The women walk too far from me to hear any more, so I pick up my pace and continue towards the Tower of London.
The guards greet me at the door, letting me through, and I make my way to my boss’s office to ask about yesterday.
“Ah, there’s my Bloody Mary! How are ya, this fine day?” Bernie asks me, looking up from his papers.
I fold my arms and cock a hip. “Why did you cancel my kills yesterday, Bernie?” His eyes light up.
“We got more important issues right now. Those guys from yesterday can just rot in jail for the time being.” I look at him, waiting for more answers. He sighs. “I didn't want to bring this up with ya because… Well, you're a woman and all...”
“And what does my pussy have to do with this?”
“We’re starting witch trials.”
“So the rumours are true.” I pause, then narrow my eyes dangerously. “You know, just because I'm a woman, doesn't mean I'm a witch.”
He stares at me, looking at me up and down, judging.
“I mean… You're very talented with weapons. Ya have to admit that’s not very common.”
“Just because I'm different and I practice the art of weaponry and fighting, doesn't mean I'm a goddamn witch! You don't know me or my past.” I stare hard at him, thunder in my expression. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, which makes metake a step forward, “Hey, don't be changing your opinion of me now with all these rumours.”
“Of course not. I'm sorry, Mary.”
I don’t tell people my real name. Mary was fitting due to the Tudors and where I work, though.
“So what does this mean for me? Do I still have a job?” I question.
“About that…”
“No, don’t you dare fuck me over now!” My dagger flashes bright steel, before I even realized I’ve drawn her.
Bernie’s eyes widen and he holds his hands up in the air. “Now, now, there’s no need for violence.” Bernie tries to calm me down and this prompts a growl. He knows Ilovethis job, that Ineedthis job. “I was going to maybe suggest you help with the witch trials.” I lower my blade, tilting my head and eyes narrowing again.
A new type of killing?
“What will I do?”
“I got a lass down in the dungeon, rumours say she’s a witch. She’s been in there a while already, but I got my guys looking in the back at the old papers from years ago and what they did. Might still have some equipment around that they used.”
I step back and sheathe my blade, relaxing a bit and settling back down. “So…what? Am I off again today?”
“I mean, yeah. Come back tomorrow, I’ll try to have something lined up for you to do, alright? Might not be head-chopping, but it’ll be paying work and probably something to do with all this witch business.” He shudders and makes a sign against evil, prompting me to arch an eyebrow.
“Fine. See you tomorrow, then.”
I turn and head outside, pausing to look at the tower green for a moment while I think. The world has been changing a lotlately. Guess it was only a matter of time before it got around to affecting me.
After a few minutes of being vaguely aggravated about it, I end up walking back towards town, deciding to take care of some shopping.
I navigate the twisted veins of London, listening to the distant toll of church bells ring and the ceaseless rumble of carts over uneven stones. Buildings hunch shoulder-to-shoulder, their thatched roofs dripping from the morning’s drizzle, windows shuttered against the chilling wind that carries whispers of plague and unrest.
Hawkers’ cries pierce the murk—“Hot eels! Fresh from the river!”—while apprentices scurry with bundles, dodging puddles that reflect the grey sky.
My first errand leads to the joiner’s yard, nestled in a shadowed corner. The shop’s facade is unassuming, a faded sign depicting crossed planes swaying gently, its paint flaked by years of rain. I push through the door without a word, the bell tinkling like a wary sentinel.
Inside, the air is thick with the resinous tang of oak and beech shavings. Tools gleam on pegged walls, chisels are honed to razor edges, while half-formed furniture looms in the gloom: a cradle mid-assembly, a chest awaiting its hinges. The joiner, a wiry man with a flour-dusted apron and spectacles perched on his nose, glances up from his bench, where a lantern casts flickering gold over his work. He recognizes me instantly, nods curtly, and retrieves the prepared haft from a rack without preamble. It’s a sturdy length of hickory, smooth as silk, its weight perfect in my palm. I drop the agreed shillings into hisoutstretched hand, tip my hat in silent thanks, and depart as swiftly as I arrived, the door thudding shut behind me.
With the new handle for Malenia secured under my arm, I plunge into the heart of the nearby market, a whirlwind of colour amid the city’s drab palette. The ground squelches underfoot, a slurry of trodden leaves and discarded peels, while the air hums with the mingled scents of pears, baked chestnuts, and the faint undercurrent of manure from nearby livestock pens.
