Dawn breaks grey and sullen,the same as every other day, but today it lands wrong. I rise, feed the hens, milk Milly, and curry Ada until her coat shines like spilt whiskey. The chores are muscle memory, yet every motion jars. My dream clings like tar: my father’s hands, his breath sour with gin, the weight of him pinning me to the bed… I’d buried it all years ago, deeper than any grave, but last night the memories clawed their way out, and now they fester, hot and pulsing.
I hate him. I hate every man who has ever looked at me like prey.
The need to open throats, to watch red bloom and life gutter, suddenly makes perfect, vicious sense.
Ada nickers as I braid yesterday’s trophy tighter into her mane, the coarse strand still smelling faintly of iron. A crow squawks from the ridgepole, its head cocked and eyes black glass—is it the same bird as before, maybe?Doesn’t matter. Its stare sharpens my rage into something I can wield.
I ride hard for London, hooves drumming fury into the mud. At the crossroads, I rein in for a lumbering coach, gloved hand stroking Ada’s mane while the crow wheels overhead, cawing once, sharp as a throwing knife. The sound steadies me, channels the storm into a single, bright edge.
At the livery, I toss Tom the reins and stride away, my boots eating distance so that the walk to the guildhall feels like three heartbeats. I shoulder through the door, climb the narrow stairs, and shove into Bernie’s office without knocking. He looks upfrom his clutter of warrants and ledgers, his smile faltering at whatever he sees on my face.
“Tell me it’s done,” I say, voice low, steady, lethal. “Tell me I can hunt.”
His fingers rake through the tangle on his scalp. “Just a couple chores first, then you’re back in the red.”
I arch a brow whilst I pad myself out to look like a man and pull on my mask. He hurries on. “The gallows need fixing. Tower Green and Tyburn both. Wood’s gone soft, stinks worse than the river at low tide. Patch ’em up, and I’ll hand you a proper neck.”
“Why hangings, now? My axe not pretty enough?”
“Nothing to do with you, love. Witch fever’s running hot. Crowds want the drop, the dance, the flames. Drowning’s mostly for confessions.”
I tilt my head. “Can I build the stake while I’m at it?”
He chuckles. “Knock yourself out. Keep the lads in line, and I’ll find you a kill by week’s end.”
“You’d better.” The words scrape out, raw. I need those eyes again, need the moment they go dark.
I leave him shuffling papers and storm down to Tower Green. A knot of men already mill around the scaffold, hammers and saws glinting. They see me coming and step back—Bernie’s tale clearly still holds: my tongue cut out in a brawl, the thief’s head taken in payment. They don’t talk to a mute man, and don’t dare speak ill, either. I like the hush.
The scaffold’s last nail is driven by afternoon. I wipe sweat and sawdust from my palms, sling my tools over my shoulder, and climb the stairs to Bernie’s office once more. Without knocking, I kick the door shut behind me and drop into the visitor’s chair, propping my boots on his desk, legs crossed at the ankle. Papers scatter under my heels.
Bernie glances up, brows knitting. “Still no mark for today, Mary. I’m?—”
I let the silence stretch until he wilts, then flick my gaze to the stack beside his elbow. He follows my eye-line, exhales, and slides the bundle across.
“Read,” he says as he stands to walk around the table towards me. “Every sheet. How to break a witch, how to wring confession from bone. You hurt; my man asks the questions. Confession means execution. Your blade, your kill.”
I thumb the top page—sleep Deprivation, pricking for the Devil’s Mark, dunking, the Judas Cradle. A slow smile pulls at my mouth.
“Maude’s in the pit,” Bernie adds. “First witch in a century to burn. She’ll make us history.”
I stand, circle the desk, and take his chair while it’s still warm. “Office is mine now.”
He hesitates, then feeds the hearth another log. “Don’t freeze.” The door clicks shut behind him.
Muted daylight leaks through the mullioned window, but the fire’s glow is enough for me to see as I spread the pages like a deck of cards and devour them.
Sleep Deprivation: three days, no rest, until the mind cracks like thin ice.
Devil’s Mark: needle pushed slowly beneath the skin, hunting the spot that bleeds but feels no pain.
Dunking: river cage, lungs screaming for air.
Judas Cradle: the slow, exquisite stretch of weight on a sharpened pyramid.
Whipping: salt in the cuts, rhythm like a lover’s pulse.
Gouging: nails lifted one by one, the sweet pop of tendon.
