one
Isabeau
Ashaky breath left me. Death would arrive soon to reap his next victim. My fingers trembled as I snipped at the feverfew stems. The garden had been my refuge all day, a place to hide from what was coming.
Every Harvest Moon brought the same dread, the same sickening twist in my gut that warned of something terrible to come. I’d been picking herbs since dawn, filling my basket with chamomile, yarrow, and lavender. Anything to keep my handsbusy and my mind distracted from the setting sun that would bring with it our village’s darkest tradition. The scent of crushed herbs stained my skin, but even that familiar comfort couldn’t ease the weight pressing against my chest.
I worked methodically, my practiced hands separating stems from roots, flowers from leaves. The local apothecary, Master Girard, had been teaching me the properties of each plant. Which could soothe a fever, which could draw out infection, or which could ease a woman’s monthly pains. It was knowledge most young women in our village didn’t seek, content instead with learning how to manage a household, how to please a husband. But Papa had always encouraged my curious mind, even when others whispered that book learning and herb lore weren’t fitting pursuits for a maid as comely as I.
“Beauty fades, my little bell,”he would say, tapping my nose.“But what resides here,”he’d tap my forehead,“that is eternal.”
I thought of his words now as I added wild mint to my collection. The leaves released their sharp, clean scent as I bruised them between my fingertips. Master Girard said mint could settle a troubled stomach. I wished it could settle a troubled heart.
The hollow toll of the church bell cut through the evening air.
One... two... three...
My chest tightened. Each resonant peal drove the knife of reality deeper. I dropped the mint sprig, my hands freezing mid-air.
Four... five... six...
I closed my eyes, willing the sound to stop, willing this day to be any other.
Seven... eight... nine...
But the bell continued its solemn count, calling us all to gather. Calling someone to their death.
The final, tenth toll lingered in the air, vibrating through my bones. I had known this moment was coming—had felt it approaching with each passing minute like a storm gathering on the horizon—yet somehow, I still wasn’t ready.
I never was.
I wiped my dirt-stained hands against my cream peasant dress, leaving smudges across the worn fabric. The apron tied around my waist was similarly marred, bearing the evidence of my day’s labor. I touched the braid that hung over my shoulder, making sure my auburn hair was still neatly contained. Not that it mattered how I looked. Today wasn’t about courtships or village dances. Today was about death.
Lifting my basket of herbs, I stepped out from the small garden behind our cottage. The evening sky blazed orange and crimson as the sun sank toward the horizon.
How cruelly beautiful it was, this last light before darkness claimed someone’s life. I drew a deep breath, bracing myself for what was to come, and began the walk toward the village center.
Other villagers emerged from their homes, faces grim and eyes downcast. No one spoke above a whisper. Children, usually running and playing at this hour, clung to their mothers’ skirts. Even the birds seemed to sense the somber mood, their evening songs muted or absent altogether.
“Isabeau!” a familiar voice called.
I turned to see Colette hurrying toward me, her blonde curls bouncing with each step. She wore her best dress, as most did for the ceremony, though there was nothing celebratory about it.
“Thou art still collecting thy herbs on today of all days?” She gestured to my basket as her brow furrowed in confusion.
“I needed the distraction,” I admitted. “Time moves too slowly when one sits and waits for dread.”
Colette nodded, linking her arm through mine as we continued walking. “I understand. My mother hath beenweeping since dawn, and my father speaks not a word. My brothers try to appear brave, but I see how their hands tremble.”
“As do mine.” I showed her my fingers, still quivering despite my attempts to steady them. “Every year, I pray ‘twill be the last of this barbaric tradition.”
“And risk the beast coming for us all?” Colette shuddered. “Nay, better one than many. Though I speak such words only until it is my family’s name drawn from that cursed bag.”
We fell silent as we approached the bridge. It spanned the width of the river, connecting our village to the dark expanse of the Forbidden Forest beyond. The water beneath it flowed black in the fading light, as though the river itself knew what horrors this night would bring.
The wooden stage stood at the village end of the bridge, hastily constructed this morning as it was every year. Father Simon already stood upon it, his black robes making him appear as a specter of death himself. The village men worked around him, lighting torches that would illuminate the night’s grim proceedings.
My eyes scanned the gathering crowd, searching for Papa’s familiar figure. I couldn’t find him, and that sent a fresh wave of anxiety through me.
