Housewives haggle fiercely, children weave through legs chasing stray cats, and a fiddler scrapes a jaunty tune for tossed coppers.
I browse leisurely, filling my satchel with firm potatoes, a clutch of onions still trailing roots, and a handful of apples for Ada’s treats; she’ll crunch them greedily, her dark eyes sparkling with delight.
At a weathered stall piled with greens and gourds, I pause before the seller, a grizzled fellow in a woollen cap, his face etched with lines like river maps, hands knobby from years of tilling. He eyes my selections, tallying the cost with a grunt.
As I hand over the coins, I lean in casually. “Heard tell of that mad Maude from up yonder? You deal with her before they carted her off?”
His eyes narrow, glancing about as if the walls have ears, then he spits into the mud. “Aye, the witch, they call her now. Sold her leeks and beets regular, I did. Harmless old crone, or so I thought—always muttering to herself, eyes wild like she’d seen ghosts. Last time, ‘bout a fortnight back, she haggled fierce over a squash, claimed it whispered secrets to her. Laughed it off then, but next day, me neighbour’s goats turned milk sour overnight. Folks say she hexed ‘em with a glance. Bailiffs dragged her screamin’ to the Tower, rantin’ about devils in the dirt. Burn her soon, mark me words. These hunts…they’re spreadin’ like fire in thatch.”
I nod thoughtfully, pocketing my change, the tale stirring that familiar itch in my veins. This compulsion to orchestrate endings, to watch life ebb in crimson streams—it’s deeper than any fleeting passion, more vital than breath. Lovers come and go like market crowds, but death? It’s my constant, a shadow-self that questions if I’m kin to these mortals or something forged in darker fires.
I reach the stables, saddle Ada with quick hands, and tell freckled Tom, the horseshoes will be ready by nightfall. He nods thanks, and I mount and ride out, London’s spires shrinking behind us as we follow the rutted road toward Cliffe Wood.
The path winds through patchwork fields on the outskirts, golden stalks of barley swaying in the breeze like whispered secrets. I pass a handful of modest farms, their thatched roofs sagging under ivy, chimneys puffing lazy curls of woodsmoke. A few I know well—I’ve shod their plow horses, mended their scythes, traded gossip over tankards of ale. But one plot catches my eye today, its fence leaning drunkenly as if weary from guarding the crops. This morning, it was bare save for the furrows; now, a grotesque sentinel looms in the centre: a scarecrow slapped together in haste, its body a ragged sackcloth torso daubed in vivid, screaming red, the colour of fresh-spilled blood under torchlight.
Atop its shoulders sits no ordinary head, but a twisted knot of frayed ropes and splintered sticks, fashioned into a jagged crow’s beak and hollow eyes—jet black, bottomless voids that seem to swallow the light.
LikeHiseyes.
From its outstretched arms dangle crude wooden crosses, swaying gently like pendulums of forgotten faith. The thing’s meant to ward off pests, but it’s a farce—a bold crow perches defiantly on its “shoulder,” its beady gaze locked on me, unblinking, as if daring me to approach.
The sight is so bizarre, so grotesquely vivid, that I rein Ada to a halt mid-stride, my breath catching. The world narrows to that crimson abomination, the wind rustling its tatters like a rasping breath. Then, without warning, a scarlet veil descends, drenching the landscape in crimson haze—the sky splits open, pouring down rivers of blood that blur the fields, the road, everything in a torrent of rage and ruin.
I’m not allowed in here…
I DON’T LIKE THIS,thunders in my mind.
Red. Again and again.
I like this...
Ada stamps once, her sharp snort ripping me back to reality—the blood-rain is gone and only a bruised sky remains. I stroke her neck, murmur an apology, and ease her into a brisk trot. The road home feels longer tonight, each hoofbeat echoing that off-key chord still thrumming in my chest.
At my cottage, I ride straight into the barn, take off Ada’s gear, and feed her an apple from my pocket. I also steal one for myself, crunching the skin between my teeth while I finger the fresh braid in her mane.
Milly lowes softly as I milk her, the rhythmic tug of her udders steadying my pulse. I tell her about the scarecrow, about the crow that stared like it knew my name. She flicks an ear, unimpressed. In the coop, the rooster, Benny, launches into his nightly tirade, wings battering the air, spurs flashing. The hens cluck their approval; eggs will be fat tomorrow. I laugh—low, private—and lock them in.
Inside my smithy, I shed my jacket and shirt, pull on a sleeveless leather jerkin and loose breeches, then tie my smith’s apron tight. A sharp kick scatters kindling, the forge awakening with a hungry roar. I set the half-finished horseshoe on the anvil, heat it cherry-red, and let the hammer sing. Each blow is a heartbeat; each spark a note. When the iron bends to my will,I quench it in the trough—hiss, steam, done. I rake coals into the little stove, rinse the forge with sand and water, and head to my cottage to start supper: onions, salt pork, and some of the market carrots.
A rap at the door jolts me. I open it to find Tom, all gangly limbs and a hopeful grin. I hand over the shoe and pocket his coins. He opens his mouth, a shy question trembling on his lips, but catches the ice in my stare and swallows it whole. “Night, Mary,” he mumbles, retreating into the dark.
As I go to close the door after him, a shadow shifts overhead. I step outside just far enough to see a crow, glossy as sin, perched on the barn ridge. Moonlight strikes its eyes—two chips of obsidian reflecting starlight like cold fire. It tilts its head, unblinking.
I shut the door and bar it.
Later, stretched across my bed with the taste of smoke still on my tongue, I wait for the familiar weight of being watched. Nothing. No prickle at the nape, no whisper in the rafters. Only the wind worrying the shutters and the soft rustle of hens settling.
Sleep takes me anyway, dragging me down into dreams of black wings and eyes that swallow every light but one—glowing, patient, waiting.
Why didn’t I see him today?
Chapter Five
“Great heavens, Evelyn!”My mother’s voice makes me jump. I hate it when she uses that voice at me, it means I did something bad. “What are you doing with that rabbit?” She storms over and takes the dead rabbit out of my hands. I look at my mother and shrug. I did nothing wrong here, I made it quiet. My father walks over to join us at the forest's edge. He stares at me, right into my eyes, and as usual, I see no emotion in him. I don't really even know what it means.Emotion.
My mother grabs my arm and drags me back to the cottage. She hits me. Again and again. I feel nothing. Father has the rabbit in his hand, a mangled mess of missing limbs and fur with red falling out.
I’d caught it with a snare; my father forced me to do it. He makes me trap innocent animals. I don’t like it.
