I wouldn’t want to impose on you.”

   “I do not feel imposed upon,” said Vicemerys. “I, too, would like to learn from you.” Her brow furrowed as a thought struck her. She turned back to her brother. “Have we a sitting room?”

   “Hmm.” It was a deep rumble in his chest. “The laboratory?”

   His sister nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes…there were some settees in there. Come, Marigold Baker!”

   Marigold was led up the flight of stairs to her left, following in Crone’s footsteps all those years ago. Instead of diverting to the bedrooms, she followed straight along the narrow landing. Vicemerys fell back beside Marigold, letting her brother lead the way.

   “I apologize for our lack of parlours,” she said graciously.

   “No need,” assured Marigold. “I’m the one who showed up without any warning. I should be apologizing to you.”

   Blasz disappeared through the door straight ahead, where the landing turned a sharp corner to the right. He left it hanging open for his companions. Through it, Marigold could see faint coloured lights shifting like sunbeams underwater. Vicemerys stood aside, allowing her to pass through first.

   “We would only ask that you be cautious of what you touch,” said the sorcerer quietly. Marigold stepped into the siblings’ laboratory.

   Two things dominated the landscape; copper and glass. Worktables laid out in otherwise neat rows were just as overgrown as the gardens outside, only with tubes and stills in place of vines and shrubs. Most of the vessels Marigold could see were full of liquid - purple, green, blue, some a shimmering silver, one orange and frothy. Some had miniature fires burning underneath them in small stone bowls, others seemed content to bubble and steam on their own. Laid out on the tables under this canopy were tiny villages of rock and crystal, just as varied in colour and size as the liquids above. Many members of this quartz rainbow sat in puddles of powder, small hammers and chisels laid out nearby. Marigold twisted her head this way and that as she walked down a row of tables, awestruck by the metropolis of chemistry. Vicemerys paused once as she shepherded the witch down the aisle, to adjust a stone bowl of flame a bit higher in its cradle under a ball of glass.

   At the end of the row, Marigold found Blasz, and a fireplace, just off to her left. Blasz was pulling the armchairs and chaise longues away from the wall, where they’d been shoved unceremoniously to make room for sorcery, and arranging them around the hearth. Evidently he did not like the way that the couch closest him had been set down; he corrected it from a distance with an impatient flick of his wrist. It scooted into place, scraping quietly on the stone floor.

   Marigold took up residence on a small brocaded divan, setting her satchel down beside. She watched Blasz as he knelt down before the fireplace, stacking it with long-ignored logs from the cradle beside. He reached into the hearth and wrapped his hand around one end of a log. A flame erupted in the centre of the log sculpture, quickly catching the surrounding wood. The sorcerer withdrew his hand without the usual panic of a man trying to get his fingers out of the way of a burning match.

   “I get the feeling,” said Marigold quietly, “that your mother is no longer with us.”

   Blasz did not look at her, patting his robe to shake off the dust from both wood and floor.

   “She is not,” he confirmed. Neither offended nor melancholy. “She went peacefully, many years ago.”

   “I thought she might be the one to tell me about Steadney,” said Marigold. “But it seems like you two know something about it.”

   “We were there.”

   Vicemerys had emerged from the jungle of glass and copper, standing behind Marigold’s divan. Once more holding her hands before her chest, she scuttled over to sit beside her brother, who had settled on a similar couch across from Marigold.

   “We saw it happen…not the exact moment, but, just before. And just after. You were correct, Marigold Baker; we were acquainted with a very old sorcerer. Thousands of years old. He had seen the rise and fall of civilizations. He spoke languages that no one else remembered. Skylanimir was his Given name, though he had come to be known as Old Skull by the time we met. A pet name. He really was a nice man.”

   Vicemerys took a quiet moment to mourn.

   “Solitary, however, as sorcerers are. As it has always been. We would meet infrequently to discuss certain experiments where we thought one might be of use to the other, though we never became friends, only colleagues. For years at a time we knew nothing of eachother. That is why we did not notice his condition.”

   She did not seem able to look up, or to continue. Blasz slowly reached his arm across her shoulders, pulling her close. She leaned her head against him.

   “He was ill?” guessed Marigold. Blasz made a noncommittal bob of the head.

   “In a sense,” he said quietly. “You understand that sorcerers are not like others. There is…more. More energy, in body and mind. A person may be still like a lake, or flow like a river; a sorcerer is always churning, like the sea in a storm. Sometimes that storm becomes too powerful. The mind overflows, and spills out the last of one’s humanity. The power remains, but control is lost. Given over to the darkness of the brain where animals rule. There is no reasoning with that darkness. It does not even have a concept of reason.”

   Vicemerys sat up, looking at Marigold. Not crying, but teary-eyed.

   “We were trying to be normal.” She whispered it like a terrible confession. “We would go to the village to learn how. We would speak with others. Eat with them. Celebrate with them. They always knew we were strange. They felt it as other sorcerers do, though they did not bring attention to it. The people of Steadney treated us as if we were part of the village even though we made them nervous. And that’s how we repaid them!”

   Her brother wrapped his other arm around her, hugging tight.

   “But, you did nothing to hurt them…did you?” asked Marigold warily. Blasz sighed.

   “Old Skull, in his madness, was drawn to us like a hawk to a mouse. A wolf on the scent of meat. All he knew was to find a source of the gift. There was no thought to it. His mind was free of any human concerns. All of his faculties became those of sense. Instinct was his only guide. We knew something was wrong, could feel it as he felt us, but we did not know quite what it was until he was upon us.”

   “If only we had been here,” whispered Vicemerys. “He could have destroyed this awful castle instead. They would all be alive if I hadn’t been so selfish!”

   Blasz squeezed his sister, silencing her. He held her there a moment before he spoke.

   “Old Skull attacked us at the market,” he told Marigold. “There were people all around. We wanted to draw him away, but some of the crowd had noticed what they thought to be a sick old man. They wanted to help. By the time they realized what was in their midst, it was too late to reach safety. We thought we had a chance to put him down before he could cause any more harm, but he was already breaking apart. I was able to seize Vicemerys and jaunt out of range of his destruction. But only her. She was close enough. I couldn’t have saved anyone else.”

   Marigold believed she understood most of what had been said. There was one phrase she couldn’t quite place.

   “Breaking apart?” she asked. Blasz thought very carefully about his wording.

   “His mad sorcery,” he said, slowly, “tore apart the energies in his body. There is much power in a human, even one small and frail. When the bonds that contain it break apart…nothing is quite so powerful as that. It destroys all within a certain area. It lingers long, harming that which might have survived the explosion.”

   Marigold thought of the deer with two heads. The dying trees and their overgrown cousins.

   “We watched the cloud rise from a nearby hill,” continued Blasz. “I knew that a jaunt might kill us in that maelstrom of sorcery, but I had no choice. We would have died down there anyway. We landed roughly on a hilltop, and…Steadney was shadowed under a column of smoke and ash. It was as if a wildfire had been dropped from the sky. A village gone in less than an instant. I still don’t understand it well; though I hope to never see it again,” he finished quietly. A log in the fire snapped as if to punctuate his words.

   “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” said Marigold. “I can’t imagine.”

   Blasz sighed. “Which raises an interesting question,” he said. “Why would you seek to hear of it? Merely to feel sorry? It serves no other purpose.”

   “I don’t know for sure that it will serve a purpose,” said Marigold. “But, it might, if I can show other people that it happened. There are some, er, not-very-nice people saying that witches are the ones responsible. I’ve never heard a good explanation why a witch would want to do something like that, but the council - Blankston town council, that is - kept insisting, and the townsfolk started to believe it. People have always been a bit wary of their witches; they get medicine and magic confused easily, and unfortunately they don’t trust magic. The council decided to take that line of thought and exploit it for their own benefit. Witches’ medicines are curses, they steal souls, they commune with devils…nothing new, really, it’s just being said louder now. Some out there haven’t fallen for it, but enough did. Enough that the council started to round up witches - or any person they felt like calling a witch, really - and put them in prison on suspicion of being involved with the ‘Steadney Massacre’. And then, well, there was a witch that did try to cause harm. She planted gunpowder under town hall, and was going to set it off while quite a lot of people would have been inside. Thankfully she was caught before she could carry it out, but the damage to our reputation was done. The council took it as proof that witches had been behind Steadney, had done it with gunpowder, and people had no reason not to believe that. Even people who were skeptical have started to think twice. It’s…getting really bad out there,” she sighed, thinking of the thing under construction in the square. “So I wanted to find some way to prove them wrong. If I can show that it was all an accident, just a sick old man, I might be able to shut down that prison, at least.”

   “How?” asked Vicemerys. “How might one prove such a thing?”

   This was met with silence. The dying fire popped away to itself.

   “I don’t know,” said Marigold. “I guess that’s the next thing to think about.”

   “I would speak for you,” said Blasz, suddenly bright-eyed and forceful. He looked down at his sister. “I believe we both would. Though…I do not know that two such strangers would be taken at their word,” he added more quietly.

   “You’re probably right,” said Marigold, smiling at his eagerness. “Though I’ll certainly keep it in mind. Thank you.” She was caught off guard by a sudden unstoppable yawn. “I suppose it’s too late to be trying to change the world. I should head back home and sleep on it. Thank you both for…”

   Vicemerys pulled out of her brother’s grasp, standing in time with Marigold.

   “Please, Marigold Baker, you do not have to make the journey home tonight. We have many beds that go unused. Would you like to stay? We could escort you safely in the morning.”

   The protest was on Marigold’s tongue, summoned there instantly by years of ingrained politesse. Practicality seized it before it could escape. She had only promised to check in with Alfaen by the late afternoon. She would have plenty of time. And there would be fewer wolves on the prowl in daylight.

   “That’s a very kind offer…” she began. Practicality tipped the scales, but just barely. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

   “Certainly it is not,” said Vicemerys. “I would feel much better knowing you were safe until daybreak.” A thought struck her, and she smiled. “Why, I could even make you a breakfast! I’ve always wanted to try that!”

   Marigold once again had to acknowledge that she would rather die than diminish that enthusiasm. She smiled and nodded.

   “You really don’t have to,” she said, “but, well, I won’t object.”

   In one of his better moments of judgement, Sir Roger left Lucy’s tower bedroom early, and through the door instead of the window. He didn’t have too much to fear from Auntie should she notice him, but he’d already poked that hornet’s nest once and wished to stay as far from it as possible. He and Lucy shared a goodbye kiss, and then a few more, and then it turned out it wasn’t quite time to leave yet. Eventually, he found his way into his trousers and out the door.

   When he arrived at Blank Manor, someone was waiting for him on the front steps. Normally, Sir Roger would have been confused and slightly annoyed to see Cedric Balmoral lurking about his house; this morning, nothing could have mattered less. He grinned sleepily at the scowling doctor as he mounted the steps.

   “Good. Morning. Cedric,” he said cheerily. “What can I do for you?”

   “Where were you?” snapped Balmoral. He turned to follow as Sir Roger brushed past him, digging a key out of his pocket.

   “Where was I supposed to be, is the better question.”

   “You know precisely where. Council was in session all morning waiting for you. We have an entire list of—“

   “Oh, that,” sighed Sir Roger. He nudged the door open and replaced his key. “Sure, just send it along.” He finally granted the doctor some semblance of attention, meeting his eyes across the threshold. “Have a nice day, Ced—“

   Balmoral shoved past him into his own front hall, slamming the door as he went. Sir Roger stopped just short of raising his hands in surrender. He stared, frozen, unsure where all this brooding fury might lead. The doctor turned on him like a panther ready to spring.

   “I will leave,” said Balmoral quietly, “when I’m done.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded page. “And I will not be sending anything along to get lost in the post. I’m putting this list into your hands myself, and if I have to check in on you every day, I will. You’ve been slacking off lately and it will not continue. I want ALL of these women brought in by this time next week, do you understand?”

   Sir Roger studied him levelly.

   “Women, eh?” he observed. Balmoral took a strange, shuddering breath, catching himself.

   “Witches,” he corrected. “I meant…criminals. Suspects. It doesn’t matter what you call them! What matters is that you bring them in before they stack gunpowder under another building!”

   “If that’s really all that matters,” sighed Sir Roger, “then someone else can do it. I’m not special. I can’t be the only one in this town with a bow and time on their hands.”

   “If you’re going to get smart about it,” spat the doctor, “no, perhaps we don’t ‘need’ you. But justice is always served more quickly when the public calls for it. A familliar face that the people can trust is exactly what we need to keep things moving. If you disappear now there’s no telling how many of the guilty might escape us!”

   Sir Roger thought about this for a long, long time. Then he thought about Lucy. About Auntie. About how similar they were to the guilty he’d been told to hunt down.

   “It’s been a year, Cedric,” he said plainly. “More than. There hasn’t been a single trial. There hasn’t been a single bit of evidence that anyone in Seagate had anything to do with Steadney, even the one that tried to blow up a building. It’s just…starting to look odd.”

   “You doubt me?” said the doctor, low and deadly.

   “I’m starting to doubt the inquisition,” said Sir Roger. “It’s turned up absolutely nothing.”

   “You want to talk about ‘absolutely nothing’,” sneered Balmoral, “let’s talk about the lordling living off the backs of his townsfolk. The one they would have hardly recognized had he passed them on the street last summer. Now he’s got all the attention and love and respect he could ever want, and he talks about abandoning the people who gave it to him?”

   “I’m not abandoning anything,” said Sir Roger, more calmly than he felt. “I’m just asking questions.”

   “That is not your job and you know it. You’re meant to smile and wave and sign trinkets and that’s the end of it. If you want someone else to do the hard work, fine, we can find another man with a bow as you so eloquently said. But you made a commitment to us and I expect you—no, I demand that you uphold it. An unspoken promise is still a promise!”

   “You made a promise once, didn’t you, Cedric?”

   The voice made them both jump, riveting instinctively on its source. They looked equally unsure how to proceed in the presence of the Crone, standing in the doorway, both hands leant forward on her cane.

   “When you took your coat,” she continued. “‘First, do no harm’. Isn’t that the physician’s oath? Yet here you stand, givin’ orders to steal young women away to a run-down prison.”

   The doctor had gone red to the back of his head.

   “Tell it to Guinevere van Allen,” he spat. “I didn’t see you preaching at her to do no harm.”

   “No, you didn’t. You were lookin’ elsewhere. At the gallows you’re building in the square, I imagine.” She paused to shake her head. “Have you thought that through, Cedric? Are you really ready to watch them swing? It’s not as easy as you’d think, even when they’re guilty.”

   “Are you trying to frighten a doctor with death? I’d be hanged myself before I showed those monsters any pity. And yes, I’ll watch every second, whatever you might think.”

   The shake of Crone’s head was this time accompanied by a small smile.

   “Bald, cranky, naive…you haven’t changed in the least since I first met you.” When Balmoral looked baffled, she added: “Oh, I do remember your hair, dear, but you had none when you were born. Bless your poor mother, you were stubborn even then.”

   “I don’t recall asking about my mother,” snapped the doctor. “Keep your senile ramblings to yourself, old woman.”

   She walked forward, then, and nothing more. Simply walked in a straight line towards Dr. Balmoral. Sir Roger watched his entire frame stiffen, preparing for a fight, yet knowing there couldn’t be one with one so frail. The conflict in his eyes was clear. Crone stood close to him; though slightly bent, she was near his height.

   “I don’t recall his lordship inviting you in,” she said quietly, “so let’s not talk of who shouldn’t do what. Just know that some of us aren’t fooled, Cedric. Some of us can’t be distracted by the feather in Roger’s hat. And we’re much more patient than the folks who believe you. It can’t last forever, and the sooner you give it up, the more we’ll be willin’ to forgive.”

   She took his hand then, with surprising speed. Held it in her own as if she were his kindly aunt.

   “I’ll always welcome you back. Rare’s the person that I won’t pardon. Others may not be so kind to you, including yourself, if you ever come around. Just be careful, Cedric. I’d hate to see you harmed. And I know yer mam would too, soul at rest. I still remember how she looked at you the first time. That was a woman who loved her baby.”

   Balmoral pulled his hand out of hers, stepping nimbly backwards out of her reach. He was stony-white and staring, wanting to glare, but found himself unable. He looked to his lordship without a word, back to the witch. Then he turned and made for the door in a hurry, once more slamming it as he left.

   Sir Roger, in a near-perfect imitation of the doctor, turned wide eyes on Crone. She kept her gaze on the door.

   “What’s changed?” she asked aloud.

   “How do you mean?”

   “All that talk of givin’ up on yer witch hunt. Where’d that come from?”

   “It didn’t ‘come from’ anywhere. I’ve just…been thinking.”

   “What’s her name? Anyone I know?”

   If someone else had asked, Sir Roger would have been surprised. As it was, he simply closed his eyes, and sighed in resignation.

   “Lucy Templeton,” he breathed, and the mere sound sent his skin crawling. “Her aunt owns Four Meadows Farm.”

   “Ah, dear old Violet.” Crone looked knowingly at her lordling. “Don’t imagine a woman like that is a fan of yours.”

   “No, no, I don’t think she is,” said Roger, with no elaboration. Crone didn’t need any.

   “Whatever you decide to do,” she whispered, “I’d advise bein’ honest about it. Keepin’ secrets is no way to start a life together.”

   She began to walk away; Roger stopped her by speaking.

   “Who said we’re starting a life together?” he said indignantly. “We just met.”

   Crone turned to look at him, ever so briefly, ever so skeptically.

   “Anyone who can make Roger Blank change his mind is not someone who’s just been met,” she said, as she hobbled away. Left alone, Sir Roger sighed again. He slung the empty pack off his back and let it fall to the floor. He tossed his hat atop it, and let himself slouch into his favourite chaise. He stared at the ceiling, and thought, for real this time.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 16

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...Previous

   The ancient tower loomed over Four Meadows farm, black and silent as the surrounding night. Late autumn bugs chirruped in the bushes. Stars played hide and seek behind slow drifts of cloud, riding the slow cool breezes across the sky.

   A figure broke from the treeline, sprinting for the tower, and disappeared into the shadows at its base. A long nose and a broad-brimmed hat broke away in silhouette, glancing around for witnesses. Seeing none, the figure took hold of the ivy sprawling up the stones and began to climb.

   After a minute or two, the same broad brim popped up over the windowsill. Dark brown eyes examined the shutters, which were firmly closed. Thus satisfied, Roger pulled himself up so his waist was level with the windowsill. He reached his arm over his shoulder, groping at the pack on his back.

   Quietly, but quickly, Lucy swung the shutters open before he could react. Sir Roger tensed, fingers curling tight around the ivy, his other hand dangling over his shoulder. Their eyes met in that instant as if drawn by magnets. Even in the blanching glow of the dim moonlight, Lucy could tell he had gone very white. She grinned at him. She couldn’t help it.

   “So,” she giggled, “it WAS you.”

   “Er…yes,” said Sir Roger, returning both hands to the ivy. “I’m sorry. I just wanted it to be a surprise. I hope I didn’t bother you…”

   “The only thing that bothers me is the drop, Roger. I don’t want you risking your neck just to bring me fancy things.” Lucy leaned forward onto her elbows, bracing her head in her fists. “Speaking of which - what have you brought this time?”

   “Wine,” admitted Roger, with a sheepish smile. “Chateau Haut-De-Gamme.”

   Noting the slight tremble of his arms, Lucy stood straight.

   “I have a present for you, as well. Would you like to come see it?”

   She retreated from the windowsill into the enveloping dark. Sir Roger hauled himself onto the ledge and slid into the tower room feet-first, strained muscles grateful for release. Meanwhile, Lucy lit the candle on her nightstand, then crossed to the window and closed the shutters against the chill. She turned to Roger, who had set his backpack of wine and rocks down by her tiny bookshelf.

   “Close your eyes,” she ordered. “I want mine to be a surprise, too.”

   Roger did so, trying not to smile and failing miserably. He could guess what was coming, and wasn’t disappointed. His present was a tender kiss from a lovely lady. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tight, hands caressing her back. Lucy’s mouth lingered on his for a long time, exploring the borders of beard and lip with gentle nibbles. She pressed her hands flat against his chest, feeling his rising heartbeat keep time with her own. Then her hands slid lower, over his stomach…and lower still. She hooked her fingers between his belt and his trousers and pulled hard and fast, drawing him inexorably closer. Sir Roger broke the kiss, looking down at this new arrangement, though not doing anything about it. His wide brown eyes met her smouldering green ones.

   “Is this, er…are we…going to progress?”

   Lucy laughed, confusing him speechless.

   “‘Going to progress’?” she giggled. “Oh, goodness, your pillow talk drives me wild!” She started to undo his belt. “Yes, Roger,” she added more quietly, “I wouldn’t mind fucking, if you’re in the mood.”

   Thus encouraged, he allowed himself to be urged backwards onto the bed. He sat, trousers askew and legs spread; Lucy occupied the space between them. She pulled off her nightdress over her head. The only thing she’d been wearing underneath were leggings to ward off the autumn chill. Gratified by the slightly dazed look his face, she leaned over and kissed him again, pinning him to the blankets. Lucy gave him a few minutes to map out her shape, her textures, her tastes. When she could wait no longer she reached over awkwardly to search the drawer of her nightstand. After a brief shuffle she pulled out a tiny roll of thin lambskin, tossing it on the bed beside him. Then she sat back and began to wrestle with his trouser buttons. Roger raised his head to watch her work.

   “It’s not…not your first time, then?” he panted, referring to the readily available condom. Smiling, Lucy shook her head.

   “No,” he breathed. “Is it yours?”

   He sat up to help her with the trouser leg snagged on his foot. On the way, he couldn’t help but kiss her again, desperate for another taste of her lips. Air, by comparison, was unbelievably dull.

   “No,” he gasped, as he pulled away. “But it is my first time being in love.”

   He smiled, slightly embarrassed at how silly that had sounded out loud. Lucy did not seem to notice, instead blushing at the sincerity in his voice. She grabbed his head and pulled him in for another starved kiss.

   He stood at the juncture of the L-shaped corridor, staring into the darkness. Listening to it. It returned in kind. He held no candle, no lantern; the sparse weedy torches on the walls had been extinguished for the night as usual. He hadn’t seen another guard for at least an hour. The ones that weren’t napping at their posts were gathered in an alcove upstairs playing cards for coins. David was alone, mostly.

   It’s time. There will be no interruptions. They sleep.

   He knew it was true. Could feel it in the air, could hear their snoring and shuffling. The entire block was out cold, except that one. The one who never slept. He thought he had been quiet. He should have known she had heard, should have felt her listening. He’d been too complacent. Too distracted. Now he was neither. He took silent, steady steps down the corridor, leaning up against the wall beside her door. He let the darkness speak for him, in a whisper tinged with false desperation.

   “Ms. Harker?”

   He heard a soft, sharp intake of breath from the gloom.

   “I need you to be quiet. As quiet as I am. Can you do that?”

   “Yes,” came the throttled squeak.

   “I want to talk to you about what you heard. What you told the Elite. The killer knows that someone is on to him, but he doesn’t know who. I want to protect you, Ms. Harker. I want to figure out how to keep you safe.”

   He carefully held the keys on the ring together as he lifted them from his belt.

   “I’m going to come into your cell, now. Give me just a moment.”

   He managed it with only a few squeaks; none loud enough to wake the neighbours. He closed the door in the same way, but did not lock it.

   “Where are you, Ms. Harker?”

   “On the cot,” she whispered shakily. “The far corner, on the right.”

   He touched his right hand to the wall, following it around with tiny, careful footsteps.

   “If he hears us,” whispered David, “we’re both in trouble. Not a sound, do you understand?”

   She acknowledged this by remaining silent. David’s shin dragged up against the low wooden beam of a cot; he felt a quivering radiation through the dark not a few inches away. Suddenly, he could see her there, curled up on the foot of the bed with her back to the wall; whether imagination, echolocation or true dark sight, he could not say. The voice simply told him she was there, and it was right. He could even see her head moving, seeking him in turn.

   “I’m very close, Ms. Harker. I’m going to reach out. Don’t be alarmed when I touch you.”

   She wasn’t, as his right hand closed softly on her upper arm. Then the knife in his left hand touched her throat, poised to cleave her larynx in two. She hadn’t needed his warnings to be silent, after all; she froze completely, terror grinding her to a halt.

   “Oh, now you have nothing to say,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you shut up sooner? You would have saved us all some trouble.”

   She gasped as he pulled her down to the cot by her arm, knife never leaving her throat. He climbed on top of her, knees on either side of her waist. He leaned in close, hunching over her ear like a vulture.

   “If you try screaming, you won’t be able to do it for long. Do you understand?”

   She nodded, doing her best not to whimper as the motion scraped her voicebox against the knife.

   “If you tattle on me ever again, I won’t leave you a tongue to do it with. If you dare let on that I was here, tonight, I won’t sharpen the blade first. The next time Mr. Belvedere comes knocking, you’re going to say it must have been a dream and you can’t be sure and you’re very sorry for wasting his time. If he comes around my house again because of something you said your own mother will not be able to recognize you. Has anything I’ve just said been unclear, Ms. Harker?”

   She shook her head, sawing the knife along her throat. The tendons there stood out like cords of rope as she throttled the sobs in her chest. Satisfied, he made to stand.

   Wait, said the voice. Not yet.

   He froze, knife still hovering, hand still gripping her arm.

   “What?” he whispered aloud, making Ms. Harker flinch. His body suddenly broke out in gooseflesh, his nerves sang electric. The pressure that had been slowly mounting at his groin became the focus of his entire world.

   Don’t take her word that she understands. Make her.

   He came to, then, just for a moment. He was David again and nothing more. There was a woman pinned underneath him, crying, and he wanted to help her, not hurt her. He’d caused this, and that wasn’t right. He should try to make amends. What an awful time to have sprung an erection.

   That was the ebb. The flow crashed over him the next second, a surging tide of black sticky grit. Drowning, he lost consciousness, awaking into a different one. His and not his. The one his ancestors had fought for thousands of years, trying to escape the jungle. The one that sought control from the base of his skull. When he tried to break through the wall of black pain, the voice shrieked at him with visions of those days, those awful days in Steadney.

   There was no telling what the creature lying on the cobbles had once been. Male? Female? Had its skin, what remained, ever been a colour besides burnished shining pink? It had no hair, no clothes, all evaporated by the wave of destruction. No eyes. They were the first to go, as he’d learned all too well in the past few hours.

   He had taken it by the arms. His partner - Nicolas? Alfred? Who had it been that day? - had taken it by the legs. One more corpse for the ever-growing ranks laid shoulder to shoulder in the burning streets.

   The creature had made a sound, just like the one she was making now. A feeble, desperate sigh, begging for release. They both could have mistaken it for the lungs shifting inside that mottled chest, had it not moved. The feeling of muscle tensing under his hand had made Nicolas? Alfred? Or possibly Robert? drop the thing to the ground in shock.

   The weight of the burnished monster had fallen onto David. He released his own grip, trying to get out of the way, but the monster grabbed him, fingers curling reflexively around the folds of his jacket like a baby gripping its mother’s dress. Surprise had tipped his balance, and he fell, the sticky pink thing pinning him to the ground just like he pinned her to the cot. Its breath was hot and dry and smelled of disease, teeth looming huge in shrivelled gums. Just like this, it had brushed its lips across his cheek as he turned to avoid it. Just like this, it had weighed heavily against his body, unable to lift itself, pressing into him. Just like this, he’d tried to shove it away, frantic, bracing against its shoulders.

   Unlike this, Nicolas Alfred or possibly Robert had been there to pull the monster off.

   It wasn’t as nice as the Rose and Badger; in its defence, most pubs weren’t. The Fox and Fennel was darker, closer, the ceiling lower and the windows smaller. It didn’t give the likes of Ambrose Belvedere any pause, though he would have thought twice before bringing a lady of distinction in for a nightcap. He leaned on the not-as-nice bar and asked the woman behind it:

   “Is there a Paula on duty tonight? Paula Breckenridge?”

   The thin, tired-looking woman eyed him up and down.

   “Who’s askin’?”

   Mr. Belvedere pulled back the left wing of his unbuttoned coat, revealing the gold-gilded badge pinned to it. It depicted the Crown’s coat of arms, the scroll underneath declaring him a member of the ROYAL ELITE. The woman did not need to see more. She jerked her chin in the direction of a dark-haired lady out among the largely empty tables, emptying them further of discarded beer steins. Mr. Belvedere watched her work for a moment in silence.

   “What’s she done?” asked the woman, secretively. The Elite man turned back to her and smiled.

   “Not a thing, ma’am. I’d just like to speak with her when she has a free moment. I don’t wish to inconvenience either of you. When it suits you, and her, just tell her to come sit down with me. I’ll take that table in the corner, and a pint of ale.”

   He secured both of those with no fuss. He waited, lurking in the dark corner under the stairs. He couldn’t see much of the pub from where he sat, and he didn’t want to. Privacy was key.

   What he did see after a few minutes was Paula returning to the bar with a platter full of empty glasses and mugs. She set it down, and the innkeeper lay her hands on it. Before lifting it she said something to her barmaid. Paula immediately turned to look at Mr. Belvedere. He nodded at her, and nothing more. Paula exchanged a few more words with the woman, peppered with nervous glances, then disappeared back around the stairs.

   She reappeared a few minutes later, a hand towel draped over her shoulder. This time she walked straight towards the man in the corner, head up and eyes bright. She did not sit down.

   “I…was told you wanted to see me.”

   “That I do, ma’am. My name’s Mr. Belvedere, Ambrose if it suits you. I’m with the Royal Elite. You are Paula, correct? Paula Breckenridge?”

   “Yes. How did you know my name?”

   “You’re married to David,” came both question and answer. Lines of concern streaked her face.

   “Has something happened to him?” she quavered.

   “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Ms. Breckenridge. Will you take a seat?”

   She did. She remained quiet, sad, but she was not shy. She kept his gaze, and waited for him to speak.

   “I’m currently investigating the death of one Guinevere van Allen, recently of Seagate Prison. As you can imagine, your husband has been a subject of interest for me, bein’ the one who found her. I’ve interviewed him twice now and both times he’s lied to me.”

   “What about?” demanded Paula. More angry than defensive.

   “Why doesn’t he want me to know that he worked in law enforcement?”

   She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath; exhaled.

   “It’s not about the job itself,” she sighed. “It’s about why he was put on leave. He’s not hiding the fact that he was in the Guard, he’s hiding…Steadney.”

   It was Mr. Belvedere’s turn to wait.

   “He was one of the first to arrive. They were up there for days combing through ruined buildings. Burying people…burning them. I only know that from the stories. David won’t talk about it. He’s never talked about it, not with me, not with anyone. He hasn’t been the same since he came back. It started with nightmares, and eventually he stopped sleeping altogether. He hardly eats anything and he makes up for it with drink. He thinks I don’t notice.”

   She only allowed herself one brief swipe of her eyes.

   “He’s not well, Mr. Belvedere. He knows he shouldn’t be working, especially at that awful prison, but somehow he’s got it in his head that he has to be. He was going just as crazy staying at home. The reason…the reason he hasn’t said anything is that he’s afraid to be fired for his nerves. He doesn’t want to lose this job. But I suppose I’ve ruined that for him, haven’t I?”

   She scrubbed at her nose. Mr. Belvedere studied her sympathetically.

   “Ms. Breckenridge, it’s a tricky situation, I’ll give you that. I don’t know that his condition would immediately dictate firin’; though it does sound like he would benefit from professional help.”

   “He had it,” warbled Paula. “He saw Dr. Balmoral. He was even taking tonic…was,” she added bitterly. “He decided I didn’t notice that, either. He refused everything that would have helped him.”

   The Elite man had duly noted the name of the prescribing physician.

   “Including me,” continued Paula. “I just want to be there for him and he refuses to talk to me. Or listen. I thought he was getting better, for a while, and now he’s worse than ever, and he still won’t get help.”

   Paula let out another sigh as she looked into the Elite man’s eyes.

   “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That isn’t your concern, is it? Please, excuse my rambling.”

   “If it helped you to feel better, then I will accept no apology,” said Mr. Belvedere. Her face crumpled at this kindness. “In truth, Ms. Breckenridge, I would say that is all relevant information. Learnin’ who your husband is and why he said what he said was the whole reason I came to see you, and you’ve helped me greatly.”

   “Is he going to be in trouble?” breathed Paula. “For lying to the Elite?”

   “Not at all. I don’t believe this particular lie affects the outcome of the investigation. I didn’t suspect it would, though I do have a duty to be certain, one that you’ve helped me fulfill. Thank you, Ms. Breckenridge.”

   The irony of lying to her was not lost on Mr. Belvedere. She did not appear to notice that he had.

   “Now, I am sorry I waylaid you at work,” he said, swigging the last of his ale and standing from the table. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

   She nodded, sniffling. He bent slightly to look her right in the eye.

   “When you’re ready, of course,” he added in a whisper. “I’m sorry to have upset you, ma’am. If the lady of the house gives you trouble about it, you send her to me.”

   Paula shook her head with a small smile.

   “She won’t. And, you didn’t.” Indeed, the sheen in her eyes was already drying. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Belvedere.”

   As he left the Fox and Fennel, he hoped, in vain, that it was the last time he would have reason to talk to her.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 15

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...Previous

   Marigold had to pass through town square on her way from the Rose and Badger. Something was being built there, just north of the fountain in the centre. A scaffolding of some kind. A pair of workmen were hauling square-cut lumber off a nearby ox cart, another was cutting the blocks to size. More of their fellows were nailing the frame together.

   A man who was anything but a workman - thin and seemingly untouched by the sun - was overseeing this, holding one end of an unrolled scroll while the apparent foreman held the other. They appeared to be discussing the work, the thin man with the exceptionally bald head drawing his finger along the scroll at intervals, then pointing at the wooden scaffold. The foreman nodded at most of the things he said.

   Marigold had never met Dr. Balmoral, and had no knowledge with which to recognize him; but she found her head turning to watch him as she passed by. She did not know why. She slowed, stopped. Her eyes flicked to the thing under construction; a stage of some kind. She similarly did not know why she didn’t like the look of it. When she glanced back at Balmoral, he was staring at her. Their eyes met. Marigold learned in that instant that she didn’t like the man; but she still did not know why.

   She went on her way without another glance at either man or scaffold. After a suspicious squint, the doctor returned to his business with the foreman, who was pointing something out on the scroll.

   Marigold made her way out of town, past the gates of Blank Manor without stopping. She had already packed everything she’d need. She kept on the western path towards Braichlie.

   It took Alfaen a moment to answer his door, though this time he was not hiding. The shutters on his townhouse were thrown wide once again, letting in much-needed sunlight. When he opened the door onto Marigold, he smiled, sleepy-eyed. His eyeliner was only slightly smudged.

   “Hey, sorry,” he yawned. “I was just having a nap.”

   “Oh dear,” breathed Marigold, devastated. “I’m so sorry, Alfie. I hate to wake you. I can come back another time.”

   Alfaen stood taller, opening the door wider.

   “Doesn’t look like it,” he observed, of Marigold’s satchel and travelling cloak. “You’re dressed for business, I’d say.”

   “Well, yes, I mean, it would be nice, but if I’m bothering you…”

   “Marigold, I don’t think you have it in yourself to bother anyone. Please, come in. I’ll make some tea.”

   She did, closing the door behind herself. Alfaen had already started ahead down the hall.

   “Old Mr. Channon down the road,” he called from the kitchen, “got up in the middle of the night for a glass of water. Tripped over a rug and broke an arm trying to catch his fall. His daughter came to fetch me about 3 in the morning,” he added more quietly, as Marigold caught up with him, seating herself at the kitchen table. “Didn’t get home ’til after 6, so I was just catching up on the sleep I missed.”

   “Oh, bless the Mither, Alfaen, I’m so sorry,” said Marigold, draping cloak and satchel over the back of her chair. “I feel just awful for waking you.”

   “That’s what a witch is for, Marigold; to be woken by those in need.” He smiled at her as he set the kettle on the woodstove. He began to stoke the fire within. “What’s the story, then?”

   She had no way to phrase it carefully, and so she didn’t.

   “I’m going to Steadney today.”

   Alfaen froze, despite basking in the warmth of the stove embers. He twisted around to stare at Marigold as if she’d spoken a foreign language.

   “There is no Steadney anymore,” he said, as if talking to a child.

   “Well, where it used to be,” insisted Marigold. “I want to find out what happened up there, and I think seeing it for myself would be a good place to start. And I want to do it now because if I wait I’ll have second thoughts and then I’ll never go.”

   Alfaen shut the stove and stood, slinging the poker back into its stand. Not angrily, but frantically, as if he only had a few precious seconds to convince Marigold of the folly of her ways. He sat down across from her in a hurry.

   “Marigold, maybe you should have second thoughts. Did you never hear of the man who went missing? And the search party?”

   “Yes, several times.”

   “And now Steadney…whatever caused it is still wreaking havoc, Marigold. The town is flattened, but the forest around it is still alive…I think. It’s not any sort of life I’d want. The trees are wilted, and the flowers are mutilated. Some of the local hunters have tracked animals up there and seen it first hand. They talk about deer with two heads, or five legs. One even brought back a rabbit with four ears and four eyes. Didn’t eat it,” he added, as if that needed to be said. “Who knows what was in it. It’s normal to see that sort of thing once in a while, but all of that, barely a year past? Something’s wrong with those hills and I don’t want you to get hurt by it.”

   “I am being hurt by it,” said Marigold. “We all are. Witches - and anyone the council feels like calling a witch - are being locked up. Distrusted and discredited. The Mither’s reputation is being tarnished. She’s being turned into a joke. Guin almost ended up killing me and a score of men and that never would have happened if Steadney was still standing. Nothing up there scares me as much as what’s down here.”

   Alfaen was quiet, riveted on her.

   “Something is being built,” continued Marigold more quietly, “in the town square, in Blankston. It could just be a stage for some kind of festival. Or it could be a gallows. That may be a slim chance but it’s not one I’m going to take. I’m not going to sit idly by while they start hanging the women in Seagate. I was idle enough while they were being rounded up.”

   Marigold suddenly noticed that her fists were clenched on the tabletop. She forced herself to relax. Her hands opened like morning glory. She took deeper breaths, trying to dry her stinging eyes without touching them.

   Alfaen stood to see to the bubbling kettle. He gathered mugs and sugar and tea in silence.

   “Marigold,” he said softly, as he filled the teapot, “we all want it to stop. And we’re all guilty of being idle about it. But, if we all traipse into the woods to get killed by who-knows-what, how does that help?”

   “About as much as doing nothing,” rebutted Marigold. She swiped a hand under her nose. Alfaen set the teapot and sugar bowl in front of her, then went back for the mugs on the counter. He waited until he had settled back in his chair to respond.

   “At least wait until morning,” he pleaded. “Let us have more daylight. You can stay here tonight, if you like. We can go tomorrow as soon as I’ve checked in with Mr. Channon.”

   “I have plenty of daylight for a look. That’s all I want for now,” she lied. “And you don’t have to come with me, though I would appreciate the company. All I really wanted in coming here was to ask a favour. You know Crone, right?”

   “Well enough.”

   Marigold paused. She’d practiced on the way over, but hadn’t had enough time to decide which version was the best.

   “If you don’t hear from me by this time tomorrow, go to Blank Manor. Tell Crone where I went. Don’t let anyone send out a search party.”

   Alfaen snaked his arm between the various tea settings on the table and grabbed her hand.

   “Marigold, you’re not talking sense. Don’t go up there; not alone. Not in the dark.”

   “Do you think it’s any less dangerous in the daylight?”

   He opened his mouth, and closed it again with a defeated sigh, withdrawing his hand. Marigold took a swig of tea.

   “That search party,” she continued, “didn’t go up there alone. I don’t know if they went in the dark or not, but having company didn’t help them either way. I want to see what’s up there and I’m ready to face it, right now. If I wait I won’t be.”

   Alfaen’s mouth remained shut. His tea stayed untouched. He didn’t look at Marigold.

   “I’ll try to be back before nightfall,” she insisted. “I won’t guarantee it, but I’ll try. I just want to look, that’s all. But, please, wait until tomorrow before you tell anyone. Please. I don’t take many risks, but I’m begging you to let me take this one.”

   He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the sugar bowl.

   “I’m not your dad, Marigold. You can take whatever risks you like.”

   “But—“ she began, and was cut off.

   “I will do you that favour, if I have to. I don’t like it, but, you asked nicely.” He met her gaze across the table. “If there’s one person I trust not to do stupid things, it’s you. Just don’t prove me wrong.”

   Marigold couldn’t help a small smile. “I’ll do my best, Alfaen. Thank you.”

   He finally took a drink of tea. When he set his mug back down, he said:

   “Why Crone? Why not the Guard?”

   “That’s…a bit of a long story. The best way I can put it is, she’ll know what really happened. If anything does,” Marigold added hastily. “She’s the only one who’ll understand.”

   “Hm,” mused Alfaen, though he did not press the point. “How do you know Crone? I wasn’t aware you two had met.”

   “Oh. Well. Um. I suppose I forgot to tell you, in all the excitement…I’m, er, working for Sir Roger now, as a housemaid. Crone is teaching me witchery in my spare time.”

   “You’re working for-!?” Alfaen cut himself off, sudden realization dawning on his face. He stared at Marigold in disbelief. “So you’ve probably also met…”

   Marigold nodded. “We’d met before,” she explained. “A couple of times. But it’s been lovely to get to know her. She’s a remarkable lady.”

   “She hasn’t…said anything,” asked Alfaen. “Like, that she knows about…anything I did, right?”

   “Not to me,” assured Marigold. “I’ve only ever heard her be proud of you.”

   He closed his eyes, just for a moment. He took another sip of tea.

   “She is remarkable, isn’t she?” he agreed quietly. Then he shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re both under that man’s whip. Neither of you deserve that.”

   “He’s really not so bad. From an employment perspective,” she added defensively, when Alfaen shot her a glare. “He pays well. And I have lots of time for learning the trade with Crone. It’s only temporary, Alfaen, I promise.”

   He slouched back in his chair, disheartened. “Not for Mom,” he murmured.

   The creak of a floorboard in the hall commanded both their attentions. Marigold turned, expecting to see someone standing there; Alfaen knew it was only the shift of the house beams as someone came up the steps. Indeed, a second later, there was a knock at the front door.

   “Sorry,” said Alfaen, as he made for the hallway. “Let me just see who it is.”

   Marigold waited in the small, sunny kitchen, sipping her tea. She didn’t particularly want or need it, having just finished off a perry less than an hour before, but she felt it was polite to drink tea when a host offered it. Especially one she had so rudely awakened. She heard the front door open; an unsure pause. Quiet words being exchanged. She looked over briefly, then focused on the tea spread before her.

   Two sets of footsteps started down the hall in her direction. Marigold stayed very still. She only looked over when Alfaen entered but did not sit down, hovering by the door. Behind him she caught sight of a shining chest plate, an earnest young face. Though it was not unhappy to see her, she could tell right away she had not been part of the plan.

   “Oh! Captain,” she said, standing. “How nice to see you. I’m sorry I can’t stay, I was just on my way out.”

   “No, please, Ms. Baker, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” said Julian Bossard. “I only have to borrow Alfi…uh, Mr. Galbraith for a moment.”

   “I’m afraid I wasn’t just being polite, Captain. I really do have to go.” She glanced at Alfaen, reaffirming their agreement using only her eyes. Then she met Julian’s. “And thank you, truly, for coming to find me for Mr. Belvedere. We had a lovely talk.”

   The captain nodded at her as she brushed past him. “I’m glad I could help, Ms. Baker.”

   She let a smile be her last word as she escaped the townhouse. Julian looked to his host, who had already resumed his spot at the table.

   “Tea’s fresh,” said Alfaen, indicating the pot. Julian shook his head as he sat in Marigold’s abandoned chair.

   “No, thanks. I won’t be long.”

   “About that…” said the witch. “What are you doing here?”

   “Funny enough, it’s about Mr. Belvedere.”

   Alfaen grimaced and closed his eyes.

   “He knows, doesn’t he.”

   “He doesn’t know your name,” assured an oblivious Julian, “but, yes, he knows I’m covering for someone. He didn’t make a scene of it, though. He agreed that I had good reasons for not turning you in.”

   “Then why are you here?” demanded Alfie.

   “Alfie, not everyone is out to get you, alright? Just listen.” Julian forced himself to take a steadying breath. “I don’t know if you’ve heard…Guinevere van Allen was found dead in prison last week. Suicide by hanging is the official verdict.”

   “Yeah,” said Alfie quietly. “I heard.”

   Julian nodded slowly. “Ms. Baker,” he observed.

   “Her and everyone else. There’s plenty of talk going around.”

   The captain took another breath.

   “I’m not supposed to be here,” he sighed, “and I’m not supposed to say this; but I have to, for the greater good. Please, try to keep it to yourself, for now.”

   “Of course, Juli. I’d never do you up like that.”

   The captain knew it was true. He would not have come, otherwise.

   “There’s a possibility that she was murdered.” He gave it a moment to sink in, though Alfaen seemed rapt rather than confused.

   “Says who?” he demanded.

   “The coroner. I haven’t seen his report, but the way Mr. Belvedere has been acting makes me think I know what it says.”

   Alfaen shook his head slowly.

   “That doesn’t make sense. I could maybe see why someone would kill her, but, how? She was locked up.”

   “Security at that prison is lax,” said Julian, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “If it actually housed any criminals, the guards would have a hard go of it. I could imagine any person off the street getting hold of a keyring. That’s the easy part; the harder question is why. Do you really think you know?”

   “Well, I mean…she wasn’t exactly popular, especially after town hall. There are a lot of people out there who wouldn’t have minded hurting her in some way. Murder’s pretty extreme, but, y’know…some people are.”

   Julian had not been expecting a trove of information from his friend, but he’d been expecting more than that. It showed on his face.

   “I’m sorry, man,” said Alfaen.

   “If you knew anything, you’d come forward, right?”

   The witch felt a flash of anger; then he remembered his friend was not being patronizing, he was simply being an officer of the Guard.

   “I did,” said Alfaen patiently, “when it mattered. When I could actually make a difference. Interviewing me now would be a waste of the Elite’s time.”

   The Guard captain continued to look put out. Alfaen stood, crossed back to the cupboard above the basin, and removed a mug from it. He set this down in front of Julian.

   “Have some tea,” insisted the witch. “Tell me about it.”

   “I don’t need tea, Alfie. I need to help Mr. Belvedere.”

   In spite of his statement, Julian did not protest as his mug was filled. Alfaen sat back down across from him.

   “What can you do about it right now?” asked the witch. “Right this minute, in my kitchen, what could you do to help Mr. Belvedere?”

   He saw the gleam of understanding in Julian’s eyes; he also saw Julian fighting against it, unsuccessfully.

   “Well, I…could go back to the guardhouse and see if there’s been a message,” was his best attempt. Alfaen shook his head, smiling.

   “You could also sit here and have some tea with me. That would be just about as helpful, and I think you’d enjoy it more.”

   After taking a sip of the pleasantly bitter brew, Julian had to admit his friend might have a point.

   Marigold had never considered herself an outdoorswoman, but she didn’t let that stop her as civilization drifted away behind her back. The neat cobblestones ran to ruin as the road became flattened earth, scattering like a flock of birds until none were left. A mile on, the road split; the right path continued flat to the next county, the left snaked up the side of the hill where Steadney had once stood. The wooden signpost at the fork still guided travellers to Braichlie and the towns beyond; Steadney’s marker had been nailed over with a noncommittally blank piece of scrap wood. On closer inspection, Marigold realized that a year’s worth of knife-wielding wags had been at it, some with skulls and crossbones, others with words and phrases she wouldn’t care to repeat even while she was alone. She climbed higher, focusing on the unpleasant things ahead rather than behind.

   The vivid oranges and reds of the trees, and the greens of their coniferous cousins, faded ever more to a sad, sickly yellow as Marigold pressed on. The yellow faded to dead dry brown, then to charred black. There had been a fire after Steadney’s destruction that the surrounding county had watched with unease for a couple of days. The late autumn rains had mercifully spared most of the forest, though the black border remained.

   Soot clung to Marigold’s shoes on her way through. The withered matchsticks that used to be trees grew sparser as she neared the ruined village. They gave way to the signs of humanity; stones cut with corners, shards of glass, the steel axles of a cart. Ash-blackened masonry clung to form all around her, trying desperately to keep the shapes they’d been given by human hands. The loss of their wooden beams and thatched roofs made this a struggle. As Marigold passed them by, one gave up another brick. It landed with a flat thump and sent up a puff of soot and dust.

   She began to see patches where the bricks had melted away, running like old grey candles into the dirt. Before her was a circular plain, a gaping maw ringed by weathered nubs of stone teeth. Marigold slowed as she approached it, then stopped entirely, lurking in the shadow of a burnt-out house. Whatever had happened, she knew, had happened there. The circle was too perfect to be a wildfire. It was the same vast depression in the earth that had destroyed a temple long ago and far away.

   Lost in thought, Marigold was startled by the soft crackle of sticks behind her. She turned on a dime, hand flying to the knife in her skirt pocket. The deer that had been passing by froze in place at her movement. Each examined the other carefully.

   It was a buck, for the most part. One of its heads looked normal enough, antlers and all. The second only had stubs of horn. An eye shaped like a figure of eight watched her with two misshapen pupils.

   It did not seem a threat to Marigold. Marigold did not seem a threat to it. After a silent half-minute, it limped along on five mismatched legs. The sixth was too short to reach the ground.

   When it disappeared from sight, Marigold looked back at the plain. She’d come this far. Shoulders straight, she walked out into Steadney’s town square, now town circle, her shadow leading the way in the setting sunlight. She stood on the spot where the apple seller had died, and scanned the hills above. Her head ranged back and forth like an owl seeking a mouse.

   There was no end of grey smudges in the shadows of the forest. No end of black specks. Marigold berated herself for not pestering Mr. Arbroagh for clearer directions to the castle. She moved back and forth across the diameter of the circle, hoping to catch a glimpse at the right angle. Nothing.

   With a sigh, she hung her head. She turned, considered the path she’d cut through the woods. It seemed so early to give up. Marigold glanced back up into the hills, and froze.

   The setting sun had caught on something among the trees to her left. It was only a tiny pinprick; a reflection off a distant window, the sheen off a metal hinge, but it was enough. The tiny grey smudge with tinier black dots for windows was there all of a sudden, fully formed in her vision.

   Marigold started towards it, partly watching her feet on the rocky ground, mostly keeping an eye on the castle. Burning the direction to follow into her mind. The sun to my back, she thought, and slightly to the left. The castle’s on an overlook. Find a cliff.

   Part of her knew she should head back. A much stronger part urged her on, through broken trees and sickly undergrowth. After a mile or so, the forest returned to a healthy vigour, glowing orange in the fading sunlight.

   It was nearly dark when Marigold came across the path. She hauled herself up over the rise of a leafy jut, having cut through a wallowing creek bed. She found herself on a narrow deserted road, long grown over with patches of grass and littered with pinecones, but a road all the same. The only reason a path would have been cut all the way up here, thought Marigold, would be to serve a castle and its inhabitants in the long ago. It seemed to lead in the right direction. Her going was much easier after that, even through the pinecones and scrub grass.

   Darkness closed in all around her, but she kept on. She paused only a moment to light the tiny lantern she’d brought, and to lift her hood against the gathering chill. As she set off once more on the path, the castle began to rise into her vision. A couple of its windows glowed with candlelight, matching the flicker of Marigold’s lantern.

   There was a clearing around the castle, once grounds, now reclaimed by the forest. Young trees had started to take hold on the remains of grassy lawns. Sculpted bushes had been allowed to run wild. Leaves and conifer needles carpeted every square inch. The path continued to the front stairs in much the same fashion. Crunching softly, Marigold made her way to the castle’s looming double doors. They stood twice as tall as her, oak long hardened to near-stone. Each sported a huge iron ring held in the mouth of a creature; Marigold thought they might be lions, but centuries of weather had made it hard to tell. The rings still seemed intact.

   Marigold stood for a moment, gathering her thoughts. I am alone. There is someone, or something that knows how to light candles, living here. It might be a woman who murdered a dozen people in the span of minutes. A woman whose mind was so broken as to call her captive her lover. A woman who doesn’t take kindly to meddlers in her business. The other option is to turn back, having come this far, and that’s just as insane.

   Marigold seized the doorknocker on the right and banged it down thrice. The silence surrounding the castle seemed to spread, cancelling out the chirping of bugs, the rustling of leaves.

   Marigold waited longer than she had ever waited before. She could hear nothing from within the castle, see no movement in its windows.

   A small creak startled her out of her reverie. A slat in the door at head-height had shifted, allowing a hair’s breadth of light to shine through. It wiggled a bit up and down, shaking loose the decades of disuse. This done, it pulled open wide, revealing two eyes peering out at her. Each belonged to a different person, standing cheek to cheek, glaring at their visitor.

   “Hello,” said Marigold. “I’m, uh, sorry to bother you. I was told I could find a sorcerer, here.”

   The eyes broke apart to trade a glance. They turned back to Marigold with identical skeptical glimmers.

   “Why would you seek one?” asked a female voice. It seemed to come from the owner of the eye on Marigold’s right, the one framed by black hair. The young witch addressed it.

   “I want to know more about what happened in Steadney last autumn. I heard that the person involved might have been a sorcerer, and, well, I thought that talking to another sorcerer would make a good start.”

   The eyes met briefly once more.

   “What purpose should this serve?” asked the owner of the other eye, a deep-chested man by the sounds of it. “Steadney is no more.”

   “Well, I’m still here. And I’m a witch, and witches are being blamed for it. I want to know the truth so maybe that doesn’t happen anymore. If it’s not too much trouble,” she added, ever Marigold.

   “Mere witches are thought to have destroyed the village?” breathed the woman. “How could that be?”

   “If you let me in, I’ll explain,” said Marigold. “I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

   After a pause, the female eye dodged in front of the male one, towards the door latch. The man hissed a word soft and sibilant that Marigold did not understand.

   “What?” demanded the woman, of the man. After a quick glance at Marigold, she reached up and shut the slat in the door. The young witch listened for a moment to their whispered argument, straining to hear even the faintest sound behind the thick oak. The voices fell silent behind the door. Then, it opened. Crone’s words echoed in Marigold’s head.

   Hair dark as any I’d seen on a baby. A few minutes later she had a blond little brother.

   The brother, it seemed, was not so little anymore. He stood taller and wider than his sister now, and she was by no means petite. The black of her hair was cut through above her right eye with a strip of white-blond; her brother had the opposite, a raven black wedge amid the pale.

   “I am sorry,” said the woman firmly, speaking more to her brother than Marigold. “Please…we would like you to come in.”

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