Chapter 6 Scarlette #2
I lifted the latch and pushed, expecting resistance, but the door swung open under my fingers.
The warmth hit me first, so hard it staggered me to my knees.
Then came the stink of boiled nettles, and of something sour and animal beneath.
I couldn’t see at first; my eyes watered and burned in the glow of the hearth.
But I heard her, the Widow, gasping as she rounded the battered table, one hand on her chest as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Child of God!” she hissed, voice splintered by horror and some older emotion I could not name. “What are you doing in my house? Sweet Christ, you’ll bring the devil in behind you—”
I tried to answer, but the words tangled in my mouth.
Instead, I reached for the table and pulled myself up, forcing my eyes to focus on her face.
She looked much as I remembered: thin, gnarled, eyes like burned holes in a blanket.
Her hair, once iron gray, was hidden under a man’s cap.
Her arms, bare to the elbow, were covered in old burns and newer bruises.
She was strong, still, but the years had worked her small as a sparrow.
She saw me properly then, and her face twisted with something that might have been pity. “Dear heavens, girl, what’s happened to you?”
I tried for a smile, but my lips would not cooperate. “Winter,” I managed, though it sounded like “winner” or maybe “wither.” I collapsed into her only chair, the wood creaking beneath me. The cloak slipped from my shoulders, and the stink of my own body filled the room.
The Widow did not move for a long moment.
Then, with a resigned curse, she dipped a cup in the pot and brought it to my lips.
The liquid scalded my tongue, but I drank it anyway, greedily, gulping until the cup was empty.
She filled it again, and this time I sipped, trying to slow the shaking in my hands.
We sat in silence as I drank, her watching from the far side of the hearth, eyes never blinking.
The cottage was as I remembered: walls rough-hewn and patched with mud, a single shelf crowded with jars, the bed a pile of rags in the corner.
A chicken slept under the table, head tucked under one wing. Everything was so familiar, it hurt.
She spoke first. “You know they’re looking for you. The dogs were up here just after midnight. Churchmen and the new lord’s men both. They had your face drawn on a paper, or what they said was you. It looked more like a drowned fox than a girl.”
I ran my tongue along my teeth, feeling the cracks and chips. “Better than the real thing,” I said, though the joke landed flat.
She frowned. “I’m not playing, Scarlette. They say you bewitched a maid. That you ran through a locked door, vanished in smoke, cursed the men who tried to hold you.” Her eyes narrowed. “They say you walked with the devil in the woods. They say you’re a witch.”
I almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. “So I’ve heard.”
She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “And is it true? Have you done the things they say?”
I shook my head, but the memory of the clearing, of the circle, of what had happened there, burned hot under my skin. I could not bring myself to answer.
The Widow seemed to understand anyway. She sighed, long and slow, and ladled another cup. “This is a bad time for old stories, child. Bad time for women alone in the woods. They’ll not be gentle, not now that the merchant’s man has his hooks in the parish.”
That caught my attention. “The merchant?”
“Trent. Marlowe Trent, or so he calls himself. He’s got coin enough to buy the sheriff twice over.
He’s been here and to every farm for miles.
Says he’s hunting a thief, but I think he hunts something else.
He wants news of you. Of the old stones.
He pays double for a live girl who’s seen the circle, triple if she’ll talk about it. ”
“Why?” My voice was a hiss, sharper than I intended. “What does he want with me?”
The Widow shook her head. “He wants what they all want. Power, or a story to control it. They say he collects secrets. That he’s more dangerous than any of the lord’s men, because you never see him coming.
” She knelt and pressed her hands around the cup, her knuckles white.
“If you value your life, you’ll be gone by morning.
They say the men will come again at dawn, and they will search every house, every barn, every inch of wood. ”
I stared at her, trying to see through the fog in my head. “Why help me?”
She hesitated, looking away. “Your mother,” she said. “She was not unkind to me when the world still allowed such things. She brought bread once. She looked me in the eye. It was more than most did.”
I wanted to thank her, but all I could do was finish the cup and let the heat spread through my chest. The Widow rose, picked a crust from the shelf, and broke it in half, setting the larger piece in front of me. “Eat what you can. Then go, as far as you’re able. They will not stop this time.”
I ate, slowly, savoring every dry, musty bite.
The bread was old but better than anything I’d tasted in days.
The soup, thin as water, felt like it might save my life.
I drained the cup, wiped my mouth, and tried to rise.
My legs would not obey, so I sat, head bowed, and waited for the feeling to return.
The Widow moved about the cottage, silent and efficient, gathering what little food she had into a kerchief. When she was done, she placed the bundle in my lap and pressed my fingers around it.
“You must go by the old well,” she whispered. “There’s a path behind it, grown over, but it’s still there. Go to the circle. It’s the only place they won’t look for you. They fear it more than the devil.”
I wanted to ask why, but she shook her head. “You ask too many questions, girl. Just do as I say.” She wiped her hands on her apron, then bent close, her breath hot and sour on my cheek. “If you see a man in black, with a wolf on his arm, run faster. He hunts for himself, not for any lord.”
The words chilled me, but I nodded, clutching the bundle to my chest. I tried again to stand, and this time managed it, though the room tilted alarmingly.
At that moment, the sound of hooves rang out, sharp and close. Both our heads snapped to the door. There was no time to argue. The Widow grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the back, her grip stronger than bone or age should allow.
“Go!” she hissed, pushing me into the night. “Trust nothing but the oldest magic. And do not come back.”
I staggered into the darkness, the wind cutting through the holes in my dress, the bundle of food pressed to my breast. Behind me, the cottage door slammed, and the light of the hearth blinked out as if it had never been.
I ran. Or tried to. My legs were half-wood, my lungs full of cinders. But I made for the old well, tripping on roots, cursing under my breath. The path behind it was barely a memory, but I found it, scraping my knees bloody as I crawled through the bramble.
At the top of the rise, I looked back. The men were at the cottage, lanterns swinging, voices raised. The Widow stood in the doorway, arms folded, face a blank mask. One of the men shoved her, but she did not move. She just stared, hard as flint, as they ransacked her home.
For the first time in days, I smiled.
Then I turned, tucked the bundle under my arm, and slipped deeper into the woods. The path was gone before I knew it, lost to the dark. I let the forest take me, trusting only to the magic in my own legs and the memory of warmth. My hands were numb, but I did not care.
If they wanted a witch, I would give them one.
***
The forest had gone mad. Or maybe I had, but the difference mattered less with every dragging step.
The snow, once patchy and shy, now fell in sodden sheets, muffling sound and swallowing every mark I made.
I tried to keep to the old path, but it was gone, drowned by the hush and by my own wavering vision.
I could hear them behind me, the men, their voices thinned to pinpricks by the white-out, but now and then a trumpet would blare, high and reedy, and the fear would push me faster, harder, even when my body screamed to stop.
I clutched the food bundle to my chest, knuckles locked and bright with frost. Every few paces, I stumbled, and once, when a root caught my foot just right, I went down so hard I did not believe I would rise again.
The ankle folded beneath me with a sound like a snapping stick, and all the air left my lungs at once.
The pain was so sharp I tasted metal, and for a few long moments the world spun, the sky and trees trading places over and over.
I screamed, but the storm ate the sound.
I tried to stand, but the leg would not hold.
I tried again, and this time managed to lever myself upright, but only by bracing against a birch and sobbing like a child.
Each step was an agony, fire and ice radiating up the calf and across the hip, but I moved anyway, hopping at first, then limping, then dragging the useless foot behind me.
I lost the bundle in the fall, and for a desperate minute, I scrabbled at the snow, hoping to find it.
My hands were numb, and the cold made everything look the same, but finally I spotted the cloth, torn and half-buried.
I pressed it to my breast, as if it could shield me from what was coming.