“I can’t help you,” Elodie told them, over and over. “Really, I don’t have magic. I’m just a woman.”
They smiled and nodded and clearly didn’t believe her.
The fearful ones were worse.
She learned to recognize them. The servants who made signs against evil when she passed, the guards who refused to meet her eyes, the villagers who crossed themselves and hurried away when she appeared. One of the kitchen boys ran screaming when she entered the hall, and the cook—a formidable woman named Agnes—had to drag him back by his ear.
“He’s simple,” Agnes apologized, though her own eyes slid away from Elodie’s face. “Doesn’t know better.”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
“Of course not, my lady.”
But Agnes didn’t sound convinced. And that night, Elodie found salt scattered across her threshold—an old ward against supernatural creatures, she remembered from her research. Someone in the household was genuinely afraid of her.
Father Aldric cornered her in the chapel on the seventh day. She’d only gone in to admire the stonework—the chapel was small but beautifully proportioned, with carved capitals that showed real artistry—and she didn’t see him until she’d already stepped through the door.
“Aha!”
The priest emerged from behind the altar, eyes wild, a crucifix clutched in one white-knuckled hand. He was thin, nervous, with ink-stained fingers and a tonsured head, and right now he looked like a man facing down a demon.
“Father Aldric.” Elodie took a step back. “I didn’t realize anyone was?—”
“Vade retro, creatura infernalis!”
Holy water splashed onto her face.
“Begone, creature of the hollow hills! You have no power here!”
“I’m not a faerie!” She stumbled backward, tripping over a prayer bench, landing hard on the stone floor. “I’m Church of England! Well, technically lapsed, but?—”
“Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde!”
More Latin, more holy water. The priest advanced, crucifix thrust toward her like a weapon.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti!”
“Stop it! I’m a Christian, for heaven’s sake?—”
The chapel doors slammed open as Gareth filled the doorway. She looked up as he took in the scene—the terrified woman on the floor, the wild-eyed priest, the scattered holy water—and his expression went cold enough to freeze the flames of hell.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
He walked to her, helped her to her feet, and positioned himself between her and Father Aldric. The look he gave the priest needed no translation.
Touch her again, and I will end you.
“My lord.” Father Aldric’s voice shook. “She is unnatural?—”
Gareth held up a hand.
Then he turned to Elodie and signed, carefully, so the priest could see each gesture.
You are safe. He will not harm you.
To Father Aldric, he made a single motion—go—that sent the man scurrying from the chapel, cassock flapping behind him.
Silence.
