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Mr. Belvedere had not told any of the staff at Seagate that he would be coming by again. He certainly did not tell them why he had. He kept himself reined in, even more stoic and unreadable than usual, as he claimed the tower office for his investigation once more, hanging his overcoat from the back of his chair like a flag claiming territory for the Crown.
He could have retrieved the prisoners himself, easily. It had been made clear that he had access to whichever keys he liked at Seagate. Instead he made the guards escort them to and fro, one by one. He wanted them to have a taste of the actual pursuit of justice; tedious and with a lot of seemingly pointless steps.
Most of the prisoners had nothing to say. On the night in question, they’d been asleep until the guards’ shouting had woken them up, to a person; except for Ms. Harker.
She was ushered into the office by a spotty young guard. He looked young enough to be Mr. Belvedere’s grandson, had he had any children to make that possible. Mr. Belvedere dismissed him with a silent stare, as he had for the past few prisoners. Then, the Elite man smiled as warmly as he could at the timid Ms. Harker, still standing warily by the closed door. He stood, and she shied back a bit. He came around the desk and pulled out a chair for her, the one David had been careful to choose.
“Please, have a seat, Ms. Harker. I promise not to keep you long. My name’s Mr. Belvedere. I’m with the Royal Elite.”
She scurried over and sat, head down. Mr. Belvedere took up the chair behind the desk, careful not to make sudden movements. He studied her in silence a moment before speaking.
“I know,” he began. She looked up at him, puzzled. “I know how scary I am. I know how you feel about big ugly men right now, and I apologize for bein’ one. I promise I would not bother you if it wasn’t important.”
Ms. Harker eyed him nervously up and down. Then she murmured:
“You’re not ugly.”
Mr. Belvedere, in spite of his best efforts, started. The surprise on his face was plain.
“Well, goodness me. How kind of you to say, Ms. Harker.” He leaned forward tentatively. “Would you still call me scary?”
She considered this a moment.
“No,” she admitted. “I’m sorry if I seem out of sorts. I’m just tired. I don’t mean to be shy.”
“In your position, I do not blame you.” He leaned in further, folding his hands on the desk. She did not even blink. “Ms. Harker, this beauteous face is not the reason I asked to see you. I was hoping to talk about Ms. van Allen, your unfortunate neighbour up the way.”
She looked instantly worried. “The one who…”
Mr. Belvedere picked up her slack.
“…passed away, yes. What can you tell me about the night she passed?”
“Well…she’d been yelling a lot that day. Throwing things. Spitting, by the sound of it. It didn’t sound pleasant.”
“I can’t imagine so,” said Mr. Belvedere. “What was she yelling about?”
“The guards, mostly. And, their mothers,” she added, with a slight blush. “And how she wasn’t going to eat until she’d spoken to a lawyer.”
The Elite man had heard this answer several times, from guards and prisoners alike. Ms. Harker continued.
“It went on for quite some time, well into the night. She calmed down eventually, but then…the guard started shouting. And they all came running.”
She looked down at the corner of the desk, seemingly exhausted by those few short sentences. Mr. Belvedere studied her very carefully.
“Is that all you remember? Can you be any more specific about what you heard?”
She kept her head bowed.
“I really don’t know much. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more help.”
The rest of them had meant it. Mr. Belvedere lowered his voice.
“Ms. Harker, you won’t be in any trouble if you tell me the truth. Of course, you won’t be in any trouble if you choose not to say anything, either. But I hope you know that if you do decide to talk, you could help me out quite a bit.”
Her face crumpled in misery. Mr. Belvedere leaned aside to rummage in his discarded overcoat. He produced a crinkled handkerchief and offered it across the desk. Ms. Harker clutched at it like a child clutching a stuffed bear. The Elite man waited for her to continue.
“Mr. Belvedere, do you think she might have been murdered? Is that what these questions are about?”
Mr. Belvedere considered both the truthful answer, and the correct one. He went with the latter.
“I’ve seen no evidence to suggest such a thing, Ms. Harker, though it is one of the possibilities I have to consider.” Elbows on the desk, hands clasped in the air before him, he met her wide, wet eyes. “Is there a reason you ask?”
“The thing is, I don’t sleep well here,” she warbled. “When I do, it’s only for a couple of hours at a time. The softest noises are enough to keep me up these days. I was awake when the guards found her. I had been for some time. And…a few minutes before all the shouting started, I heard a cell being unlocked and opened.”
“Before she was found,” confirmed Mr. Belvedere, eyebrows raised.
“Long before,” agreed Ms. Harker. “Nearly a quarter-hour. I don’t recall it being locked again, either. I just remember the rattle of keys, and the squeak of hinges…then something that sounded like fabric being torn. Over and over. There was some shuffling, like footsteps, and, I thought I heard muttering too. As if someone was repeating something to themselves.”
“Male? Female?” asked Mr. Belvedere. Ms. Harker shook her head.
“It was too quiet. I don’t know.”
“Did you get up for a look?”
“No. I didn’t dare. The guards weren’t in a good mood and I didn’t want to draw attention. After they found her…well, I couldn’t stop myself from looking. It was impossible to ignore. But I didn’t hang around gawking. As soon as I realized what had happened I only wanted to curl up and hide.”
Mr. Belvedere nodded his sympathy.
“So, you can’t be absolutely sure that it was Ms. van Allen’s cell being opened.”
“No,” she admitted. “The corridor echoes so much, I can’t say for certain. But, if it wasn’t hers, whose could it have been? An unlocked cell can’t go unnoticed for long, can it?”
“I wouldn’t imagine so,” said Mr. Belvedere, ruminating. “That’s a very interesting story, Ms. Harker.”
The panic on her face was plain.
“You won’t tell anyone I said anything, will you?”
“I am sworn not to, as an officer of the law. I may discuss the case with those assisting it, but no one outside that, I promise you, very small circle is allowed to know anything before they need to.”
“What if he’s still here? And he finds out I heard something?” Ms. Harker had carefully lowered her voice, leaning in. Mr. Belvedere met her worried eyes directly.
“You’re talking about a murderer,” he said, with as little inflection as possible.. She didn’t need to respond. Once again, Mr. Belvedere chose the correct answer.
“Ms. Harker, a few shufflin’s in the night don’t make a homicide. Something strange might very well have happened, but there’s no need to jump to conclusions. It’s my job to do the worrying, not yours. If it so happens that there’s more to this than a young woman takin’ her own life, then the best thing you can do is keep to yourself. Don’t tell anyone what you told me.”
“Couldn’t you post an Elite man at my door? Or, take me into your custody, just in case?”
“I could,” said Mr. Belvedere, “but that would attract more attention than you or I want right now. The most sensible thing we can do is stay quiet. If there is a murderer out there, it’ll be easiest to catch them before they know they’re being hunted. It’s an awful prospect, and I understand how terrified you must be to have to face it, but I come to you on bended knee, Ms. Harker; stay brave, and do not say a word.”
As if to demonstrate her willingness to cooperate, she remained silent. Her eyes were still wet, though they held new resolve. Mr. Belvedere showed her to the door, back into the custody of the spotty young guard. When both had disappeared down the stairs, the Elite man allowed himself a grimace.
After a few more prisoners had been shown up, it became clear that Ms. Harker was the only one with a unique story to tell. Mr. Belvedere returned to the Lancer with a full head and an empty stomach. He was glad he’d stopped back at the hotel; there was a message for him at the front desk from one Ms. Marigold Baker, inviting him to meet her at the Rose and Badger. He sent a response that he would. He only had one stop to make, first.
Marigold worked on her unguents that afternoon. She knew a little about them, but not enough for Crone’s liking. The old witch seemed to have advice for her on every step of the process. By the end, Marigold felt as if someone had melted down a book and poured it into her brain. In reality, they had only melted down calendula, comfrey, and beeswax and poured it neatly into pocket-sized tins. Nary had a more perfect salve been made, thought Marigold. Crone swept crumbs of lavender off the worktable while Marigold picked bits of beeswax off her hands.
“Now they have to cool, at least a few hours, right?” asked the young witch.
“Right you are, girl.”
“So, you probably have time for a long story you said you’d tell another day.”
Crone paused in her sweeping, staring at the tiny purple petals; then looked to Marigold, stoic as ever.
“Not gonna let that go, eh?”
Marigold shrugged. “I’m not sure. I might, if you’re really determined not to say anything. Or, I might just go ask someone else. Even I don’t know how curious I can be.”
With a sigh, Crone poured the last of the lavender into the wastebasket and set it down. She hobbled over to her usual armchair, lowering herself into it with care. Marigold sat in its twin, waiting patiently. The old woman hooked her cane over the arm of her chair before speaking.
“What is it you want to know, exactly?”
“Why you think that sorcerers exist,” said Marigold. “And, why you’re hesitant to talk about it. And who might tell me more, if you won’t.”
“I will,” said Crone, “but I’ll be cautious, girl, as you should be. Trouble goes where trouble’s welcome and some people wait for it by the door with a drink and a pair of slippers. Don’t be doin’ anything reckless with the things I tell you.”
“You offered to teach me witchery,” said Marigold. “I doubt you did that because you thought me reckless.”
Crone gave her a narrow sidelong glance, which was her way of offering silent approval.
“I don’t know anyone,” she began, “who would know more’n I do, and I already don’t know much. So I can’t help you there. I’m hesitant to talk about it because I don’t know what’s still out there and I don’t want you gettin’ hurt by it. But, as you say, you’re not reckless. I’ll hold you to that, girl.” Crone gave another small sigh. “As for your first question…”
She was not yet thirty, but the county knew her as their best midwife. She was good at a lot of other things, being a witch, but she had a certain touch for babies and all that went with them. It came as no surprise, then, that someone knocked on her cottage door late one night.
The rain was steadily falling, and had been all evening. She pulled her housecoat tight against the chill as she opened the door. Most of her visitor’s face was obscured in shadow under a cloak hood. She could see a beard, short and straight, a mouth hanging slack, puffing steam. He held a lantern that illumined only two tiny points of light in his eyes. Water dripped from his facial hair, from the trim of his cloak.
“You are the midwife,” he panted. It was barely a question; more a confused statement.
“I’m A midwife,” she corrected. “How can I help you?”
The man seemed to think for a moment, as if unsure why he might be calling on a midwife at this hour.
“She needs you,” he choked. The witch was already reaching for her ready bag.
“I’ll bet she does. Lead the way.”
She turned up the hood of her own hastily donned cloak as she followed him to the waiting coach. He hurried to the door to hold it open for her. The witch scanned the coach in and out, the two horses, the man.
“You drove here alone?” she asked him. He paused for another strange second before responding.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m up front with you. I need answers as soon as I can get ‘em.”
This statement seemed to paralyze him with indecision. He whispered something she couldn’t quite understand.
“What was that?”
The man closed the coach door with one trembling arm.
“Fine,” he declared flatly. “We must go.”
He stalked over to the passenger side to help her up. Once he had climbed onto the driver’s seat and urged the horses on, she started to bombard him with questions, raising her voice over the clack of hooves and the rumble of wheels.
“Is she losin’ the baby, or deliverin’ it?”
He didn’t seem to want to answer that. She tried a different approach.
“When did she first know she was pregnant? Do you know?”
A moment of falling rain. Then:
“Spring. Just before last frost.”
“Delivering, then. And a bit early.” The witch nodded slowly to herself. “Has she been labouring long?”
The man’s hands were tight on the reins. Silent, he turned to the witch. In the light from the lantern sconces, she could see his eyes, though they remained shadowy and distant. She felt a twinge of recognition, but only a twinge.
“Help,” he croaked. The witch grabbed his shoulder.
“I want to,” she said calmly, “and I can do it better the more I know. How long has she been—“
“Not her,” said the man. His voice was thick, slow, strained. “She…has…me…” He inhaled sharply, and his eyes settled back on the road.
“A day and more,” he said, once more flat and clear. “Too long. Something is not right.”
The witch kept her hand where it was. She studied the man with laser focus. He kept his eyes forward.
“Something is not right,” she agreed. “What’s your name?”
She watched the muscles in his throat fight eachother for supremacy.
“That is not important right now,” he insisted. “They are.”
“They?”
“There are two. Children.”
The witch did not ask how this was known.
“If that’s true, that would explain a lot,” she said. “And you - are you the father?”
“That is not important.”
She realized now where they were headed: over the mountain behind the tiny village of Steadney. Even in the pitch black rain, she knew the county. The witch leaned in closer to the man, her hand still on his shoulder.
“She has you, what?” she whispered. The horses trotted on. The rain fell. The man’s head angled towards her, but he did not look up.
“Slater,” he said, loud and clear. His teeth snapped shut, his lips closed over them. He said no more for the rest of the journey, no matter what she asked. The witch removed her hand, and even managed to tear her eyes away, but her brain was not so complacent.
The horses pulled up outside a castle, hidden in the peaks overlooking Blankston county. The now silent man helped the witch down from the coach and led her inside by lantern light, seeming to care very little where the horses might end up without his guidance. He closed the tall front doors on the rain with a creak of hinges.
The castle was silent, and as dark as the night outside. The man cut across the grand foyer floor, lantern held aloft. The witch followed without hesitation. He led her up a flight of stairs, along a narrow landing to a dimly lit bedroom.
A still, silent woman lay on her side on the grand canopy bed. Her breathing came heavy, but regular. Yes, thought the witch, delivering.
The woman opened her eyes, staring straight at the man lurking in the doorway behind the midwife.
“My love, you must go,” she sighed. “See to the horses, then, to your chambers. We have no further need of you.”
“Now, hold on,” said the witch. “Another pair of hands might well be useful…”
“I will wait until that comes to pass. For now, he must go.”
He set the lantern down on a small table by the door. It rattled in his hand; the witch could see his whole body trembling. He staggered backwards out of the doorway, like a poorly made clockwork soldier, and marched away like one. Not entirely sure why, the witch closed the bedroom door after him. She wanted to ask a thousand different things, but there was only time for one line of questioning. She set her bag and herself at the end of the bed.
“Is this your first?” asked the witch.
“Yes.” After a pause, the woman added: “There are two.”
“So I hear. You’re sure about that?”
“I feel their presence. Their hearts beat. There are two.”
The witch pulled back her sleeves, and set a hand on the woman’s knee, urging her onto her back.
“May I?”
The woman eased herself over with no hesitation. The witch carefully lifted her skirts. There was little blood; that was one small comfort. There was plenty of mucus, however, and liquid soaked into the sheets; and a head coated in purple-red gore struggling to slide forth into the world.
“Stargazer,” muttered the witch, as she reached into her bag.
“What does that mean?” breathed the woman.
“A baby born facin’ up. We come out easier pointed at the earth. Your little one’s got themselves stuck with their eyes to the heavens. At this point I’m not sure I can turn ‘em. It’ll be a difficult delivery but you’ll both pull through if you do as I say.”
Crone paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Marigold did not dare interrupt.
“They did,” said the old witch. “Both of ‘em. All of ‘em. The first born was a girl, hair dark as any I’d seen on a baby. Sure enough, a few minutes later, she had a blond little brother. He came out a bit easier. Stuck his hand out first, to take the measure of the world, I suppose. At least his head was the right way ‘round.”
Silence fell again. Marigold took her chance.
“She was right, then. Twins.”
Crone gave a resigned shrug. “It ain’t unheard of, for a mother to know. It also ain’t unheard of for them to get it wrong. This woman…she knew.”
Marigold watched the worry creep back onto the old witch’s face as she reflected on her tale. She left it as long as she could stand.
“That’s not what scared you,” said Marigold.
“No. I don’t scare that easily, my girl.”
They moved, and breathed, but they did not cry. The witch could find nothing wrong with them; but she could not make them cry. The most she heard were disgruntled mewls as she wrapped them in blankets and gave them over to the woman. They each took to the breast as if they’d been doing it for months; their mother offered her milk in much the same way. The witch paused in the repacking of her bag to study the odd trio.
“They’re your only two,” she queried. The woman met her gaze.
“Why should you think differently?”
“Meant no offense,” said the witch. “You just took to it awful quick.”
The woman smiled at her, then down at the baby at her right breast. Then the one at her left.
“A mother knows her children,” was the most explanation she offered. The witch could only shrug and add the last towel to the pile of laundry. She gathered it in one arm, and took up the deep basin filled with now superfluous tissues in the other.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” said the witch, “and we can give those two their first bath.”
“I look forward to it,” said the woman dreamily.
“That, uh, fella…did you want me to tell him the good news?”
The woman did not look up from her children. The angelic smile on her face dimmed.
“No,” she whispered. “I shall see to that myself.”
“Alright,” said the witch, as tactful as she could manage. “Kitchen’s downstairs, I assume?”
It was indeed, tucked away in a far corner from the front door. The witch found it at the bottom of a narrow spiral staircase, complete with a small well and an expansive fireplace. She pulled up a bucket of water and gave the basin a good clean, having tipped its contents out in the woods a short walk from the kitchen’s back door. She then set four more buckets to boil in the huge pot hanging in the fireplace. The stained towels and blankets she set to soak in the wash-tub in the corner, pouring cold water over them slowly and surely.
The witch was well aware that she was being monitored. Had been since she’d left the bedroom. No woman with the luxury of time would be up and about so soon after the birth of a baby, let alone two; yet here she was, waiting around the turn of the spiral staircase. The witch could not see her, but the witch knew, sure as she’d felt the foxes and badgers eyeing her from the trees as she poured out the contents of the basin onto the leafy forest floor.
She carried on. There was no other sensible choice, really. She could have bolted out the kitchen door, or confronted whatever this woman was; neither seemed right with so little known. The witch waited, drawing up from the well to kill the agonizing seconds, until she heard near-silent footsteps retreating. Once she heard them no more, she followed.
Peering back into the foyer, the witch immediately caught the stark white flutter of a nightdress against the far wall. It disappeared into a stairwell identical to the one in which she lurked. She crossed the foyer, silent and slow. She waited at the top of the stairwell, and heard nothing.
A few stairs down, she froze, flattening back against the wall. The sound of heavy lock tumblers had reverberated up the spiral corridor. She had heard no keys jingling, and so had been taken by surprise. She waited. The heavy creak of a door swinging open, then closed. The tumblers did not turn again.
She followed into ever deeper darkness. At the end of the staircase was a landing, and meeting it was a solid iron door, swung open towards her. There was no sign of the woman. The witch crept through the door down another short flight of steps onto a crumbling walkway overlooking the dungeon beneath. She crouched down low, throttling the gasp in her throat. Only faint firelight from a few meagre candles illuminated the masonry, and the runny dampness on the walls, and the prisoner.
He had a manacle around each ankle and a larger one around his neck. A chain fed from each into three thick iron anchors mounted deep in the old stone wall, against which he sat curled. His hands were free, not that it did him any good. He had done it himself, thought the witch with a thrill. He’d returned to his chambers as ordered.
The woman appeared from underneath the walkway. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the witch could see a straight set of stairs at the end of the platform where she crouched. The woman crossed to the chained man and knelt down before him. She slid her hands under his jaw, cradling his stubbled face. Though she tilted it up towards her, the man’s eyes stayed firmly down and away.
“My love, I am sorry,” she breathed. “I do not like sending you to your chambers; but it was too hard to hold you as I lay abed.”
She slid her hands onto his shoulders, and leaned into an embrace that was not reciprocated.
“Now, I am free,” she said, gazing longingly into his impassive face. “And we have been blessed with a daughter and a son.”
It wasn’t planned. It was instinct too strong to resist. He spat in her face, an untidy web that spread gratifyingly wide. She blinked at him in shock; he still did not meet her eyes, hanging his head.
“I don’t care what demons you whelped,” he growled.
The woman sat back. Stiff and robotic, she wiped the spittle from her face with her sleeve. Then, she looked at him once more.
The change was instantaneous. He met her eyes, bright, attentive. He sat forward, straighter and taller. His face was blank and eager as a child’s, ready to help.
“I understand, my love,” said the woman. “It is stressful to be a father. You are scared because you don’t understand what lies ahead. That is alright. You will learn the way, darling.”
The woman stood. As she towered over him, the manacles popped open, all three at once. They fell with a riotous clatter to the stones beneath.
“For now,” continued the woman, “we have business to see to. You must ready the carriage, and together, we will return the witch to her cottage. I will bring the children, and ride with her. I would stay here and rest, but…you spoke too much as you brought her here. I must watch you closely, I’m afraid.”
The witch had heard enough. Slowly, carefully, she hoisted herself into a crabwalk, setting her arms on the first step up. As she tried to push off with her foot, a crumbling stone underneath gave way. The crunch of gravel made the sorcerer turn her head; the falling stone caught her eye. She riveted on the witch, more angry than surprised. The stone hitting the dungeon floor resonated in the silence.
The witch landed on top of it only a moment later. Her muscles suddenly went limp as a doll’s; try as she might, she could not engage them. An unseen force pulled her over the edge of the walkway, throwing her to the ground at the sorcerer’s feet. She remained frozen, unable to look anywhere but the woman’s blazing eyes. She felt the world begin to close in, pain surging over her entire body…
“No!” shouted the man. “No, don’t hurt her! Not again, please—“
He fell silent in the same second as the pain retreated. The witch gasped, coming back into her body like a diver resurfacing. The sorcerer had her head turned slightly, focusing on the man. As she caught the witch’s movements, she turned back, riveting on her, freezing her in place. Death seized her muscles once more. And once more, the man was able to shout.
“No! No, please…” He paused, thinking. “Please, darling.”
The pain ebbed again, but she still could not move. The sorcerer was gazing off into the depths of the cellar, refusing to look at her prisoner.
“Let her go, my love. Please. She’s done nothing wrong. She saved your childr…our children. My daughter and son.”
The sorcerer took a deep breath. The witch could see tears brimming in her eyes.
“If she leaves,” she whispered, “she’ll tell them you’re here. They’ll come to take you away again.”
“Let me speak to her, darling. Let her go. I beg you.”
The witch curled up on her side like a wilting leaf as the woman released her enchanted grip.
“There’s no need to beg of me, my love,” she whispered, wiping away tears and the dregs of saliva. The man met the witch’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in this. I thought you might be able to help me, but…now I see how foolish that was. She’s too strong. Even over miles, she still has me trapped. This is going to sound strange, and you’re going to want to disregard me, but you have to leave…and you have to tell no one. Tell no one you saw me here.”
He hung his head, letting his hair fall forward into his eyes.
“She’ll kill them. Anyone who dares to save me will not leave here alive, do you understand? I’m stuck, I see that now. And I don’t want anyone else dying for me. Please, just go. Try to forget.”
The witch sat up slowly, stiff with pain. She looked to the sorcerer; back to the man.
“There must be something I can do,” she whispered. The man’s face crumpled in pain.
“I don’t want to risk it. Gods, I’d rather stay here the rest of my life than see that again. Don’t try to help me. Please.”
The witch reflected a moment.
“On the way up,” she said, “I asked your name. All you said was Slater.”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” sobbed the man, suddenly in tears. “She…shut me up before I could say more. My first name…”
“Gregory,” guessed the witch. He nodded solemnly.
“The tanner,” she continued. “You went missin’ a couple years ago. I remember you,” she added quietly. “And your wife went missin’ not long after.”
He took a moment to compose himself.
“She came up here,” he croaked, “with a dozen men from town. I don’t know how she found me, but, bless her, she did. They had pistols, and bows, and torches. They didn’t even make it in the front door. As soon as she knew what they’d come for, she…well, the men with pistols, she made them shoot the others, then themselves. One by one. Cassandra…her brains were everywhere. I was made to clean it up. All of it. I lay them together and set them alight. I…can’t do that again. It would drive me mad. And for your own sake, don’t get that blood on your hands.”
The witch knew he was not exaggerating. The power radiating off the sorcerer was palpable, even in its lulled state. But, she was a witch, and a witch had to try. She turned to the silent, shaking sorcerer.
“What would your name be, then?”
The woman looked almost affronted.
“I have none I would care to tell you.”
The witch sighed. “Do you understand that what you’re doing is wrong?”
The man suddenly leapt forward, reaching for her.
“No! No, don’t try it! Please, just go while you can!”
“I’ll go when I’ve had my answer. If you want to kill me,” she spat at the sorcerer, “so be it. Wouldn’t expect anything less from a coward like you. Look me in the eyes and tell me what you’ve done. Only then will I keep your secret.”
Tears spilled down the sorcerer’s face as she considered the ultimatum.
“I…”
“Look me in the eyes,” repeated the witch. The woman used every ounce of resolve to do so.
“I protected my lover,” she warbled, “from those who would do him harm. I rescued him from that harlot who tricked him into calling her ‘wife’! I gave him a second chance with someone who truly loves him!”
The witch kept her voice low, and quiet.
“You’re lying. To yourself, and to me. And to him. And you know it.”
Flames erupted from the sorcerer’s hands; she raised them high. The witch merely closed her eyes.
“Darling, please!” yelled the man. “If you’ve ever loved me, don’t do it! Don’t hurt her!”
After a pause, the witch dared to look. The sorcerer was still aflame, tears running down her face, but she had not moved. The man riveted on the witch.
“Go! Go now! There’s nothing you can do! She won’t hear you! Just save yourself and forget you ever saw me! Please!”
Crone was studying her hands with bitter intensity.
“I got out,” she murmured. “But there was no way to forget.”
Marigold pondered the tale a moment, in silence.
“You…didn’t just leave him there.” It was a plea more than anything.
“We all did,” sighed Crone. “The whole county. They knew, girl, even the Guard. They knew a dozen people don’t just vanish up in the woods a mile outta Steadney. They knew summat was wrong with that woman, summat more than a head doctor could explain. They knew an army could charge that castle, and there’d still be fatalities. They’d told Ms. Slater not to go, just as they told me not to return. No one was willing to die for him; not even me. I tried, at first, to get folks to help. Rally the troops. But I got shouted down, and eventually I saw that them who did the shouting was right.”
Marigold didn’t see how that could be so, but she promised herself she’d think on it later.
“So, he could still be up there,” she observed. Crone waggled her head.
“Could be, though I doubt it. This was more’n fifty years ago. If he is alive, he ain’t for much longer.”
“And…she could still be up there.”
“That’s more likely,” said Crone. “Tales of sorcerers last for hundreds of years, and I think they themselves do too. Thousands, for all I know. Hell, I remember stories about a cursed woman up Steadney way when I was a girl. Heard ‘em from my gran. I just didn’t believe ‘em at the time.”
Marigold was staring silently into the cold fireplace, mesmerized. Crone couldn’t help a smirk.
“I’ll only say it one more time, girl. Don’t go doin’ summat reckless.”
Marigold met her eyes.
