Guinevere had given her a few precious minutes of flight into the countryside, and she hadn’t wasted any. She hadn’t even looked back, lest she slow her feet by a fraction. Though her sides ached, and her breath stung in her throat, and her head pounded with worry over what might happen to Guinevere, she ran. She’d been told not to stop, and she was a good girl. The moon guided her way, pointing out farmer’s fences to leap over and creeks to splash through. Her dress became soaked to her knees, courtesy of evening dew in the tall meadow grass, but she did not let that slow her down.
As she danced carefully over the roots of an ancient apple grove, her brain piped up with a thought not of Guinevere. She paused for the first time, leaning against a curlicue tree trunk to steady her ragged breath. The thought came again, her subconscious cutting through the panic in her mind: Listen. You must listen.
She could hear no footsteps, no voices, only the hiss of a nearby river. Heart sinking, she crept forward, following the trajectory she’d been on since she’d fled Guinevere’s cottage. Between the mottled silhouettes of ancient trees, the great rushing river revealed itself. Flickers of white water. Rocks hidden in deep frothy flows. It roared at her, hungry for the reckless person who might try and cross its rapids. Taunted her with the safety of the thick forest on the facing bank.
The mill, she thought. She’d bought some flour there just last week. Upstream. The waterwheel. Slow and shallow.
She stifled a gasp as a branch snapped nearby. Marigold leapt back into her run, turning blindly upriver.
Sir Roger followed the edge of the apple grove, listening carefully to pinpoint the girl. Before he’d been a witch hunter, which was not all that long ago, he’d been a gentleman of leisure. That leisure included deerstalking, in which his experience was now proving useful. This woman was much easier to follow than the average doe. Deer never gasped for breath, they didn’t often break large branches, and they were a hell of a lot faster than a frightened young lady.
Up ahead he could see the bend of a raging river. No bridges in sight. This was good. He tuned out the rush of the water, focusing on the old orchard. Nothing. She had stopped.
He raised the crossbow to his eye, scoping one crooked branch hanging low in the moonlight. A stark silhouette; the perfect target. He fired with a whispering twang. The bough snapped with a noise like breaking bone. Sir Roger heard a small gasp, then the crashing cacophony resumed. Upriver, he decided. With a flick of his cape, he gave chase.
Her path through the apple grove was clear cut. He abandoned his stealthy silence, tromping over her dainty depressions with his own sturdy boots in order to gain some ground.
Sir Roger slowed to a stop as the trees began to thin. He shied behind one, to observe. Before him was a vast meadow. There were no hiding places on that moonlit plain. He looked to his left, towards the river, and tightened his grip on his crossbow. There was a gristmill a few yards along the bank. The waterwheel spun silently, detached from the millstone for the night. The miller’s home was quiet as well, windows dark, shutters closed. Of greatest interest to him was the young woman running full tilt across the meadow for the little tangle of buildings.
He had the bow loaded in an instant. Keeping it to his eye, he sidled out from between the trees, holding the quarrel aligned to his prey, in the very centre of her back. It would have killed her, had that been his intention.
Instead, he raised his sight to the sky, and fired.
The first quarrel buried its head in the ground a few steps in front of Marigold. She cried out, and stumbled, and fell backwards as she tried to dig in her heels. Trembling, she leapt back on her feet as quickly as she could. She wasn’t able to stop herself this time; she needed to see. She glanced over her shoulder as she ran.
Only one man, emerging from the trees, but he was close. Close enough to be raining bolts upon her. A second one drilled into the dirt a few feet to her right; she flinched away from it, but kept her pace.
A third quarrel missed her just before she ducked behind the miller’s ancient stone barn. She hated to stop, but running was no good either, not now. If she tried to cross the river, she knew she’d be shot dead before the water reached her knees. With a shaky hand, she reached in her pocket, and pulled out the pistol she’d taken from the men in Guinevere’s cottage. She had no bullets. She cold only hope there was one loaded already. One chance to defend herself.
A fourth quarrel zipped past the corner where she hid, striking the wall of the mill opposite. She peeked, ever so slightly. Her assailant had halved the distance between them. She needed to hide, double back, and lose him for good. Guinevere had told her to run, but she no longer had the option. Marigold apologized silently to her as she unlatched the side door of the barn, which creaked loud enough as it opened to make her wince. She slipped in the smallest width possible and pulled it shut behind her.
Slivers of moonlight punched through cracks in the old thatch roof. By this faint glow, Marigold saw the streets and alleys of a city of burlap. Huge gunny sacks were stacked as high as her head, all throughout the barn. A storehouse for the millers’ grain, and a hiding place for her.
Slowly, quietly, Marigold slipped into the maze of maize. Rye, wheat, and shadows closed her in on all sides.
She hadn’t crossed the yard, Sir Roger knew that much. It would have been impossible to miss her by the incandescent moon. The old stone barn was the only place she could have gone.
The wide gates at the end were barred by a sturdy plank. He circled around to the small side door, closed but unlatched. He silently fastened it, too, and followed the wall to the back of the barn. At the far end, he looked up at the roof, and smiled. There was a loft door a few feet above his head.
He slung his crossbow onto his back, next to the quiver that fed it. The ancient cobbles of the wall were big and rough, mortared together by amateur builders, perfect handholds for a quick climb. The leather of his gloves and the soles of his boots clung to the rock with a gratifying roughness. He reached the bale-sized loft door in no time at all.
Marigold leapt to attention as light suddenly flooded the rafters. It brightened in time with the creak of an old wooden door. She peeked cautiously from her hiding place, a single eye and a strip of hair all that was visible.
A man in a cape stood tall in the loft, picked out in grain dust dancing in the moonlight. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with a feather flying from the band. As he turned his head, Marigold saw the outline of a long nose, a short, scraggly beard. She flinched as his voice filled the granary.
“Marigold?”
Her skin prickled so tightly it was painful. She’d never felt colder.
“That was your name, wasn’t it? Marigold?”
She pulled back into the shadows, quick and quiet. She listened to the whisper of cloak, the creak of rafters…then the sound of boots hitting the floor. She tightened her grip on the pistol.
“You could have shot me just now, Marigold. I gave you plenty of time.” His voice started to circle behind her, fading from one ear to the other. “Were you more afraid to miss me or hit me?”
He was following the wall of the barn, towards her. It was only a matter of time. In a panic, she darted further into the maze of gunny sacks. She listened to his footsteps come closer, then pause. She peeked out again. He was nowhere to be seen.
“You don’t strike me as the hostile sort,” called the witch hunter. “I don’t think you’re dangerous, Marigold. I think you’ve just been mixed up in the wrong crowd. Is that fair to say?”
She hadn’t heard him move, but the voice was closer. She scurried across an aisle to the next stack of grain, a few precious feet both closer to the door and further from him. She waited for another sound.
“I won’t hurt you,” he assured, and her heart stopped. Those words had come from the other side of the barn, closer than ever. She didn’t understand how she had missed him, but had no time to question it. She raised the pistol in both hands. There were open alleys left and right. Her head snapped back and forth, desperately keeping tabs on her dim surroundings.
“I won’t send you to inquisitors,” he continued. To her left, then. She thrust out the pistol, wide-eyed and ready to shoot, waiting for him to turn that corner. There was a pause, filled only by the sound of her panting.
“I just want to help,” said a voice in her ear.
With a scream of panic, she turned and fired. She’d never shot a gun before. It was more terrifying than all else that had happened to her tonight. The pistol jerked violently, bruising her fingers. It set off a plume of smoke so thick and choking she couldn’t breathe for the smell of fire and brimstone. Her ears rang with the explosion, granting her momentary deafness. She held the spent gun to her chest, shaking like a leaf. As the smoke started to clear, she saw movement within it. It hadn’t been a bad shot for her first one. Had the witch hunter been standing there, he would have been injured, but the only thing she’d hit was a gunny sack. A steady stream of wheat kernels from the bullet hole was piling up on the floor. Where Sir Roger stood, behind her with his arms spread wide like a bat in flight, he was safe.
She screamed again as he pulled her into a hug, pressing himself to the curve of her body. Her arms were pinned by his. Two strong hands clad in black leather clamped over the pistol at her chest. She could feel its warmth pressing into her breastbone as she struggled. The warmth of his lips against her ear was even worse. The tickle of his beard made her skin want to crawl off her body.
“Throwing your voice is such a useful skill, wouldn’t you agree?” he breathed, this time genuinely into her ear. His hands tightened on hers as she tried to wrench the pistol loose. “Drop it, please, Marigold. There’s nothing more you can do.”
“Throwing your voice is such a useful skill, wouldn’t you agree?” he breathed, this time genuinely into her ear. His hands tightened on hers as she tried to wrench the pistol loose. “Drop it, please, Marigold. There’s nothing more you can do.”
David never forgot the shadows. The sickly trees faded into the background with the rest of the forest. The rubble of burned houses was the same as any consumed by woodfire. The ashen plain where the market square had been was as blank as the sheaf of paper it resembled. All of these he only half-remembered; David would forget his wife’s face, he would forget his own name, before he forgot the living shadows.
Some were long and thin, some crumpled and short. Some were muddled and strange, some all too clear. Humans burned onto the remains of the town. Human shapes, he had to tell himself daily. Human shapes.
A shadow woman knelt beside her garden wall, tending the ghosts of plants that had vapourized even more readily than she. Silhouetted children played on the hollow shells of burned-out houses, wrapped around the stone as if it were a gift. A man leant a ladder against his shed, the roof he’d hope to reach long since destroyed.
They hadn’t known, David told himself. The shadow people were going about their days. They weren’t standing, staring at the oncoming wave of whatever had sealed them to the bricks. They did not know that they had died. He tried, and largely failed, to be comforted by that.
The Guard had been the first to attend the destruction at Steadney. They had come from all neighbouring outposts: Braichlie, Blankston, and Felltown all had squads dispatched. All officers were steeled for their task, including David: help the living, remove the dead.
It soon became clear that there were no living. A few within the radius of destruction still breathed and bled, but to call them alive was an insult to the Mither. They were helped in the only way they could be and wrapped in shrouds alongside the cold corpses of their neighbours.
David died along with them. His heart continued to beat, his brain continued to tick, but the rhythm they kept was unrecognizable. He couldn’t focus on very much for very long. His bitterness turned to anger turned to melancholy; of these moods, none were much use to a man sworn to keep the peace. David’s fellow officers, and Captain Bossard, noticed fairly quickly. One day as he returned from patrol, he was told that Bossard wished to see him before he went home. The captain had been at his desk in the office upstairs. David was invited to take the seat across from him.
“David, I just want to be clear…you’re not fired.”
He knew what was coming next. As soon as the desk sergeant had told him he was expected upstairs, he knew.
“You can always come back, any time you’re ready. For now, though, I have to put you on leave. Starting tomorrow.”
David had no illusions about his behaviour. It still hurt to hear it aloud. Hurt enough to break him. The tears had come forth unbidden.
“Please, captain,” he’d warbled softly. “I can’t!”
“You can’t be here either, David. Not like this!” Bossard had bobbed his hand up and down to indicate the extent of the damage. “This isn’t good for you, or the force. The only proper course of action is for you to take a break.”
David had leaned forward, folding in his chair to place his entwined hands on the desk before the captain.
“I’ll do anything, Captain, please, just don’t let me go! What about desk duty? Can you put me on desk duty?”
Bossard had leaned in, as well, covering David’s pleading fingers with his own.
“If I thought that would be good for you, I would,” said the captain. “I would love for you to stay, David; I would love for you to get better even more. You’re a fine constable, and a good man, but you haven’t been the same since Steadney. None of of us have,” he added quietly. “I don’t want to tell you that your emotions are wrong, or that it’s a shortcoming to have them. What it is, for us, is a liability. This is the Guard. Mistakes get made when emotions come into play. People can get hurt, including our officers. If I don’t have level heads in the force, I can’t ensure the safety of the Guard or the public, and that’s my only job. I’m sorry that I have to favour my responsibilities over yours.”
In truth, David had only one responsibility; not that she was any less important than the Guard.
“My wife…” he sobbed.
“…cares more about you than a wage, David. I guarantee it.”
Bossard had been right about that. Paula hadn’t batted an eye when he’d told her. She’d held him as he’d cried, and ranted, and cursed, without offering any of her own. Only hugs and reassurances.
He started to sleep again after a few days at home. The visions that kept him awake began to fade, and he slept even more, and the visions faded further. Shadows stopped following him. Meat on the dinner table no longer looked human. Wind in the trees was just that, and the moans of those too weak to end themselves. He felt better, more grounded, at least for a short time.
Then he began to notice the toll he was taking on Paula. She was working for the both of them. The baker had her up early, and the alewife kept her out late. He could ease her workload around the house, of course, but it wasn’t enough. Guilt began to fill the space left vacant by anxiety. He no longer needed his doomsday visions to stay awake. He lost weight. He aged ten years in ten days. Paula, despite her busy schedule, caught on right away. She made her husband promise to see a doctor, and after a few more weeks of withering away, she took him there herself.
Dr. Balmoral did make him feel better, but not because of the medicine he prescribed.
“Are you working right now, David?”
“No,” he’d been forced to admit. “Captain Bossard said it would be better if I wasn’t.”
“Hm. I suppose he had his reasons,” mused the doctor. “However, I think gainful employment would do you good. Keeping busy prevents those nasty thoughts from getting in. Has Bossard said when you can return?”
“Not really. He just said, when I feel better.”
“I see,” said Balmoral, dripping skepticism. “Yet he leaves you with idle hands.” His own hands sprang into action, drawing ink and paper close. He wrote with clipped efficiency.
“I’m going to write you two prescriptions, David. One is for a tonic of St. Frida’s Wort; it eases the nerves. The other is for a job application. We - town council, that is - are hiring at Seagate.”
David hadn’t been sure what to make of this.
“The witch prison?” he asked. Balmoral had paused, fixed him with a hard look, continued.
“The prison, yes,” he said firmly. “Where we keep criminals. We can’t help that most of them happen to be witches, can we? Now,” he said, handing two illegible notes to David, “I encourage you to apply. I think a Guardsman would be a wonderful fit, don’t you?”
Paula liked the nerve tonic. She didn’t care as much for the job offer, but in the end, there was little she could do to stop him applying, and even less to stop his application from being accepted.
The uniform was drab green instead of denim blue, starched linen instead of rough cotton, ironed shirt instead of iron plate. Even the cap had been stiffened, it seemed. No expenses spared at Seagate Prison. David dressed in front of the single small mirror that Paula kept in their bedroom, admiring his sharply laundered clothes by the last of the day’s light. They’d given him the night shift, of course, the only place for a new recruit.
David didn’t know exactly how long his wife had been standing in the doorway. He only noticed her when he finished buttoning his crisp white shirt and looked up to grab his jacket off the bed. Her arms were folded over her chest. She leaned against the doorframe, watching him. He turned towards the mirror a bit more.
“Are you still having nightmares?” she asked quietly.
“No,” he said, sliding his arms into the jacket. “Hardly dreaming at all, actually.”
Paula studied his face carefully in their smudgy little mirror. He studied his jacket just as intently.
“You mutter a lot,” she said. “In your sleep. Are you sure you’re not dreaming?”
“Well, I don’t remember it, if I am.”
She waited until his hands stopped fiddling with his buttons.
“You don’t have to go.”
“My shift’s in an hour,” sighed David. “It’s too late to have this discussion again.”
Paula came forward and took him by the elbow, pulling herself close to whisper in his ear.
“If you start feeling worse,” she said, enunciating every word, “come home. Don’t push yourself.”
“I won’t,” he muttered.
“Have you taken your tonic?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. “Could you trust me to do one thing on my own, please?”
“I was asking a question.” She paused. Breathed. There would not be a fight, so help her god. Not this time. “Because I love you, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”
He also paused. Breathed. Just like they had agreed.
“I am,” he said. “And I’d be better if you didn’t doubt me.”
“I’m not,” she insisted. “I am NOT doubting you. I know you can do this job. What I doubt is that it’s a good thing for you right now.”
“Doubt away,” said David. “I can’t back out an hour before I start. What good is it telling me this now?”
“I told you weeks ago and you didn’t listen. If you had…”
He grabbed his cap off the bed.
“I’m gonna go,” he announced, “before we fight again.”
“David…”
“Good luck at the pub tonight.”
