Page 16

Superstition (thought to be an ancient, forgotten thing) still pulsed through the surrounding village like a festering wound. That was all well and good, for perhaps whatever was concealed within the depths of the church’s crumbing facade wanted to stay hidden.

A mole sniffed along the church’s exterior, its beady eyes searching for just a moment before it slid through a hole the size of a quarter eagle. It scuttled through the wall and emerged into a lantern-lit chamber, where two figures sat at a small round wooden table playing cards. It was an easy, casual scene. They might have been seated in a parlor at teatime, if one imagined the crumbling stone walls replaced by sleek wallpaper, the damp dirt floor revitalized with polished oak.

The man appeared to be in his early thirties, with cropped dark hair that swept in a neat wave over his forehead. He wore a long ebony coat to block out the chill, and the crisp white collar of his shirt brushed against his clean-shaven jaw. There was an air of elegance about him, but also a weariness. Clearly, he had seen and done much in his first few decades of life—or so it seemed to the woman who sat across from him.

She was middle-aged, draped in a tangerine gown that dusted her ankles and a patchwork shawl. Her hair was pinned up in an unusual style that was not at all in keeping with current fashions among proper ladies. Just as socially unacceptable was her posture (round shouldered) and her arms (crossed). Her nose curved in a regal slope, and her chin jutted out in what appeared to be a constant display of defiance. All of this added up to a severe, unorthodox appearance for a woman of the time.

“Dear Mr. Clark, I do believe it’s your turn.”

The man turned to look at her, unable to hide his surprise at being addressed in such a manner. It was rare for someone to call him dear. Had anyone, ever?

He gazed down at the cards fanned out just so in his hands to ensure that only the blank sides faced his opponent. The ink blurred before his eyes.

“Do you admit defeat?”

Mr. Clark raised his head. “Perhaps.” He forced a smile. “I apologize, Mrs. Kanniff. I am quite tired.”

“I can’t imagine why.” There was a teasing lilt to her words, nearly hidden beneath her thick Scottish brogue. “It can’t be the least bit exhausting, saving all of our lives.”

“Careful.” Mr. Clark tossed his cards onto the table. “I’m not about to become your third deceased husband.”

Her expression faltered. She flexed her hands against the tabletop, blinking rapidly.

“Oh, Mrs. Kanniff, I apologize,” said Mr. Clark, shame holding a flame to his cheeks. “I overstepped. It was in jest.”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I know what people think.”

“Just as I know their words hold no truth.” Mr. Clark’s face softened as he reached across the table to rest his hands briefly on hers. “You wouldn’t be here if they did.”

Mrs. Kanniff wiped at her cheeks with her knuckles.

“It is a terrible world we live in, when wearing bright colors and having bad luck somehow make you a witch,” said Mr. Clark.

The woman nodded, folding her cards back into a pile. “I think I’ll retire for the evening, if you’re not opposed. The others will wonder where I’ve gotten to.”

“Not at all.” Mr. Clark helped Mrs. Kanniff to her feet. On closer inspection, he noticed that her dress was covered in faded smudges of mud, as though she had tried to scrub the cloth clean with stale water from a wash basin. Mr. Clark imagined that if there had been more light, he might have seen the bruises from when she’d been roughly handled by the mob who had cursed and spat on her, the same deep blue that underlined her eyes from many sleepless nights.

“Take care of yourself.” Hands clasped behind his back, Mr. Clark watched Mrs. Kanniff walk away, feeling a pang of sympathy as he noted her slight limp. If only they could have gotten to her sooner, they might have saved her a lot of pain.

His attention was diverted by the sound of footsteps echoing down the empty passageway behind him.

“Ah, Gabriel,” his friend greeted, rounding the corner. "Just the man I wanted to see.”

“Clement.” Gabriel acknowledged him warily. Clement had been stationed at the front entrance. His appearance was a poor omen.

“There’s a situation I need you to address upstairs,” Clement said in his low drawl.

Without another word, Gabriel seized hold of the lantern on the table beside him. He followed Clement through a series of dark passageways and up the crumbling staircase until they reached the front entrance, where a cloaked figure stood encircled by a scarlet aura. He felt a ripple of frustration; hadn’t he asked Clement to never let anyone inside without his consent?

“This is Miss Obedience Bird. Miss Bird, I leave you with Mr. Clark.” Clement bowed before backing away into a shadowed corner.

Setting down the flickering lantern, Gabriel leaned back on his heels. He stood blocking the broken down sanctuary as if he were its keeper, Lord of the splintered beams and cracked candles littering the dirt-crusted wood floor.

“I’m not accustomed to conversing with someone when I can’t see their face,” he said, a hint of warning in the low rumble of his voice.

A chuckle came from beneath the hood, chilling Gabriel to the bone. “You demand I show you respect, warlock?”

Gabriel frowned, hands flexing around his arms. “What did you say?”