I pulled myself up, body numb, and shuffled deeper into the woods. The pain in my feet was a dull thud, but it was nothing compared to the brightness inside my chest, the certainty that I would not see another sunrise. I’d gone from runaway to heretic in less than a week. From a girl who dreamed of poetry, to a name that would be spat on the floor of the chapel. Witch, they called me. Witch.
I wanted to laugh, but my throat would not allow it. I wanted to cry, but the cold had frozen all the tears I’d ever had.
So I did what the cold demanded. I kept moving. I walked until the last of the daylight bled from the sky, and the only thing left was the sound of my own breath, ragged and white in the darkness.
If the man from the dream was out there, I hoped he’d find me soon. It would be a kindness, compared to what the world had left for me.
***
There comes a point where hunger outpaces fear, and I passed it somewhere between the drowned copse and the edge of Widow Weatherby’s property. My hands had long since stopped bleeding; now they just oozed a clear, raw fluid that froze into glassy scales whenever I stopped moving. The cold was less of an enemy than a bad lover, always there, always pressing closer, familiar as my own breath. It dulled everything but the need for food, for heat, for the memory of another voice.
I had no illusions about the kindness of Widow Weatherby. She was the only person within a mile who might answer a knock at night and not immediately trade you to the first patrol that showed a piece of silver. Even so, as I crept across her yard, I imagined a hundred ways she might kill me and call it charity. I pressed my ear to the door, half-certain I’d find her already dead and nailed to her own lintel, a warning from the men who’d hunted me this far. But I heard the scrape of a spoon against a pot, the mutter of an old woman cursing at her own soup. Still alive, then.
I lifted the latch and pushed, expecting resistance, but the door swung open under my fingers. The warmth hit me first, so hard it staggered me to my knees. Then came the stink of boiled nettles, and of something sour and animal beneath. I couldn’t see at first; my eyes watered and burned in the glow of the hearth. But I heard her, the Widow, gasping as she rounded the battered table, one hand on her chest as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Child of God!” she hissed, voice splintered by horror and some older emotion I could not name. “What are you doing in my house? Sweet Christ, you’ll bring the devil in behind you—”
I tried to answer, but the words tangled in my mouth. Instead, I reached for the table and pulled myself up, forcing my eyes to focus on her face. She looked much as I remembered: thin,gnarled, eyes like burned holes in a blanket. Her hair, once iron gray, was hidden under a man’s cap. Her arms, bare to the elbow, were covered in old burns and newer bruises. She was strong, still, but the years had worked her small as a sparrow.
She saw me properly then, and her face twisted with something that might have been pity. “Dear heavens, girl, what’s happened to you?”
I tried for a smile, but my lips would not cooperate. “Winter,” I managed, though it sounded like “winner” or maybe “wither.” I collapsed into her only chair, the wood creaking beneath me. The cloak slipped from my shoulders, and the stink of my own body filled the room.
The Widow did not move for a long moment. Then, with a resigned curse, she dipped a cup in the pot and brought it to my lips. The liquid scalded my tongue, but I drank it anyway, greedily, gulping until the cup was empty. She filled it again, and this time I sipped, trying to slow the shaking in my hands.
We sat in silence as I drank, her watching from the far side of the hearth, eyes never blinking. The cottage was as I remembered: walls rough-hewn and patched with mud, a single shelf crowded with jars, the bed a pile of rags in the corner. A chicken slept under the table, head tucked under one wing. Everything was so familiar, it hurt.
She spoke first. “You know they’re looking for you. The dogs were up here just after midnight. Churchmen and the new lord’s men both. They had your face drawn on a paper, or what they said was you. It looked more like a drowned fox than a girl.”
I ran my tongue along my teeth, feeling the cracks and chips. “Better than the real thing,” I said, though the joke landed flat.
She frowned. “I’m not playing, Scarlette. They say you bewitched a maid. That you ran through a locked door, vanished in smoke, cursed the men who tried to hold you.” Her eyesnarrowed. “They say you walked with the devil in the woods. They say you’re a witch.”
I almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. “So I’ve heard.”
She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “And is it true? Have you done the things they say?”
I shook my head, but the memory of the clearing, of the circle, of what had happened there, burned hot under my skin. I could not bring myself to answer.
The Widow seemed to understand anyway. She sighed, long and slow, and ladled another cup. “This is a bad time for old stories, child. Bad time for women alone in the woods. They’ll not be gentle, not now that the merchant’s man has his hooks in the parish.”
That caught my attention. “The merchant?”
“Trent. Marlowe Trent, or so he calls himself. He’s got coin enough to buy the sheriff twice over. He’s been here and to every farm for miles. Says he’s hunting a thief, but I think he hunts something else. He wants news of you. Of the old stones. He pays double for a live girl who’s seen the circle, triple if she’ll talk about it.”
“Why?” My voice was a hiss, sharper than I intended. “What does he want with me?”
The Widow shook her head. “He wants what they all want. Power, or a story to control it. They say he collects secrets. That he’s more dangerous than any of the lord’s men, because you never see him coming.” She knelt and pressed her hands around the cup, her knuckles white. “If you value your life, you’ll be gone by morning. They say the men will come again at dawn, and they will search every house, every barn, every inch of wood.”
I stared at her, trying to see through the fog in my head. “Why help me?”
She hesitated, looking away. “Your mother,” she said. “She was not unkind to me when the world still allowed such things.She brought bread once. She looked me in the eye. It was more than most did.”
I wanted to thank her, but all I could do was finish the cup and let the heat spread through my chest. The Widow rose, picked a crust from the shelf, and broke it in half, setting the larger piece in front of me. “Eat what you can. Then go, as far as you’re able. They will not stop this time.”
I ate, slowly, savoring every dry, musty bite. The bread was old but better than anything I’d tasted in days. The soup, thin as water, felt like it might save my life. I drained the cup, wiped my mouth, and tried to rise. My legs would not obey, so I sat, head bowed, and waited for the feeling to return.
The Widow moved about the cottage, silent and efficient, gathering what little food she had into a kerchief. When she was done, she placed the bundle in my lap and pressed my fingers around it.
