Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Hear Ye, Hear Ye, man found dead in the Cliffe Wood!”
The town crier bellows the same words over and over, ringing his bell. I halt. That’s my kill. I wait around to hear if he has any more information or if there are any witnesses. I might be caught.
My heart races.
What a thrill.
I killed an innocent yet creepy man and it allowed me to see those eyes. To see him. I need to see him again. I need to know who or what he is.
The town crier only repeats the one sentence with no new information and I grow restless.
I click my heels on Ada to get her moving again and I keep my eyes alert for anyone staring at me or wanting to come after me.
No one can possibly know that man’s death was by my hands.
My knife. The thought of what I did scares me but also excites my blood. I need to do it again, and soon.
Ada looks even more stunning than usual, with the golden lock of hair from my victim plaited amongst her mane, a light shining in her blackness. I made sure to clean the bit of skin off so as to hide where it came from.
I never take her close to work, instead dropping her off at a neighbourhood stable that many people use. Then I walk the rest of the way. I enjoy the half-hour stroll, it gives me time to take in the city around me.
The hushed voices of a group of women on the street make me slow down.
“They’ve accused Maude of putting a curse on her husband! They had an argument and the next day, he lost his job at the factory AND the debt collectors came to take his horse!”
“A witch? A witch, here?”
“She even has a black cat!”
“Doesn’t she collect a lot of weird things? Like, bones?”
“Yes! I saw she had a skull of something small!”
“Witch! She needs to burn!”
The women walk too far from me to hear any more, so I pick up my pace and continue towards the Tower of London.
The guards greet me at the door, letting me through, and I make my way to my boss’s office to ask about yesterday.
“Ah, there’s my Bloody Mary! How are ya, this fine day?” Bernie asks me, looking up from his papers.
I fold my arms and cock a hip. “Why did you cancel my kills yesterday, Bernie?” His eyes light up.
“We got more important issues right now. Those guys from yesterday can just rot in jail for the time being.” I look at him, waiting for more answers. He sighs. “I didn't want to bring this up with ya because… Well, you're a woman and all...”
“And what does my pussy have to do with this?”
“We’re starting witch trials.”
“So the rumours are true.” I pause, then narrow my eyes dangerously. “You know, just because I'm a woman, doesn't mean I'm a witch.”
He stares at me, looking at me up and down, judging.
“I mean… You're very talented with weapons. Ya have to admit that’s not very common.”
“Just because I'm different and I practice the art of weaponry and fighting, doesn't mean I'm a goddamn witch!
You don't know me or my past.” I stare hard at him, thunder in my expression.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, which makes me take a step forward, “Hey, don't be changing your opinion of me now with all these rumours.”
“Of course not. I'm sorry, Mary.”
I don’t tell people my real name. Mary was fitting due to the Tudors and where I work, though.
“So what does this mean for me? Do I still have a job?” I question.
“About that…”
“No, don’t you dare fuck me over now!” My dagger flashes bright steel, before I even realized I’ve drawn her.
Bernie’s eyes widen and he holds his hands up in the air.
“Now, now, there’s no need for violence.
” Bernie tries to calm me down and this prompts a growl.
He knows I love this job, that I need this job.
“I was going to maybe suggest you help with the witch trials.” I lower my blade, tilting my head and eyes narrowing again.
A new type of killing?
“What will I do?”
“I got a lass down in the dungeon, rumours say she’s a witch. She’s been in there a while already, but I got my guys looking in the back at the old papers from years ago and what they did. Might still have some equipment around that they used.”
I step back and sheathe my blade, relaxing a bit and settling back down. “So…what? Am I off again today?”
“I mean, yeah. Come back tomorrow, I’ll try to have something lined up for you to do, alright? Might not be head-chopping, but it’ll be paying work and probably something to do with all this witch business.” He shudders and makes a sign against evil, prompting me to arch an eyebrow.
“Fine. See you tomorrow, then.”
I turn and head outside, pausing to look at the tower green for a moment while I think. The world has been changing a lot lately. Guess it was only a matter of time before it got around to affecting me.
After a few minutes of being vaguely aggravated about it, I end up walking back towards town, deciding to take care of some shopping.
I navigate the twisted veins of London, listening to the distant toll of church bells ring and the ceaseless rumble of carts over uneven stones.
Buildings hunch shoulder-to-shoulder, their thatched roofs dripping from the morning’s drizzle, windows shuttered against the chilling wind that carries whispers of plague and unrest.
Hawkers’ cries pierce the murk—“Hot eels! Fresh from the river!”—while apprentices scurry with bundles, dodging puddles that reflect the grey sky.
My first errand leads to the joiner’s yard, nestled in a shadowed corner. The shop’s facade is unassuming, a faded sign depicting crossed planes swaying gently, its paint flaked by years of rain. I push through the door without a word, the bell tinkling like a wary sentinel.
Inside, the air is thick with the resinous tang of oak and beech shavings.
Tools gleam on pegged walls, chisels are honed to razor edges, while half-formed furniture looms in the gloom: a cradle mid-assembly, a chest awaiting its hinges.
The joiner, a wiry man with a flour-dusted apron and spectacles perched on his nose, glances up from his bench, where a lantern casts flickering gold over his work.
He recognizes me instantly, nods curtly, and retrieves the prepared haft from a rack without preamble.
It’s a sturdy length of hickory, smooth as silk, its weight perfect in my palm.
I drop the agreed shillings into his outstretched hand, tip my hat in silent thanks, and depart as swiftly as I arrived, the door thudding shut behind me.
With the new handle for Malenia secured under my arm, I plunge into the heart of the nearby market, a whirlwind of colour amid the city’s drab palette.
The ground squelches underfoot, a slurry of trodden leaves and discarded peels, while the air hums with the mingled scents of pears, baked chestnuts, and the faint undercurrent of manure from nearby livestock pens.
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.
Like His eyes.
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?