Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
“Did you know?”
“Have you heard?”
“In the town square.”
“Today?”
“Who?!”
“Who is Dahlia?”
My feet burn as I sprint through the tall trunks that stand in my way, using my hands to push past them as tears fall from my eyes before the wind whips them away.
I trample over daisies, sending the birds scattering into the sky as I trip, a sob breaking from my lips. I barely find my feet before I’m running once more, propelling forward through the mist that has settled between the trees, even as my body protests.
Is it true?
It can’t be true.
My fingertips tingle as the thought rips through me. I close my fists so hard I can feel my nails searing crescent shapes into my palms. But it doesn’t so much as sting, not when I can barely think a single thought aside from the desperation to get to the town square.
It can’t be true.
I can almost hear my name in the distance, but nothing is going to stop me from getting there as fast as I can.
“EVIE!”
I see the silhouette of a man on a horse riding straight towards me, triple the speed I’ve ever ridden. When I see the shaggy brown hair atop the man’s head, my eyes blur with even more tears.
“Dahlia. The square,” I say, my words barely coherent.
“I heard,” Silas reaches a hand down for me. “Come on.”
I place my hand in his, and he swings me up onto the back of his horse before snapping the reins, sending us hurtling through the forest and in the direction of the town square.
The low mist parts as we shoot through it, forcing it out of our way as the trees whizz by. We are going so fast nothing is more than a blur, just like my mind.
Silas brings the horse to a halt, his back feet skidding in the dirt as we land on the outskirts of the forest with a view directly into the town square.
No.
No, no, no.
Wooden beams are erected in the middle of the square, with ropes tied to the plank between them. The end of the rope is wrapped around the necks of Dahlia and a woman beside her. And surrounding them, seated in wooden chairs on the uneven bricks, is everyone I know.
“Gods,” Silas curses before the both of us swing off his horse.
My feet barely touch the ground before I’m sprinting towards the crowd. I halt as I reach the edge of the makeshift arena. Everyone sits silently with terror written all over their faces as they stare at the two women in front of them.
Dahlia’s eyes are bruised shut and weeping tears. One of her ankles is twisted at a sickly angle, and her foot keeps slipping off the edge of the small stool beneath her feet.
My breath catches in my throat as it slips once more, and I cannot exhale until her foot is back on the stool. Even then, I’m not certain I am breathing.
I saw this woman not more than a week ago. She was so petrified, so worried she would end up exactly where she is right now. The thought brings bile to my throat. I bring a trembling hand to my mouth as I gag. How did she end up here?
I can taste terror in the air. Misery floats on the mist that creeps into the square, as if it followed us from the woods. I feel a hand on my back as tears spill over the edge of my eyes.
Dahlia wobbles once more, and when she does, I can see the blood that coats her hands that are bound behind her back, as if her fingernails have been torn from their beds. I flinch at the thought before my mind runs with all of the ways she has been hurt, in all the ways we cannot see.
I should have gone to her sooner. I have the belladonna in my basket at home. I should've gone sooner.
Her skirts are torn—almost identical to the woman’s next to her. The older woman stands steadier on her small stool. Her voice is a wail as she calls out. “Please, please let her go. Take me but let my Dahlia go.”
Her voice is so weak, it punctures me straight through the chest. Her pain so evident in more than just the burn marks on her arms and the blood stains on the bodice of her dress.
“PLEASE!” she cries, exerting all her energy as her head hangs. Six councilmen stand behind the women, their faces a sick combination of boredom and pleasure. One of them strikes her with an iron poker in the ribs, sending a ripple of shock through the crowd.
“We can’t just stand here,” I say. “Why are we all just standing here?” I sob, looking to where Silas stands eerily still next to me.
“They’re going to kill them, Silas!”
Silas just shakes his head. “I can’t—I don’t…”
My eyes unwillingly search the crowd for a head of sandy hair, and I don’t know why, but Rylan is nowhere to be seen.
“We are gathered here today,” Mayor Hawthorne’s voice rings through the cavernous space. “To witness the execution of Dahlia Livingston, and her mother Pearl Livingston.”
Murmurs break out through the crowd, and my knees feel weak as I watch the mayor pace in the space in front of the women, a vile look of pride on his face.
“Dahlia Livingston is convicted of the crime of practicing dark magic,” he yells, the murmurs growing louder.
More tears fall from my eyes as my stomach continues to churn. “What in the gods…”
“And her mother, Pearl, is convicted of being a sympathiser, hiding her daughter’s crimes as a witch. For their crimes, they shall be hanged, and you shall be their witnesses.” A woman falls from her chair, crawling aside to be sick, and the sound of it fills the haunting silence.
“Based on what evidence?!” a man yells from the crowd. “They should have a fair trial!”
“A trial is not needed when a confession has been made,” the mayor says, unsettling pride filling his voice. “And a confession has been made.”
I shake my head. “A confession? A confession made after they have been tortured to the ends of the continent is not a confession. It’s coercion.”
Silas is speechless beside me, his eyes glued to the harrowing scene in front of us.
“I should’ve done more,” I say, my mind spinning. “I should have helped her. I could’ve helped this, I could’ve—”
“Evie, stop,” Silas says, snapping out of his daze and holding my face in his hands. “This has got nothing to do with you, okay? How could you have seen this coming?”
I draw my gaze back to where Dahlia stands, her body little more than a bloody sandbag. “She did.”
“Let this be a warning,” the mayor shouts, “that this town is no longer a place where crimes can be committed, and no one will be the wiser. You live under King Wyndbrook’s reign. I shall not let you forget that.”
He speaks as if crime runs rampant here, when this is nothing more than a tranquil town with a close community.
Two councilmen step forward, and I recognise one of them as the man who stood in my apothecary only yesterday. They don’t hesitate before they kick out the stools from beneath Dahlia and Pearl’s feet.
A scream tears from my throat as I watch their bodies drop. Silas pulls me into him, burying my head in his shoulder so that I cannot see.
Instead, all I can do is listen.
I hear the cries of the women seated in the row next to us.
I hear the sound of sickness once again, the sound of retching, and liquid hitting the bricks.
I hear the shouts of councilmen attempting to control the crowd.
But beyond that, behind all of that noise, I hear creaking as the wood strains. I hear the friction of rope against wood, and I hear the gargled sounds of two women dying at the end of that rope.
“This is sick!” Hazel’s voice rings through the square like a bell in the dead of night. “You are sick!”
Silas’s arms can’t hold me as I turn around to see my friend standing up amongst everyone else in their seats. Fear trembles through me like an earthquake struck me at my core.
“Careful, healer.” That same councilman steps forward, holding the iron poker in his grasp. A simple threat. “Or you’ll be next.”
My gaze can’t help but jump to where Dahlia and her mother hang lifeless in the middle of the square, their bodies swinging with the momentum of the drop.
Their faces are a different shade to the rest of their bodies, the circulation of blood cut off at their necks. Dahlia’s swollen eyes stay shut, but Pearl’s are open, watching over us all.
I take a step forward, but Silas grips my hand in his. “Not you.”
I just look back to where Hazel stands, her back straight and her head held high as she stares down the councilmen who just dared to threaten her.
“Cut them down!” a woman yells from two rows ahead of us.
More voices echo her words. “Cut them down!” The shouts grow louder, and louder, more and more people standing up.
“If anyone is evil, it’s you!” I hear.
Mayor Hawthorne’s face brightens with anger with every shout sent in his direction.
Mr. Dunsmoor, the man who laid the very brick we all stand upon, walks down the aisle between the chairs, shouting at the mayor as he goes. “Cut them down, you heartless bastard!”
“Shit,” Silas curses from beside me.
Two men stand up as he goes past them, shouting things I can no longer hear or understand, but they nod as he continues to make his way towards the mayor.
It feels like I’m watching the moments before a tragedy. I can feel the shift in the air as if the mist can feel it too, that uneasy feeling inching its way up my spine.
Someone hands Dunsmoor an axe from within the crowd, and he points it at where Dahlia and Pearl still hang, forced to endure this chaos rather than being laid to rest.
The councilmen rush forward, standing in front of the mayor as his face gets even redder, his gaze pinned on Dunsmoor as he cries out for the women. “This isn’t right!”
I hear a sharp “Stay back!” but Dunsmoor takes one more step towards the mayor, and then the iron poker is plunged into his chest.
My knees give out as my voice shatters on a cry. I feel myself fall before I’m caught in strong arms that hold me up on fragile limbs.
Screams echo around me. People flee from the stands like a flock of birds dispersing as others rush towards where Dunsmoor has dropped to his knees, the poker still protruding out of his back.
“I said stay back!” The councilman yanks the poker from Dunsmoor’s chest, the movement jerking his wounded body. The councilman waves the bloody steel in front of him, creating a barrier between himself and the crowd. “Do not come any closer!”
The look on the mayor’s face almost resembles shock, but it disappears as my eyes flood with more tears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. How did this just happen?
“We need to go,” Silas says in my ear, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the scene. I can’t walk away.
“We cannot just leave!” I sob.
I watch as Hazel gets eerily close to the poker. “Let me help him, please!” she cries as Dunsmoor collapses onto the ground.
“Watch yourself, healer,” the mayor says. “He is dead.”
“He is still breathing!” she screams as blood pools on the very bricks coated in Dunsmoor’s sweat and tears.
“Not for long,” is all the mayor says, looking down at where Dunsmoor’s delayed breath is stalling.
Hazel drops to her knees, staining her skirts with his blood as she cries.
“Touch him and you will find the same fate,” the councilman says, pointing his poker at her.
“Councilman.” Mayor Hawthorne gives him a sideways glare, but the councilman doesn’t lower his weapon, he only looks back at the mayor, his gaze assured.
“We need to go,” Silas says once more.
“We can’t,” I whisper. “Hazel.”
My eyes catch a flash of gold as the Pines walk over to Hazel. Maeve throws one of Hazel’s arms over her shoulders and drags her away from the scene. Hazel looks back, her eyes devastated as she leaves Dunsmoor with the men who killed him.
Edward stands in front of the men begging for the councilman’s attention with their jeers towards him, shouting over Dunsmoor’s lifeless body. Edward talks to them, his manner calm, but there’s a fire in his eyes as he looks at the mayor before leading the men away.
Maeve opens their front door, hauling Hazel into their house on the other side of the square before shutting the door to the tragedy outside of it.
“Please, Everleigh,” Silas begs.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay.”
He picks me up, carrying me in his steady arms as he sits me in the saddle on his horse's back and swings himself up behind me.
Both of us look once more towards the square, and I let myself commit the image to my memory.
The vision of the Livingston women hanging in the middle of the square, the mist lingering where their feet hang above the ground.
The vision of Dunsmoor’s dead body limp upon the bricks, a hole through his chest that is still seeping blood, and the cold look on Mayor Hawthorne’s face as he watches us ride back into the forest.