“Pish posh, Charlotte. I’m no witch and you know it.”
“Miriam, stop it!”
“Say another word, and I’ll call for the guards.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, I would.”
Then, the sharp cry splits the morning. “Guards! Witch!”
I flinch, a roll slipping from my hands. The baker catches my eye—payment expected. I sigh and gather the dropped sweets. Ada will like them.
The guards move fast, seizing Charlotte as she screams her innocence. One of them hits her with the hilt of his baton, the sound dull and final, and she crumples. Her body is dragged towards the carriage bound for the tower.
“Miriam! I never—” one of the women whispers.
“Don’t you start or I’ll call for the guards again.”
“The guards have already taken a dozen women this morning,” another pleads. “Please, stop.”
“I sent them all,” Miriam says, chin high. “Mad witches, every one of them.”
Oh, Miriam. You’ve been sending away innocent women to their deaths, now you are deserving of the same fate.
I pay for my sweets, climb on Ada and guide us towards a nearby guard—a familiar one, the man who helped me build the last stake. Our eyes meet and I tilt my head towards the women.
“Miriam?” he mutters.
I nod.
Within seconds she’s seized.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she cries as they twist her arms behind her.
“A reliable source says you’ve been crying witch all morning,” the guard says. “Maybeyou’rethe witch.”
“No! I’m innocent!”
“Yeah, we’ve heard that before.”
They haul her away, throwing her into the carriage beside a now conscious Charlotte. I watch them scream and claw at each other as the doors slam shut.
I smile. It’s a good day.
The witch hunt is back, crawling under London’s skin like a sickness. And I, as always, will find a way to use it.
London stinks of smoke and fear. The air hums with it—that breathless panic before something burns. I can feelHimin it, the link between us thrumming like a heartbeat.
Red calls to red.
I ride to De-Vil’s, tie Ada behind the building, and feed her one of the crushed pastries. “Be good, my girl,” I whisper, patting her neck.
Inside, the noise hits me first—laughter, music, moans. Perfume and sweat hangs as thick as incense, and the foyerglows amber, all silk and shadow. De’s office dominates the centre, her polished desk gleaming. Opposite it, Sparrow’s bar waits, bottles catching the light.
Sparrow stands behind it, her sling bright against her black blouse. The bruise on her face is fading, though the swelling has left her looking softer, somehow.
Still beautiful.
