I give her the tiniest of nods. “It’s... disturbing,” I sign, avoiding her gaze. It’s the only word I can think of.
“And?” Em raises her eyebrows, her eyes urging me to share my findings.
I chew my lip as I cast another glance around the market; the metallic tang of blood, thick and coppery, fills my mouth, causing a series of images from last night to rush through my mind: the blood-soaked floor; the anguished screams of the young mother as she desperately clawed at the minister, pleading for her baby; and the lifeless infant, held limply in the minister’s arms. My knees buckle at the vivid imagery, and I grab hold of Em who steadies me, her brow furrowed in concern.
Straightening up, I fight back the sudden nausea. “Sorry,” I sign.
She shakes her head—don't apologize. “What did you see?”
I’m about to reply when I notice two of the local town ladies stopping at a nearby booth. Having served them several times in Master Coperie’s drawing room, I recognize them as the doctor’s wife and the wife of one of the wealthier merchants, Master Killson.
“How can I help you, my ladies?” the elderly farm lady behind the booth says in greeting. “Are you looking for a warm loaf of bread or some fresh milk, perhaps?” She keeps her gaze low, the same way we do, as is appropriate for mudlings, but the two women don’t acknowledge her presence at all.
“Fetch me a dozen eggs, two loaves, and four bottles of milk,” the merchant’s wife instructs her maid in a curt tone. “Inspect everything meticulously, and be sure to choose only the finest-quality items. Master Killson expects nothing less.” She glances at the booth with a critical gaze before dismissing her maid with a slight turn of her back, resuming her conversation with her friend.
Lowering her voice conspiratorially, the merchant’s wife leans closer to her friend. “Did you hear there will be another burning tomorrow?”
I pull Em around, signaling for her to pay attention. If there’s something we excel at after spending years as property, it’s picking up information without being noticed.
“Anda whipping.” Her voice is smug. “My husband informed me this morning that the minister discovered proof last night that young Mrs. Willox is indeed a witch, and her husband will be whipped for associating with her—as is appropriate, of course.”
The other woman—the doctor’s wife—nods her consent. “I am not surprised. Dr. Cole saw her once during her pregnancy, and I swear on the Almighty Father, there was just something off about her.” Clearly contemplating the consequences of having interacted with a witch, she taps her pursed lips with a gloved finger, a slight frown ruining her otherwise doll-like features.
“You know, she used to help around our house,” the merchant’s wife confesses with a shudder. “Which makes it a bit of an inconvenience for us now, of course”—her lips form a slight pout—“but I am sure I can get my hands on a better maid. No one wants a witch in their home, after all.” She practically spits the word “witch.”
They both nod, agreeing.
The two ladies are dressed perfectly, as per the minister’s standards. Their dark brown linen dresses are buttoned all the way up to their chins, and not a single strand of hair is out of place under their coifs. They wear matching bonnets on top with wide brims that shade their faces—the only visible partof their body.
The minister has made it explicitly clear that the Father does not approve of such frivolities as letting your hair be visible in public—there should, after all, be no distractions from your devotion toHim. Alas, unless you have a death wish, you do not leave your hair hanging loose.
I sigh. Even what we wear is shadow and darkness. To outshine the Father is the greatest sin of all—everyone knows that—but does that have to mean we should all become walking shadows? No light, no colors. Surely the Father is not so dim that a splash of color will ruin his presence.
The blasphemous thought immediately makes me tap my forehead with my index and middle finger. At least I don’t have to wear that stupid hat. They look more than a little inconvenient, with the large brim preventing the ladies from looking left and right without turning their heads.
“Do you not fear that she has left curses in your home?” Mrs. Cole asks, her voice filled with unease. Then, with a pointed look at the other lady, she adds, “You simplyhaveto let the minister do a blessing of your home, removing any lingering evil.”
“Oh, I will,” Mrs. Killson says as she taps her forehead, right above the center of her eyebrows.
Mrs. Cole immediately does the same, eager to ward off whatever evil she fears might be listening.
“Thank the Father the minister is so dedicated in his pursuit of the witches,” Mrs. Killson continues. Her expression shifts to one of contemplation, then brightens as she enthusiastically adds, “There will be tea and cake at our house after the burning. Will you be there?”
Although I shouldn’t be surprised, I flinch at her cheerful invitation.How anyone celebrates a burning is beyond me.
“But of course,” Mrs. Cole replies with an equal enthusiasm that leaves my spine tingling with unease. “We would not want to miss such an event. We wholeheartedly support the minister’s efforts to clear the evil out of this city.”
Em gives me a nudge, and warmth creeps up my cheeks as I realize I’ve been staring. Quick to lower my gaze, I feign the perfect blend of submissive indifference appropriate for properties, praying to avoid the obvious: that I have been eavesdropping on their conversation.
“It’s unbelievable how properties misbehave these days,” Mrs. Cole says as she pulls her friend along, the maid—carrying the heavy box of groceries—trailing behind. “I,for one, think we should get rid of them all. I wouldneverallow one in our house,” she scoffs. “We all know what they aremainlyused for.”
They both tap their forehead again, as if just talking about it will taint their souls.
“How anyone would want thatuglyone is beyond me,” Mrs. Killson answers, glancing back over her shoulder at me, and it takes all my practiced discipline to not hurl a rock after them as they leave.
The expected submissiveness of a property has always been hard for me, but recently, it’s become almost unbearable. One might assume I’d improve with age, yet the opposite has occurred. Biting my tongue, I turn my back on them.
“Did you hear that?” I sign toward Em, who shakes her head. “Another burning.” I keep my hands out of the view of bystanders as I continue. “The woman I saw last night.”
