First Part Links For New Readers

   Hello! You may be wondering where to start. You will find the answer below!

   Do you like the sound of smugglers in a world at the dusk of sails and the dawn of steam? Try 'In For A Penny'! Click here for the first part.

   Would you prefer a story about a witch hunter finding his conscience, a witch finding the truth, and a Crown agent finding out whodunnit? Try 'Sir Roger And The Witches'! Click here for the first part.

   You don't like fiction, you say? Then here be my essay about the time Dr. Seuss and Hollywood got together in 1953 to release a movie 'backed by the greatest merchandise-promotion campaign in the history of the industry'! It did not end well, what a surprise! Click here for that particular rabbit hole.

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 14

   If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Lucy did not know what day she’d been born, or even what year. She had never found anyone who could tell her when it might be. Equally unenlightened, Auntie had done her best to create a sense of normalcy for the girl. Auntie had decided that the day she’d found Lucy would be treated as her birthday and, given her best but uneducated guess, on that day the girl had been about five years old.

   Eight years later, when Lucy turned ‘thirteen’, she had moved her bedroom out of the cottage, dragging her mattress down from the upper loft overlooking the sitting room where she’d slept since she’d first been taken in. She then dragged it all the way to the top room of the ancient tower looming over the farm. She repeated this process with her nightstand, clothes chest, tiny, sparsely populated bookshelf and eventually an old armchair that Auntie thought was in the way in the sitting room.

   The tower loft was not glamorous, or even particularly warm, but it was Lucy’s. A growing girl needed a space of her own, and sometimes, a space to share with the farm boys down the lane without keeping Auntie up late.

   Lucy had stayed in the tower, and would as long as it suited her. She descended the stairs once every morning as she went down to breakfast in the cottage, and ascended once every night, when all the chores were done and goodnights were said. She slept with the shutters of the single wide window closed, and left them open in the day when good weather allowed it.

   Today was just such a day. She rolled off her mattress, which had since been set on an old wooden frame, and crossed to the shutters in her nightclothes. She pulled the window open, and paused, a shutter in each hand. Her brow creased.

   There was a box on the windowsill. A gift box the size of a wine bottle. It was wrapped in soft blue paper with a gold ribbon and bow. Four fist-sized rocks had been braced against each side to prevent any casualties from the wind or a curious bird.

   Lucy instinctively looked behind her. There was no one there. She carefully lifted the box out of its rocky entrapment and hustled it over to the nightstand for safekeeping. Then she returned to the window and leaned out over the ledge, staring down the length of the sheer fatal drop to the ground. The tower walls, completely grown over with ivy. It was possible that someone could climb it, not that Lucy had ever dared.

   She hooked the shutters to the wall and picked up the box off the nightstand. She unwrapped it carefully, saving the bow and ribbon and being unsure why she did so. Inside the wrapping was a wooden box with a sliding panel on the front. She slid it off to reveal a nest of cotton. Pulling this apart, she found a tall crystal vase protected within.

   Lucy stared at it. It did not look cheap. To test this, she pulled it free of the box and held it up to the light. It nearly disappeared, leaving a hint of ephemeral rainbows. She flicked a cautious fingernail against it. The vase rang one long, lasting note. Lucy allowed herself an uncharacteristic cuss. Then, cradling the vase in both hands, she smiled. There were only two people in the world who knew that Lucy had not until now owned a vase; and Auntie was not one to care about who had what pretty thing, as long as the chores got done. Either Roger had spent more than a year’s wages on her, or he was not the humble woodsman he’d made himself out to be.

   Lucy brought the vase down to breakfast, and rescued the daffodils from their mug.

   He was going back tonight. He had toughed out a proper grieving period, and he had not been caught, and his wife was still working. All of these things meant that he was going back. Permanently. No more interruptions or threats to his new, stable job. Paula could return to the life she deserved.

   He’d been drinking a lot. Not tonic, that stuff had been poured out in the garden. It did nothing for him now. The last few days had been spent in a constant buzz, easing off only when Paula was around to see. He’d been trying to numb the darkness, but there was no way to do that without numbing himself. It had seen his face. It was too late. The best he could do was go back there, and stare into black corridors, and earn some money and try not to let on.

   It took a good minute for him to realize that the pulse in the background was someone knocking on the door. People didn’t come by much anymore. It was a sound he’d forgotten. His senses focused all at once. His vision cleared, his hearing sharpened. He tucked the bottle behind the armchair he’d been splayed out on, and peered around the doorframe of the tiny front room that served as an ersatz parlour.

   Go on, said the dark shape in his head. We can handle it.

   David opened the front door onto the hulking Elite man, who nodded at him.

   “David,” he said. There was familliar kindness in his voice, but only a touch. “I’m sorry to bother you at home. How have you been?”

   “About as well as I can be,” said David. “I’m actually going back on shift tonight.”

   “Oh?” Mr. Belvedere raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you feel all right?”

   “Yes. I promise, I wouldn’t even think about it if I didn’t.”

   Mr. Belvedere continued to look skeptical, but he let it rest.

   “May I come in, David? I’d like to talk to you about something the neighbours shouldn’t hear.”

   Yes, advised the voice.

   “Of course,” said David aloud. He stood aside to let Mr. Belvedere into the entryway, and closed the door after him. Seeing the Elite man’s eyes roving curiously about the house, David quickly said:

   “Have a seat,” gesturing towards the small kitchen table. “Can I, er, get you anything?”

   “No, thank you. I won’t keep you long.”

   Kitchen chairs and Mr. Belvedere had a tenuous relationship, one being short and made of wood, the other being a large man with long legs. The Elite man sat sidesaddle, his back to the basin under the west-facing window. David took up opposite him, facing the front door.

   “If I’m way off the mark, here, you tell me right away,” began Mr. Belvedere. “I’m going to ask you about…that night, David. If you really can’t face it, say so, and I’ll be out of your hair, no need to tell me twice.”

   “Sure. No problem,” said David, hands folded before him on the table. Mr. Belvedere took in this placid, agreeable demeanour before continuing.

   “This may seem a strange question, but I need you to answer it honestly. Take your time and really think. I know it was a stressful moment for you, so, please, answer only if and when you’re certain. When you…found Ms. van Allen, was her door locked?”

   David reacted as mildly as if he’d been asked about a long-forgotten school friend.

   “Her door,” he mused.

   “The cell door,” assured Mr. Belvedere. “Was it locked?”

   “Of course it was. She would have been halfway to Izkland by now if she’d had a chance like that. No, I…I definitely remember trying to get my key in the lock…”

   He trailed off, for effect. Mr. Belvedere watched him closely.

   “I’m sure you do, David. It may not have been hanging open, but was it actually locked? Did the tumblers turn? Did you feel a click? Was there any resistance?”

   He made a show of thinking about it, while he listened to the voice.

   “It all happened so fast, Mr. Belvedere. I really can’t say. I don’t remember thinking it was odd. It just felt like unlocking a door, to me.”

   The Elite man leaned in on his elbow.

   “What would you say under oath?” he asked quietly. David was careful to look only slightly taken aback.

   “In court?”

   “If that’s the way you say it, sure. Under penalty of perjury.”

   It’s only a question. And you know the answer, don’t you?

   “It was locked,” said David. “I have no reason to think otherwise.”

   Mr. Belvedere was nodding slowly.

   “Alright,” he conceded, slapping a hand flat on the table. “That’s good enough for me.” Having said that, he did not move to leave.

   “Why do you need to know?” asked David.

   “A young woman’s lost her life. We need to know every forsaken detail we can. On that note…” Mr. Belvedere shifted to face his interviewee head on, as much as the knee-clearance under the kitchen table would allow. “You told me you’d never worked in law enforcement.”

   “And I didn’t,” said David, too quickly. Mr. Belvedere paused to study him a moment.

   “I have no reason to doubt that. I was only going to ask what you DID do before coming to Seagate.”

   “Odd jobs,” said David, mostly to buy the voice some time. “You name it, really. Farm work, when it was in season. Brick laying. Even lamp lighting, for a little while. Whatever would keep Paula and I under a roof.”

   The mention of a female name seemed to surprise Mr. Belvedere, somewhat unduly in David’s opinion.

   “Your wife?” asked the Elite man.

   “Yes. Of four years, now.”

   “She at work today?”

   The voice in his head sounded a long, low growl. There were no words to it; only wolflike contempt. Resentment. David’s nostrils flared.

   “She doesn’t have to be,” said David stiffly. “I provide just fine.”

   “Hey, now,” soothed Mr. Belvedere, holding his hands up in peace. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. We’re living in modern times! A married woman with a job isn’t so unusual anymore. So, your wife stays at home?”

   “How is this relevant to your investigation?” demanded David. Not the right response, he could see right away. Mr. Belvedere’s eyes narrowed.

   “Is there a reason you don’t want to talk about her?”

   David looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap. The hard growling pulse of the dark voice had faded, but its kneejerk hostility had already done the damage.

   “She…works as a barmaid sometimes. And if the baker down the road needs a hand she’ll pitch in there too. Just helping out. Neither is a permanent arrangement.”

   “Which pub?”

   If he wants to find her, he will, muttered the voice.

   “The Fox And Fennel.”

   Mr. Belvedere nodded his approval. “Nice place, I hear. Well, David, I feel I’ve taken up enough of your day.” In one great swish of coat and squeak of chair, the Elite man was on his feet. “Thank you for letting me bother you at home.”

   David stood as well. Neither man made a move to shake hands. Mr. Belvedere, leaning on the back of the chair, eyed David up and down one last, probing time.

   “Good luck, tonight,” said the Elite man. “I hope I can trust you not to push yourself too hard.”

   “I won’t,” assured David. “Goodbye, Mr. Belvedere.”

   David watched the Elite man show himself out. He waited until the crunch of feet on leaves had faded down the walk. Then, he returned to the tiny makeshift parlour, and the cheap whiskey he’d hidden away.

   It felt good to jingle the bell at the Rose and Badger once more. She had not been in since she’d moved to Blank Manor. Mr. Arbroagh felt the same way, it seemed, as he could not contain his smile when he caught sight of her at the door.

   “My lady!” he cried. The pub was mostly empty, in between lunch and tea. “How good to see you again!”

   “And you, sir,” said Marigold, with a polite smile. She took her usual place at the bar. “How fare you?”

   “Very well, my lady, very well. Thank you for asking. How have you?”

   “Much the same,” said Marigold. “Busy, of course, but who isn’t these days?”

   “Who isn’t,” agreed the innkeeper. “What can I get for you, my lady?”

   “Nothing for now, sir, thank you all the same. I’m waiting for someone,” she explained. “Though, before he gets here, might I ask you some questions? Of all the people who might have the answers, I thought an innkeeper would be a good bet.”

   “Of course, my lady. I hope I can help!”

   “You’ve lived in Blankston your whole life, right?” asked Marigold. Mr. Arbroagh gave a half-shrug.

   “In and around, yes.”

   “Do you know the area near Steadney, at all?”

   This question caused the innkeeper to wilt slightly. Mention of the flattened town often had that effect on the locals.

   “Not very well, I’m afraid. I used to go to the village quite often as a boy, on market days. A whole bunch of us would make the trip just to get some of Ms. Vanderseaux’s rock sugar; but we always stuck to the town square.”

   “You never went into the hills?”

   The innkeeper eyed her nervously.

   “Funny you would ask,” he said, with a small chuckle. “We were told not to, all of us. Our parents all said the same thing; once you climb to Steadney, climb no higher.”

   Marigold continued to stare at him, asking the silent question. After fidgeting with his hands a bit, he went on.

   “Something had happened up there, a few years before I was born. A man had gone missing from Steadney, which was bad enough; then the party that had gone out to look for him went missing too, all twenty-three of them. There’s really not much up there to get lost in, you see. All you have to do is walk downhill. Something truly awful happened but it’s impossible to say what that was.”

   “Impossible?” said Marigold. “No one had any idea at all?”

   “Well…when I was a boy, they didn’t tell us much. Just that it was dangerous up there, and there were missing people to prove it. As I got older, there…there was some more talk. But you’ll think me silly for repeating it, my lady, and I don’t want to be a gullible gossip in your mind.”

   “You were told that it was a sorcerer, weren’t you?” said Marigold. Mr. Arbroagh stared at her, surprised.

   “Do you know this story?” he asked sidelong.

   “I’ve heard a version of it,” said the young witch diplomatically. “I wanted to hear yours.”

   “There’s not much to it, really. There was a sorcerer hiding in the old castle in the hills above Steadney, and she took a man from the village for…well, reasons I’d rather not think about, if the rumours are true. Torture and things like that,” he added quietly, when Marigold looked puzzled. “His neighbours all got together to try to rescue him, but…they didn’t come back. No one’s seen a trace of any bodies, to this day. Hunters get up near there now and again on the trail of a deer or a fox, and they’ve never found a sign of a human, in all that time. It’s been almost fifty years. I don’t believe in sorcerers myself, but it’s the only explanation we have for twenty-three people vanishing without a trace.”

   “It’s as good as any,” assured Marigold. “I take it you’ve never been up to that castle, then, have you?”

   Mr. Arbroagh shook his head solemnly.

   “It was even more forbidden than the hills around it. Frankly, our parents didn’t have to tell us twice. None of us ever had an inkling to go up there. Usually a mother or father telling you not to do something is the surest way to get it done; not so with that castle. Even from a distance, we could sense something wrong with it. I always thought it looked like a vulture, perched up there. Waiting for something to die so it could swoop in.”

   Marigold tilted her head like a curious dog. “You could see it?” she asked. “From Steadney?”

   Mr. Arbroagh, lost in memory and gazing out sightlessly over the pub, suddenly came to, riveting on her.

   “If you knew where to look,” assured the innkeeper. “It was just a tiny grey smudge with tinier black dots for windows. Even people with working eyes had trouble picking it out,” he added, twitching his spectacles up and down.

   “If you were standing,” said Marigold, “facing the hill above Steadney, your back to Blankston, Braichlie below you on your right, where would the castle be?”

   Mr. Arbroagh’s mouth was drawn, his eyebrows furrowed.

   “My lady, you aren’t…going up there, are you?”

   “Oh, no! Heavens no,” lied Marigold. “I was just curious.”

   That sentence was punctuated by the jingle of the bell above the door. The young witch turned around on her barstool to see her guest arriving. There was nothing Mr. Belvedere could do to render himself unrecognizable, being six and a half feet tall and built like an ox, though he did look strange to Marigold as he approached her at the bar. It took her a moment to realize why. Even though he wore his usual duster, he had put on a collared shirt and cinched it with the single tie he was forced to own. He’d put on his equally despised waistcoat, too. He allowed none of this to show on his face as he bowed before Marigold.

   “Ms. Baker, thank you ever so much for allowin’ me to bother you once more. I hope this might be the last time I have to inconvenience you.”

   “Not at all, Mr. Belvedere. I’m always happy to help. Oh, er - may I introduce Mr. Arbroagh, the innkeeper.”

   The two men shook hands across the bar.

   “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Arbroagh. What a fine inn you keep.”

   “Thank you, sir, and welcome to it. May I offer you something from the bar?”

   “Oh, I’m not much of a drinker, myself, ’specially while the sun’s up…I’d take a coffee and cream if you have it.”

   Mr. Arbroagh nodded once. “Certainly do. And you, my lady?”

   “I think you can guess,” said Marigold, with a smile.

   “Sweet perry, coming up.” He tapped his knuckles twice on the bartop. As Mr. Arbroagh disappeared into the kitchen, Mr. Belvedere reached into his duster, jingling the coins in his pocket.

   “My treat,” he announced.

   “Oh, no, that’s alright,” said Marigold, staying his arm. The Elite man shook his head firmly.

   “I must insist, Ms. Baker. A witch payin’ for her snifter in the presence of a gentleman? Who ever heard of such indignity?”

   “No, really,” she insisted. “Mr. Arbroagh won’t take my money, for the same reason. He says witches don’t pay at his inn.”

   Her company turned his gaze on the kitchen doorway, his face thoughtful.

   “Well, red velvet cake,” he swore. “There are some mannered men left to the world.”

   Marigold smiled faintly at this. Mr. Arbroagh reappeared from the kitchen, hot coffee in hand. He set it down before Mr. Belvedere and got to work on pouring a perry.

   “What do I owe you?” Mr. Belvedere asked the innkeep.

   “Oh, nothing, sir. A friend of a witch is a friend of mine. The only currency I will accept are pleases and thank yous.”

   Marigold had never seen what Mr. Belvedere looked like when he was lovestruck. The look he gave Mr. Arbroagh after that comment was the closest she would ever get.

   “Surely, sir,” said Mr. Belvedere slyly, “if someone were to leave a gratuity you would not refuse it?”

   Mr. Arbroagh smiled. “I wouldn’t go chasing them down the street to return it, Mr. Belvedere.”

   The Elite man gave a knowing nod, and picked up his coffee. Marigold took up the mug of perry that had been set down before her, and stood, following Mr. Belvedere’s lead.

   “I must steal Ms. Baker, I’m afraid,” explained the Elite man. “We have a private matter to discuss.”

   The innkeeper dismissed them with a wave of his hand; say no more. He busied himself behind the bar as they settled into a wall-adjacent table out of reach of prying ears.

   “Thank you for meeting me, Ms. Baker. I’m sorry to take up even more of your time. You must be gettin’ sick of talking to lawmen.”

   “Not at all,” said Marigold, between sips of foam off the top of her perry. “If it helps, I’m happy to do it.”

   “This’ll be the last time I have to bother you, I hope.” Mr. Belvedere downed a glug of coffee. It was good stuff. With bracing warmth in his gullet, he decided to say it outright, as outright as was polite. “I can only assume that you’ve heard about what happened to Ms. van Allen, at this point.”

   Marigold nodded solemnly. “Captain Bossard told me.”

   Mr. Belvedere took in a deep breath through his nose. “I want to apologize to you, Ms. Baker; partly on behalf of the Elite Forces, mostly as a man who made a mistake. I left her in the wrong hands. She should have been kept under my supervision. I made the choice to leave her in the care of people whose credentials I did not know; then I made the excuse that it was due to restraints on my time and on my personnel. There is none for putting her in that situation.”

   Marigold looked down at her hands for a moment.

   “You did what you thought was right. I don’t see how anyone could hold that against you. I certainly don’t.”

   “I only thought it was right because I didn’t think long enough. It is a disgrace for someone in my position not to think. I promise you on my honour, that will not happen again.”

   She didn’t know what to say, and so said nothing. They each took a sip from their respective cups before Mr. Belvedere continued the thread.

   “When I first asked to speak with you, Ms. Baker, I wanted to hear your opinion on Ms. van Allen’s state of mind in the days before her death. I was hoping to learn about her suicidal tendencies if any. Deaths in custody have to be treated as suspicious, you see. Foul play must be ruled out, and part of that involves interviewing those near and dear to the deceased to establish their mental health or lack thereof.”

   “Well,” said Marigold, filling the silence as he took another swig, “I’d have to say I never thought of Guin as suicidal. Or even melancholy. When she threatened to set off that nitre in the cellar…that was more about trying to hurt you than herself.”

   “You know, Ms. Baker, I thought the same thing.” The coffee cup rattled gently as he set it down in the saucer. “Though I didn’t know her as well as you, she never came across to me as the type to take her own life. If she had, well, I assure you she would’ve been under my guard. I know the type. I’ve seen them many times before,” he added quietly. “She was not one of them. But my opinion of her wouldn’t matter in a coroner’s inquest, being the arresting officer; so, thank you for giving me your insight.”

   Marigold looked momentarily frightened. “Will I have to testify?”

   “A few days ago, I would have asked you to; but you are no longer my most compelling source of evidence. That honour has fallen on the coroner himself.” Mr. Belvedere glanced instinctually around the pub as he spoke. They were still alone, unheard. “I would appreciate it if the things I’m about to tell you could remain confidential for the time being. Speaking legally, there’s no reason to keep it secret; speaking practically, the less the public knows at this juncture, the better for the investigation.”

   The young witch leaned in closer, eager to become a conspirator.

   “Consider me mute,” she whispered. Mr. Belvedere smiled at her.

   “Normally I would take you in for questioning,” he said, “but I feel you’ve been arrested often enough for one lifetime. I do appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Baker.”

   He took a deep breath before continuing.

   “Mr. Sandros - the coroner - has performed a thorough examination of Ms. van Allen’s body. Again, standard procedure for a death in custody. His findings…well, they clearly indicate a homicide.”

   Mr. Belvedere gave her moment to absorb that statement. Her eyes widened slightly; otherwise, she was frozen.

   “Sweet Mither,” she breathed. “But…who? Why?”

   The Elite man spread his hands, palms up. “Those are the questions I was hoping you could help me answer. As far as I can see, the only people who had both opportunity and motive to kill her are the guards at Seagate Prison, or the members of Blankston town council, being the landlords. The guards barely had time to learn who she was, and most of them only signed up for an easy paycheck, not to dish out vigilante justice. I’ve talked to the whole crew at this point, and I can’t see any of them having a stake in whether she lived or died. The council, their stakes may have been higher; but I’ve talked to them as well. They wanted her dead, but they wanted it to be public. A statement of power, not a footnote in a prison cell. They wouldn’t have let it happen that way.”

   Mr. Belvedere had leaned forward, arms crossed on the table before him. He stared at Marigold sightlessly for a silent second.

   “Which leaves me with not a whole lot to go on,” he finished. He took a sad swill of coffee.

   Marigold thought very carefully in the ensuing silence. Her eyes darted around, brain firing in all directions.

   “A lot of people didn’t like her,” she said, once her thoughts had settled. “She wasn’t very popular; for a witch, anyway. Even before she tried to blow up the Harvest Dance. I…” She trailed off, despondent. “I really don’t know who would hate her enough to do that, though.”

   “What about the man who ratted her out?”

   Marigold stayed very still.

   “What man is this?” she said, rather convincingly she thought.

   “The one Captain Bossard hid from me, on the grounds he had not caused and would not cause any trouble. Ms. van Allen’s accomplice in the town hall trespass. Do you know him?”

   “The captain was the one protecting him?” breathed Marigold. “Oh my. I thought he meant a constable…oh. I said that aloud, didn’t I? Well, look, Mr. Belvedere, he would never do any such thing. He’s, you know, he’s a firebrand but he would never resort to murder. That’s not who he is.”

   “So I keep hearin’,” sighed Mr. Belvedere. “Look, what’s his name? I’m tired of talkin’ around him. It’s about time I heard his side myself.”

   The young witch hesitated, hunched.

   “He’s not a suspect,” assured Mr. Belvedere, “but he might lead me to one. I want to talk to him in exactly the same way I’m talkin’ to you right now. I will not tell him how I found him, and his mother will never know what he’s been up to. Not from me.”

   “She’d be crushed,” agreed Marigold, and sighed. “He’s a witch, over in Braichlie. Has a townhouse on the high street, number 18. Blue with boxes of herbs on the windowsills. His name’s Alfaen Galbraith.”

   Mr. Belvedere had removed a small bound book from within his coat and pencilled that information in as Marigold gave it.

   “That’s very helpful, Ms. Baker. Thank you.” There was only one more thing he wanted to check. “Do you happen to know a man named David Breckenridge?”

   The look on her face said she didn’t, but he let her have a moment to ruminate.

   “No, I don’t think I do. I’m sorry.”

   Mr. Belvedere patted the table with the flat of his hand, his other hand cradling his cheek. “Ms. Baker,” he sighed, “I’ll hear no apologies from you. You’ve helped me immensely throughout this debacle, and without a word of complaint. I’m the one who needs to be sorry for taking up your time.”

   He’d never looked as tired to her as he did then. Marigold stood suddenly, pulled by a force outside herself. Mr. Belvedere riveted on her, startled. His wide eyes followed her as she came around the table and settled one arm around his shoulders, one across his chest. Her fingers were barely able to touch around the diameter of his muscles.

   “You’re doing a good job, Mr. Belvedere,” she muttered into his hair. “And I’m happy that I could help you do it.”

   To her surprise as much as his, she pecked him on the head before withdrawing her arms. She let one hand linger on his shoulder.

   “If there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me, right?”

   “There shouldn’t be,” said the Elite man quietly. “But, if there is, I do.”

   Marigold let her hand slide off, back to the strap of the satchel at her hip.

   “I should be going,” she said. “There are other things I have to do today. Please, take care of yourself, Mr. Belvedere.”

   “And you, Ms. Baker.” He managed to keep the tremble of gratitude out of his voice. She returned his wave of farewell from the door, then she was gone with a jingle of bell.

   The Mither, thought Mr. Belvedere, is strong in that one. He firmly ignored the sting of tears in his eyes and reached for the wallet hidden in his waistcoat. Ensuring that Mr. Arbroagh was not watching from the bar, he counted out the cost of a fine cup of coffee and a tip to match, hiding the coins under the rim of his saucer. He slipped unregarded out the door soon after.

   David was welcomed back to Seagate Prison with little fanfare. He was, after all, still the new guy, and the new guy that had discovered the scene of the prison’s first suicide at that. His fellow guards were kind, but wary, treating him like a nice old man that had fallen victim to a contagious curse.

   Clive was manning the front desk when David walked in. The lobby was a strangely configured space, mostly empty and too large for the purpose it served, much like Seagate itself. The grand desk and chair sat on a threadbare rug, and apart from this arrangement a small bureau was the only furniture present. The room had been built to welcome guests to a lord’s house, not serve as the public face of a ramshackle prison. It echoed with damp melancholy. Clive, however, radiated warm politeness.

   “Hi, David!” He folded up the newspaper he’d been perusing and set it aside. “How have you been?”

   “Very well. All things considered,” added David, with just the right touch of grief to his voice. “How have things been here?”

   “Quiet, thankfully.” Clive sat up straight, producing a key from his pocket and fiddling with it in one of the desk drawer locks. “Today was a bit of a production courtesy of the Elite, but if that’s the most exciting thing that happens I say we’re lucky.”

   David tilted his head, only slightly.

   “They were here? Again?”

   “Just that Mr. Belvedere. Had more questions, so he said.”

   “What about?”

   Clive shrugged as he reached into the drawer, which jingled and clonked.

   “I dunno, they weren’t to me. One by one he had us bring the inmates in East Wing up to the office. Could’ve fetched ‘em himself, but he insisted we weren’t busy. Like we don’t have jobs to do, right?”

   Clive had produced a ring of keys from the drawer and handed them across the desk to David.

   “Do you think it was about…y’know, van Allen?” asked David.

   “Must’ve been. What else would he have to ask about?”

   “Gosh,” breathed David, gazing off into the void. Clive relocked the drawer. David met his gaze as he looked up again. “Did any of them know anything?”

   “No idea, he wouldn’t let us listen in. He was talkin’ to that Harker girl for a while but they were discussing the weather for all I know. Wouldn’t say two words to us about why he was here.”

   “How strange,” said David. “Well, I suppose I should go relieve somebody, after the day you’ve all had.”

   “Sure thing,” said Clive, swinging his feet up on the desk. “Can you believe it? Like we were just sittin’ around getting paid for nothing. Unbelievable, the nerve of some folks.”

   He returned to his newspaper and the mug of spiced coffee at his left hand. David went about his business.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 13

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   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.

   “I’ll check on the unguents.”

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