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Autumn of the following year was a warm one, and dry. On these clear days, the citizens of Blankston could see the shadow in the hills that had been Steadney only one year ago. The shadow was small, all things considered; not more than a mole on the vast green face of the mountains. It cast a yellow penumbra on the surrounding trees, which seemed to have sickened at its touch. Some of the more imaginative citizens claimed these trees gave off a glow in the night, though nobody dared get close enough to check. After a handful of first responders had come down with unspeakable and sometimes fatal illnesses, even the teenaged boys stayed away.
Marceline had loved a teenaged boy. She had been a teenaged girl, of course; she would never be so unseemly. She had loved him as a young lady, and as a woman, and had married him in the end. He was now Captain of the Guard in Blankston, and she loved him all the same. She loved him all the more because he helped with the dishes and did his share of the laundry. She had chosen wisely, as had her husband. Captain Bossard knew his wife had no interest in joining the force, which was a tragedy for the force.
He was sweeping the kitchen floor, picking his way through the maze of table and chair legs. The opened stove at the head of the table was burning low, casting just enough glow by which he could stab at errant crumbs. At the basin under the window, Marceline was drying the last of the dishes and storing them away.
Gazing out into the night, Marceline suddenly stilled her hands. Calmly, quietly, she set down the bowl she held. She towelled off her fingers, and placed the cloth neatly down on the counter. Then she reached for the drawer beside her. Captain Bossard only looked up at this strange display when he heard the squeak of metal on metal. He saw his wife staring out the window, a sturdy carving knife in her hand.
“Marcy?” he said cautiously.
“There’s a man in the garden,” she replied, without turning around. The ever-present Guard in him took over immediately. Moving swiftly and silently, he crossed to the cupboard tucked away behind the stove, where mops and brooms made their happy home. He replaced his broom with a click against the stone, then turned to the wall opposite. An ironing board slouched there. He pushed it aside to get at the huge flintlock pistol hanging underneath, for just such an occasion. When he turned around, his wife was already standing beside him.
“Just one?” he asked.
“That I could see. Hooded.”
They tensed as someone knocked quietly at the front door. They could see it through the kitchen archway. Both waited, listening with all their might. Silence. The door remained untouched. No one rattled it on its hinges. No one tried the latch. After all of this nothing, the knock came again, loud and clear. Mr. and Mrs. crept towards it, keeping half an eye on the windows. Marcy set her hand on the latch, ready to pull the door open and shield herself behind it. Her husband took up on the other side, flat against the wall, pistol at the ready. They made eye contact across the span of the front archway.
“Who is it?” asked the captain, of his late visitor.
“Julian?” came the excited whisper. “It’s Alfie.”
Captain Bossard wished he could have set his pistol down immediately and thrown the door open, relieved that the danger had all been imagined. For any other friend, he would have. For Alfie, he hesitated. He reflected carefully for a moment, though his wife opened the door before he could reach a conclusion. He stepped back a bit from the swinging edge to allow his hooded visitor to wheedle in. He hid his pistol hastily in his trouser waist. Alfie didn’t seem to notice this. He began to speak even before he’d crossed the threshold, riveting immediately on the Guard captain.
“Thank the mither,” he whispered. “Julian, I’m—“
He cut himself off with a startled cry. Marcy had stepped out from behind the door and walloped him across the back of the head with a firm hand.
“You scared us half to death!” she snapped, shutting the door behind him with a similar cadence. “What are you doing sneaking in the back garden this time of night?!”
Captain Bossard knew Alfie as a proud man. His pride had caused trouble through their boyhood and beyond. His pride had made one of his friends hesitate to open a door for him, unsure of whom he might have made angry this time. Whom he had talked back to erroneously. Whom he had tried to punch. This prideful little maniac, for once in his life, bowed his head in deference. That was the moment that Julian knew this was no ordinary escapade.
“I’m sorry, Marcy!” said Alfie. “I’m so sorry! I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important!”
“I’m sure,” she spat. “Why didn’t you take the front walk?”
“I…I didn’t want to be seen,” said Alfie shakily. “I mean, not that I’ve done anything, I just had to be careful. I—“
She stepped up to him, towering as best she could, though they were of a similar height.
“Whatever you’ve done, I hope Julian arrests you for it. Like he should have,” she continued, looking to her husband, “a long time ago. I’m going to bed.”
She turned, knife still in hand, and stormed back into the kitchen. The two men in the front hall watched the fading flicker of a candle on the walls as she headed for the back of the house.
“What ARE you doing here, Alfie?” sighed Bossard tiredly. Alfie darted forward and took him by the arms.
“I swear it’s important, Julian! I’m sorry to come so late! I had to make sure you knew as soon as you could.” He leaned in, his hands still gripping tightly. “Someone’s plotting to destroy town hall!”
She heard the sounds, all at once, and she knew. A single blast from a pistol, the shattering of wood, the remains of the lock bolt breaking through the wall as the front door was kicked in. Orders shouted, clipped and clear. A stampede of heavy footsteps. She knew exactly what they wanted. Knew that escape would not be easy.
Her young apprentice was at her side in that same instant, drawing herself close. Guinevere thought of her as ‘the girl’, though they had less than a decade’s difference in age. The girl’s hands closed gently on her upper arm.
“Guin, what’s going on?”
Guinevere saw the first wave of men charging through the dark beyond the kitchen door. She reached past her apprentice to the stove, where the girl had been minding a bubbling pot of topical ointment. It was turning oily and yellow, just as it should. The girl had done a fine job.
Guinevere ignored the stinging heat in the handle. It would only take a moment. She hurled the contents of the pot in a graceful arc, adding the pot itself for good measure. The screams were instantaneous. She muffled them by slamming the kitchen door. She leapt at the crockery cupboard in the corner and tipped it over across the threshold, blocking the entryway in a thunderous crash of plates and teapots.
When she turned to her apprentice, the girl was pale and frozen. Her eyes were the size of the shattered platters on the floor. Guinevere took her by the hand and pulled her towards the cellar door.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Marigold. You’ll be fine if you do what I say.”
“I will,” squeaked the girl. “Who are they, Guin?”
“Witch hunters. You mustn’t panic,” she said calmly, as Marigold’s expression twisted in fear. “You’re going to be alright, do you hear me?” She nudged the girl in front of her. “Get down the stairs. Go!”
Marigold staggered down into the dark cellar as fast as her nervous knees could take her. From a nearby counter, Guinevere snatched up the candle by whose light the girl had been reading her recipe. She hurried after her apprentice, pausing only to bolt the cellar door behind her.
“Come here,” she ordered, as her feet hit the stone floor. Marigold followed her closely to the corner opposite the stairs. There were barrels grouped here, dozens of them, each as big around as Marigold was tall. Guinevere held the candle out to her apprentice.
“Hold it away from the barrels,” she warned, as the girl took the flame. The witch dove down and grabbed the end of Marigold’s tidy white apron before she could react. Guinevere tore it up one side and down the other, making a neat rectangle. She began to twist this into a rope. With one hand, she wrenched the lid off a barrel near the centre of the pack, and with the other plunged the makeshift fuse deep into the white crystalline contents. She withdrew her fist and slammed the lid back down overtop the dangling cotton. It slunk from the barrel like a sickly cow’s tongue.
A deafening roar sounded above them. Marigold looked to the floorbeams in fright, dust and cobwebs falling over her face as the cellar ceiling shook. Once, pause. Twice, pause. The scrape of a fallen crockery cupboard on an old wooden floor, as the door behind it was forced ajar by a legion of strong men.
“Guin…?” she whispered.
“Stay calm, Marigold.” The witch had crossed to a shelf on the far wall, overtop the potato bins and jarred cucumbers, and was taking down a bright blue bottle from among its fellows. When she returned to the barrels, she wrenched the cork out with her teeth and started to pour the contents over the sickly tongue. It was clear liquid, easily mistakable for water were the smell not so strong. Guinevere splashed some of it over the barrels once the fuse was sodden. When it was empty, she spat out the cork and threw the bottle across the cellar towards the stairs, where it shattered in a dim blue supernova. It was obvious from the pounding footsteps above them that the witch hunters had good boots, but there was never harm in a sharp greeting mat.
Guinevere’s strange ritual was drawing to a close. As the cellar door began to splinter, raining even more sharps down the stairs, the witch pulled the candle out of her apprentice’s hands. She hooked her other arm around Marigold’s shoulders, drawing her further into the corner beside the barrels.
“You’re going to be alright,” she assured in a whisper. The first of the good boots were coming down the stairs, now, lanterns throwing monstrous shadows around the stairwell. Marigold huddled close to her teacher.
“If I’m going to die, you can tell me,” the girl whispered back. “I-I can handle it.”
Guinevere removed her arm from the girl’s shoulders and reached for her chin instead. She guided Marigold’s gaze to meet her own.
“You won’t,” insisted the witch. “I might, but you will not. I am going to get you out safe, I promise.”
“But, Guin—“
“Hold up!”
The shout from the stairs made them jump. They knew the men were there, could see them plainly, but the volume had surprised them both. They riveted on the intruders; one man in particular, the one at the front of the pack who had shouted. He had his hand up, an order for his fellows to stop. He stood on the last step. Two huge pistols hung at his hips. He seemed to be listening for something. Then, he inhaled deeply. Across the dim cellar, he made eye contact with Guinevere.
“Kerosene,” he remarked.
“Damned right,” barked the witch. “And a dozen barrels of nitre salts. All I need now is a little provocation.”
The man scanned the floor below him; jagged, but dry. He stepped down onto the shards of glass with a quiet jangle. His soldiers waited for his word.
“Provocation’s the last thing on our minds, dear.”
“Is that why you kicked down my door?”
Mr. Kerosene smiled at this. “We had to hurry, my lovely. No time to knock. Now that we know you’re safe, we can take our time.”
He took a long step forward, crinkling more glass. His hands stayed firmly in the air.
“I’m gon’ to reach for my pistols, now,” he said plainly. “An’ I’m gon’ hand them to the fellas behind me.” He pulled one out of its holster and dangled it back over his shoulder, never looking away from the witch. A lackey behind him took it with a quiet crunch of glass. “And then the fellas behind me are gon’ do the same. We’re gon’ trade bullet for quarrel so nobody’s itchy finger gets us in trouble. Did we all hear that, fellas?” he asked, as he handed the second pistol away. The only sound of assent was the quiet rustle of steel on leather as pistols were passed up the stairs. In that brief pause, Mr. Kerosene unslung a monstrously big crossbow from his back. He simply held it, loose and lax like his pistols; he did not aim it. Most of his men did the same.
“There,” said Mr. Kerosene. “Now nobody’s gon’ set a spark they shouldn’t. Fire’s all in your hands. An’ you don’t wanna die, do ya?”
“I don’t want to see the inquisitors, either,” said Guinevere.
“Of course you don’t,” said the man, quietly. “Come forward, gents. Fan out.”
A dozen men came trickling down the stairs, all with crossbows ready at their chests. They formed a loose semi-circle beyond Guinevere’s candlelight. As they tightened formation, the witch took a step back, releasing her apprentice and taking up the cotton wick instead.
“Come closer,” she breathed. “I dare you.”
“Nobody doin’ no such thing,” said Mr. Kerosene. “We’re stayin’ right here, ahn’t we?”
His men did not move.
“Good,” he said, satisfied. “Now we can talk.”
“Not yet, we can’t,” snapped Guinevere. “We’ll talk after you let the girl go.”
Mr. Kerosene turned his attention briefly to Marigold.
“This girl, here?” he asked. “Where’s she gon’ to?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here. She’s getting out of this cellar alive.”
“I’d like nothin’ more, lovely. I want all of us outta this alive! If we talk, we can make it happen, don’t you think?”
Guinevere’s grip on the cotton wick tightened, squeezing out a few drops of kerosene onto the floor. She didn’t look at Marigold. She only had eyes for the man before her.
“She had nothing to do with it,” whispered the witch. “I’ll come with you, but she won’t. She’s innocent. She didn’t even know.”
Mr. Kerosene’s hazel-bright gaze flicked to Marigold once more.
“She looks it,” he said kindly. “You know she won’t be hurt, don’t you?”
“I don’t know anything when it comes to you people. I need her safe.”
“You will be, honey, if you come to me,” said Mr. Kerosene. To Guinevere’s horror, she realized he was addressing Marigold directly. He let his crossbow hang a bit as he extended a gloved hand her way. “I can tell you ain’t a part of this. Would you like to get outta here?”
“Don’t listen to him!” snapped Guinevere. The harshness in her tone made Marigold flinch. The girl hadn’t moved at all, frozen in discombobulation. The witch glared at Mr. Kerosene, and brought the candle closer to the fuse. The width of her body was all the distance between them now.
“If you speak to her again you’ll have her blood on your hands,” breathed the witch. Her voice could have melted glass. Mr. Kerosene, for the moment, kept his tongue. Guinevere turned her tone on her apprentice.
“Marigold, do as I say, and don’t argue. These men are going to let you pass. Just walk by. Don’t look at them, don’t listen to them. When you get upstairs, take one of their pistols. They will let you. Don’t worry. Once you have one, run. Run as fast as you can for as long as you can. Do not look back and do not stop, not for anything. Do you understand?”
Her apprentice was staring at her with huge, sad eyes. Guinevere did not look her way once, instead watching every tiny movement of the witch hunters.
“Guin, what about you?” whispered the girl.
“Don’t worry about me. Go, now. If you’ve ever loved me, go!”
She raised her voice as her apprentice made no move. Then, she raised it to the men surrounding them. “If you so much as look at her you’re all dead, do you hear me?”
They obeyed, even more amenably than the apprentice. Marigold inched past their ranks at a snail’s pace, hands up in surrender. She didn’t know where she was going, could barely grasp the situation as it was, but she knew she had been given an order.
Once the creaking of the stairs had stopped, and the sound of Marigold’s running feet on the floor above had faded, the cellar came to silence.
“Happy?” asked Mr. Kerosene quietly.
“No,” said Guinevere. “Not ’til we’re burning in hell together.”
She heard the whisper of a quarrel zipping past her ear, and a stark stony clunk as it hit the wall behind. Let them shoot, she thought, as she brought candle and wick together in her hands.
The wick did not catch. It only took a second for Guinevere to realize there was nothing in her hand to catch it with. She held only half of the candle; the other half was on the floor, neatly cut at an angle. The flame burned harmlessly against the dry stone floor.
“Touch it,” said a new voice, “and you lose the hand. Put them up if you want to keep them.”
She would never have paused, should never have paused, but her previous assailants seemed just as taken aback as she that the voice had spoken. Mr. Kerosene tilted his head to see behind him, one curious eyebrow raised.
Guinevere could see this new man only in shadow. He had come forward from the very back of the throng, but stayed behind the men’s lantern light. She could see the outline of a broad-brimmed hat. He was holding his crossbow to his eye.
Enraged, she dove for the candle top, throwing the useless nub of wax to the winds. Another whisper crossed her path. Pain exploded through her hand as it was jerked aside by a sudden silent force. Gasping, she looked to her palm, pierced through by a quarrel. Blood welled up around the shaft, running in tiny rivulets down the head, droplets hitting the stone in time with the shaking of her hand. She cried out as her fingers curled instinctively, driving the pain up her arm.
The man with the crossbow had already reloaded. He stepped out from among the men, keeping his weapon firmly on the witch.
“Cuffs, now,” he said flatly. “And watch that hand.”
The men made no move.
“Do as he says,” sighed Mr. Kerosene, his own bow trained on the witch in sync with the newcomer’s. Guinevere grunted as her arms were twisted behind her back by two men, a third between them with a pair of iron shackles. The pain in her hand was excruciating, but she swallowed her cries. She gritted her teeth and glared at the crossbowman instead. She knew that face. That hat. Those wide brown eyes. Everyone knew them these days. He stared back, smiling the tiniest of smiles. Once the shackles were on, he lowered his weapon. Mr. Kerosene did the same.
“I don’ recall your assignment to this case, Sir Roger. Could you refresh my memory?”
“Certainly, Mr. Belvedere. Only a moment ago, you were flirting dangerously with fiery death. I assigned myself to save you.”
“You’d know if I was flirtin’, son. That there was hardly a come-hither.” Mr. Belvedere reslung his crossbow onto his back. “Now’d someone tell you where we’d be, or’d you follow from town?”
“A little of both, my comrade in arms. Naturally, I’d heard the inquisitors whispering. And, also naturally, I was surprised that they hadn’t approached their best witch hunter for help. So, I took matters into my own hands.”
“They approached their best elite forces, Roger, which is exactly what they should’ve done. This is hardly to do with witches. It’s all to do with dangerous criminals.”
Sir Roger spread his hands in a gesture of truce.
“Why in the world should we bicker? You have your suspect, I have my tale of derring-do, we can all go home and chalk this up as a success.”
The witch hunter sauntered towards the shackled Guinevere, now upright with a man at either side. He knelt down to retrieve the still-burning stub of candle at her feet. He studied it thoughtfully for a moment, the orange twinkle reflecting in his deep brown eyes, then looked to the witch.
“…or can we?” he mused. “I feel as though something’s missing.”
He was well within her reach, and would have regretted this had her arms not been shackled behind her back. She could only stew silently in her guards’ embraces. He blew the flame out in front of her with a tiny puff of breath.
