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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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