Chapter I.3 #2
But that was where the similarities ended.
On longer inspection, the woman’s clothes, though finer than most, were not fine enough to count her among the local nobility.
Miria knew nothing about current fashions, but even from this distance, she could tell the woman’s gown had no lace and limited embroidery.
The sleeves were fastened with ties instead of buttons.
She had money, especially in comparison to the rest of the mourners, but she was not on the level of Adaline’s family.
Miria moved on, not planning on paying the mourners any more attention, but the priest’s voice rose above the din in a way his head could not, demanding it.
“We did all we could, but the church cannot counter such vile magic on its own. We must pray for order. Justice is order, and the Divine Order will aways triumph over human-made chaos and destruction, if not in this life, then in the next.”
Miria’s steps slowed. She was almost to the chapel, and she should keep going, search for the wedding announcement and return home. But she couldn’t help herself. Previously, the mourners had been sad and subdued, but with the priest’s words, the air rippled with agitation.
“It’s true then?” an elderly woman asked.
The priest had taken the hands of a young woman to whom he was speaking more softly, so the tall, wealthy woman answered. “It’s true. He’d been losing blood and vitality for months before his death.”
Somewhere among the assembled mourners came a wail, followed by hushed voices and dark murmurs. The time for sorrow was quickly being replaced by the time for vengeance. Miria could sense it like a hot breath on the breeze, lifting hairs on the back of her neck.
“We know some of you have sought out the witch,” the tall woman said, more loudly, making full use of everyone’s attention.
“And you see what it’s done? Another family is grieving.
Your bargains with the witch have caused this.
There is no small magic, nothing harmless about her power.
Her magic is fed by our children’s blood. Those of you—”
At this, the priest cleared his throat and placed a soft hand on the woman’s arm, cutting her off. “Perhaps, Rosmilda, this is not the time.”
Miria could not see the woman’s face, but she could tell by the way Rosmilda’s posture stiffened, then forcefully relaxed, that she was displeased to be interrupted in the middle of a satisfying rant.
“Of course, you are right.” Then she clasped hands with the same woman the priest had. “My dearest, Freda. I am so sorry.”
The voices quieted, anger burning out like ashes in the fireplace, leaving only the cold emptiness of sadness once more.
After a moment, Miria, too, returned to the task at hand, but her thoughts remained divided between Adaline’s letter and what she’d overheard.
It was no surprise that people would blame a child’s death on the witch.
They’d been doing that since long before Miria was born.
Everyone knew the witch stole children’s blood for her magic and turned the men who dared cross her into clay.
Just like everyone knew the witch never left the woods.
Lately, they’d even taken to saying the witch herself feasted on the children’s flesh after she’d drained them of their blood, and that rumor was especially galling because Miria knew the boy (now a man) who had spread the lie.
But no matter how wrong they were about everything, it was inescapably true that more children had either disappeared or died of a mysterious wasting illness over the last several years than Miria remembered happening when she was younger.
It was concerning, but not a problem she knew how to tackle or whether it was something she should attempt in the first place.
Miria was proud to have helped some of those vanished children disappear, but trying to solve a problem while being blamed for it was exhausting.
Her nana would have told her to keep her head down, and at the moment, it didn’t seem like bad advice.
Besides, she currently had another, more pressing, problem to work on.
The chapel’s sturdy oak doors were propped open to allow in the breeze, and Miria stepped inside, blinking twice until her eyes adjusted to the dimness and her nose to the potent incense.
She’d been no more than waist-high the last time she’d been inside the stone building, but it retained a sense of familiarity like a cruel whisper in the back of her mind.
She couldn’t quite place it, but she recognized it and didn’t care for it.
Light poured into the main chamber—surely it had a name, but Miria didn’t know it—from several tall windows, but here in the antechamber, the space was lit only by flickering candles. Nevertheless, the notices pinned to one wall were legible, at least to those who could read.
The first to catch her eye featured a crude drawing of an old woman in a hooded cloak. Warning, the text read. Only those with business in Shadow Wood should enter the forest. It is forbidden to seek out the witch.
And below it: Anyone with information about the blood-wasting illness should contact the Overseer immediately.
Miria shook her head at the wildly ridiculous illustration and moved on.
It took her a minute to find the wedding announcements, and she wondered, briefly, if Adaline’s would not be listed since it sounded as though the arrangement had been made in haste.
But there it was, along with all the others for the current moon cycle.
Lady Adaline, daughter of Sir Alberik and Lady Brunhila of Waeremund to Hans, son of Garulf, Overseer of Swiftdok.
For a moment, the room spun around Miria. The chapel dissolved into a blur of color and candlelight, a sulfur and smoke nightmare that left her dizzy. Then she breathed deeply and her hand once again grasped the charm she’d tucked into her bodice, letting its furious heat wash over her.
Ground her. Focus her. Fill her veins with clarifying, purpose-giving rage.
Hans, son of Garulf. Garulf, Overseer of Swiftdok.
The Overseer was her father. Which meant Adaline—beloved keeper of the witch’s heart—was supposed to marry her brother. The boy who’d abandoned her. The boy (now a man) who’d lied about his escape from the woods and embellished the tale, giving more children and parents nightmares for his own gain.
Miria loved her nana with an intensity only matched by how much she hated her blood family, but the old witch hadn’t been infallible, and this time, Miria should have trusted her instincts. Those blackbirds had definitely been an omen.