Robes flutter around the stones until we each stand between two, joining the ancient circle.
No instructions are spoken.
We have done this so many times before, we each know what to do.
Silence follows us down onto our knees.
The hood falls further over my head. It darkens a border of my vision. I lift my gaze upwards, but instead of seeing my mother across the dirt pit, I’m met with darkness.
I touch my gaze back to the soil.
Once, witches wandered the lands with the common humans, the magicless ones. Back then, this spot was used as a mass grave of witches.
It’s the very reason Elcott Abbey was constructed here by Cravens centuries ago.
In sync with the rest of my family, my bare hands glide over the soil, until I’m folded over. My fingers curl. They dig into the dirt, mulching it in my fists.
I drag my hands back to me, then down the sides of my folded legs—and then I do it again, and again, and again.
On our hands and knees, we dig up the mass grave.
No tools are used to hurry this along. It’s done by hand. It’s done by toil. It costs sweat and harsh breaths and snapped nails.
We brought no candles or lanterns. We work under the light of the moon that arches over the sky as the night passes us by.
Like every time we do this, the moon gets away from us, and hours in, I start to worry we won’t reach the grave before dawn.
Dirt has caked too deep into my fingernails by the time the drizzle comes. It’s a mist of winter that glistens on the shifting sleeves of my robe.
My nails stretch, ready to snap off, by the time we’ve finally dug all the way down to the bones.
Exhaustion has my breathing grated, almost raspy, and I hang my head in relief.
I get just a moment to recover before the other robes start shifting and fluttering around the circle.
I mirror them and get to my feet.
The hood buries my face, it hides the break of dawn from my gaze, but the faint light is reaching over the soil.
I wonder what would happen if we didn’t reach the bones in time.
The thought is pushed out of my mind when I hear the distant sound of bare feet slapping on stone pavers.
The servants are bringing the sacrifice to us.
Freshly killed under the night sky.
Where it’s killed, I don’t know. Somewhere on the grounds, maybe.
Mr Younge leads the charge. He walks towards us, naked and balmed and without a robe.
I made the mistake of looking once. I was too young for that grim sight. But when I looked, I saw that Mr Younge walked the pavers to us, and behind him, four male servants carried something on their shoulders, the way krums carry coffins.
But it wasn’t a coffin they brought to us. It was something long, heavy, lumpy, and stuffed into a silky black bag.
That is what they bring to us now.
I look down at the toes of my feet.
