Someone steps aside for us. No one stops us.
The murmurs swell again behind me as we move forward, but I do not look back. I pull her gently away from the circle, forcing my body to turn from the sight even as my mind strains back toward it.
Her hand remains in mine, small and silent. I do not let go.
***
I sit beside her on the low bench, my hand wrapped around hers.
Her fingers are cold.
Elena stares straight ahead, past the cluster of women moving about the room, past the covered mirrors, past the basin of water set near the hearth.
"I heard nothing," she says again.
Her voice sounds flat, as though it belongs to someone else. "Nothing at all. She never goes out at night. You know she doesn’t."
I nod.
"She must have heard something," Elena continues, her gaze fixed on the far wall. "Perhaps the sheep, or a noise by the shed." Her throat tightens, but no tears fall. "She would not have opened the door for anyone. She would not just leave."
I swallow, the image of the bundle flashing before me—pale cloth bound tight, red thread biting into it. The smell of burning hair. The crack of bone in flame. My mind drifts without my permission to damp earth beneath bare feet, to the edge of the woods, to a voice that did not sound like any man’s.
Witch. Enchantress.
My eyes lift and scan the room. Women move quietly, preparing cloth, whispering prayers. No one stands near enough to hear.
Still, my voice drops until it is barely more than breath. "Elena."
She does not move.
"What if—"
The word sticks in my throat. I squeeze her hand.
"What if it has something to do with… with the thing at the door? What if—"
Her head snaps toward me. Her eyes are wide now. Alive in a way they were not a moment ago.
She pulls her hand halfway from mine, then grips tighter instead.
"Do not," she says.
Her voice is low and urgent.
She crosses herself quickly, fingers trembling.
"Do not speak of that."
Her gaze flicks toward the others in the room, then back to me.
"Not here. Not ever."
The words land harder than a shout, her fingers tightening painfully around mine.
"It was nothing," she says. "Some foolishness. We burned it." Her jaw tightens. "My mother did not die because of that."
The last word is almost spat out, as though naming it once is already too much.
