There, by the baker’s oven, is Richard, the constable from De-Vil’s, his blue coat flashing like a warning. Two women flank him, aprons flour-dusted, mouths working faster than their hands.
“A witch killed him!” one shrieks.
“A witch didnotdo that!” the other snaps. “Did you see the state of him in that chair?”
Shit.
“That’s the devil’s work,” the first insists. “No human nor witch could do that!”
Richard’s head tilts as he murmurs something low. The women point east, towards the lord’s house that I’d left in moonlight and ruin two nights ago.
“There’s going to be an investigation,” the second woman says. “That’s two men now. Remember the one in the woods?”
Shit.Shit!
“I hope they catch whoever did this. I don’t feel safe here anymore. Especially now there’s witches!”
“I agree. We need to leave London.”
Richard gives a curt nod and sets off in the direction they pointed and I follow him as the women scatter like startled hens.
I keep three cart-lengths back, weaving through the midday press. Whenever he pauses to question a vendor, I busy myself with a stall of ribbons or bend to stroke a passing tabby. A stack of crates becomes my shield; a brewer’s dray rumbles past, and I duck behind its barrels. My heartbeat is steady—no fear, only curiosity sharpened to a blade.
I must not be seen. Not by him.
Richard reaches the wrought-iron gates of the lord’s house, the two sentries flanking him like blue-coated bookends. One of them I know: Lee, a thick neck, scar across the brow, the sort who’d remember a face, so I melt back into the crowd before his gaze can sweep my way. The air feels suddenly crowded, as though unseen eyes press between my shoulder-blades.
My ghost?
I reach for the familiar chill of His presence and find only warm daylight—a pity.
Turning on my heel, I choose a longer loop to the Tower, which carries me past different tongues: fishwives haggling, apprentices whistling, beggars rattling cups, whores leaning in doorways with painted smiles and hollow eyes. Witch-fear hasn’t reached them yet; hunger always trumps superstition.
I knew that hunger once, before Bernie plucked me from the gutter. One day I’ll repay the debt.
More guards than usual prowl the Tower’s outer ward; I nod to the ones who matter, ghosting past the rest, and slipping through the side door.
My stake waits in the centre of the yard, proud and terrible. Not some crude pole, but a perfect cross. I run a palm along the grain, which is as smooth as a coffin lid. A private smirk tugs my mouth. How many will catch the jest? Crucifixion for a witch—gallows humour indeed.
I step back, eyes tracing every angle. Flawless. Malenia and Olivia would approve; it has been too long since their edges sang.
Around the base I roll the open barrels, positioning them on my stage. Into each I pack off-cuts—splinters, shavings, anything that will catch. From the Tower stables I drag armfuls of straw, the dry stalks whispering again, and again as they brush my wrists. A boy’s voice, long ago, stuffed with yellow, painted red. I shake the memory off and keep piling.
Hours bleed away, the sun sliding down and gilding the cross in bloody light. Evening settles, thick with river mist and the promise of smoke.
Soon, the bells will toll. Soon, old Mad Maude will dance in the flames I have built.
I cannot wait.
The square heaves with bodies, thousands packed shoulder to shoulder, breath fogging the night air like a single living beast. Torches gutter in every fist and candles tremble in pious hands. Guards ring my stage in a wall of steel and flame, their weapons catching the light like a crown of spears. High above, the King watches from his velvet box, face half-shadow, eyes bright as coins.
The sky is black glass pricked with stars and a lone crow circles the battlements, cawing once.
It’s time.
Two guards kick open the wooden door that leads onto my stage and drag Mad Maude forward. The white dress they’ve forced on her hangs in tatters, stiff with old blood and worse, and her arms—bones I had personally splintered—are bound in front with frayed rope, yet she walks upright, smiling that cracked, defiant smile. Shadows cling to her like oil; deeper, darker than torchlight allows.
Doubt and Desire have been busy. Her jaw sits straight again, the swelling gone, the skin unbruised. They must want their plaything lively for the finale.
