Chapter 2
MERCY
My feet sink into the soft earth, but excitement rushes in a raging river in my chest at what is to come.
Pale fingers pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders, skirts brushing against the drift of spent leaves along my path underfoot and for the first time in three turns of the Wheel, I allow myself to feel peace.
The village of Harrow's End draws closer with each breath I release into the cooling air, my path lined with sturdy oaks, their branches heavily laden in leaves of brimstone reds and burnt oranges.
I keep my eyes to the crows, theirs are set on the cluster of buildings up ahead, taking it all in one last time as it sits in quaint comfort.
This time tomorrow, the ground will have given way, smoke will rise not just from chimney stacks but from the logs of the meeting house, from the austere steeple that claws ugly against the sky.
I suck in a lungful of air, taste the sharpness of woodsmoke and tallow, and every step brings me closer to the market where men in black coats weigh apples and barter grain with the same wretched hands that not three turns ago, signed women to the flames.
Tonight, those hands stained red with blood will turn black with rot and ruin, and the streets of this village will flow with my retribution.
Those pillars of the community, fat with lies and swollen with greed and hate will learn the true price for calling any woman who dares defy their oppression Witch.
So quick were their accusations, so nonsensical their proof, that innocents were put to the flame.
Not Witches, as their righteous edicts had condemned, not demons befouled by the devil—women.
I grip the twisted spines of my basket in my hand, light with air now but not for long.
The market buzzes on my approach, even in the early breaks of dawn and over the hum of voices the bell tolls from the church, nestled up the knoll, the better for the Ministry to keep sentry over its flock.
It will burn last, I decide as I pass under the watchful eyes of the righteous Reverend Minister Mathers, his nose as crooked as his morals, the stench of sin reeking from his person like a feast for the flies.
My tongue slips past my lips, just a taste, just a tease, the depths of his depravity enough to make any Sin Eater's mouth water with want, all while preaching piety and restraint.
The boy at his side stares ahead, eyes dead and lifeless as his hands try not to tremble.
Yes. The good Reverend will die last, as his church burns around him.
"Good morrow, Goody Hawthorne," Jenny Prichardson offers kindly, the once vibrant girl now skittish and shy, pulling me from my musings.
I stop at her stall considering the goods she offers, and though I have no need for the eggs I select and she gratefully wraps up for me, I know that the shillings in her hands will stop more bruises from purpling her cheeks.
Blows delivered by hands that abused their vows as he pickled from the inside out in drink.
Shane Prichardson will die second.
"Good morrow, Jenny," I say brightly, "Is that husband of yours still ailing with that tooth?" I give her my best sympathetic look, and she swallows as she hands over the small bundle of eggs.
"Yes'm. It is causing him quite a turn," she replies, voice soft.
Broken. Rage burns in my chest even as I smile pleasantly, take the eggs and tuck them in my basket.
My fingers close around the small vial of brown liquid, the same given to her for the last few months, and she will take it, because she knows slipping it into his drink will make him sleep and give her peace, if only for a little while.
"I cannot pay you for this," she whispers begrudgingly and the regret in her voice nearly breaks me. I push it into her hands, gently closing her fingers around it, studiously ignoring the nails bitten to the quick from her anxious disposition.
"No cost. Just promise to administer it straight away, I would hate for the Selectman to suffer any more than necessary."
Relief spreads her lips into a smile, her pretty blue eyes watering at the respite I promised, and I wish for a moment that I could tell her last night was the last time that man will ever torment her.
That once that potent is in his gullet, her freedom will be secured.
Instead, I give her hands a quick squeeze, and move on, sowing the seeds I have spent these last turns cultivating.
Many moons of watching, observing, weighing the souls of these "good" men.
"And how is Mr. Hawthorne?" Constable Wickham asks, his voice full of faux concern as his gaze molests over me greedily.
It takes all my restraint to not claw his eyes out with my fingernails, shred him down to bone and viscera.
Instead, I fold my hands demurely over my basket, dip my head in respect, like a decent, pious Goody would.
"Good days and bad," I answer, my face a stricken mask of grief, but inside, I crow at the spiderweb woven over Benjamin Blackthorne’s mind, keeping his murdering body confined to bed while I do my work in peace.
The Constable's fingers adjust his bulging waistband while the servants in his home starve on rations not fit for dogs and he terrorizes the women of his household with his advances. His death will be savored.
Selectmen Prichardson. Constable Wickham. Benjamin Hawthorne. Goody Prentiss. Reverend Minister Mathers.
I say their names in my mind, let my eyes drink them in, feel my tongue sample the depths of their trespasses as I make my rounds in the market thrice, widdershins.
Deconsecrating this ground, courtesy of a small thorn pressed against my thumb, the droplets of my blood disappearing into the mud and muck of Harrow's End freely given from my torn flesh.
When the tasks are completed, I let my feet carry my body back to the land that brought me to this village.
And tonight, when the Blood Moon swallows the darkness of the sky this Hallow's Eve, my vengeance will rise cloaked in straw and bone and fury to reap what these godly men have sown.