Witch Hunt.
The following evening—as the men quarreled over the biggest bowl of pottage—Bash and I slipped out of camp. I knew the brothel would still host soldiers and stragglers tonight, but visiting without a group meant fewer eyes watching our every move.
Bash grumbled about the rain as we trudged through the persistent mizzle, yet I’d grown fond of the wet weather. It reminded me of home—a place I often longed for but knew I could never return to.
“How are we going to navigate this?” Bash asked as we moved beneath the shelter of the rowan trees.
I shrugged as the remaining red berries fell from their silvery branches, tapping me on the head along with the raindrops.
“We could ask Mr. Bednot to arrange a private chat with one of the women. Then, when we’re in her bedchamber, we ask her if she’s a witch,” I suggested.
“That’s a terrible plan,” Bash replied, shaking his head and flicking droplets from his drenched hair.
“Unless you speak to them in Yfelle, they’ll think you’re just a conman trying to trick them into revealing their deadly secret.
And if you use the forbidden tongue but they aren’t witches, the next necklace around your pretty neck will be made of rope. ”
I tried to focus on his valid points, but my attention snagged on his remark. Bash had called my neck pretty—just a turn of phrase, yet it made me giddy.
“I think one of us should pay for some time alone with that woman Red accused of speaking in Yfelle,” Bash continued.
“If she’s using the magical tongue, she’s probably casting spells—and we both know what happens when someone plays with magic.
” He pointed to his hand. “Eventually, she’ll strip down to nothing—even her gloves.
If her palms are purple, we’ll know she’s a witch. ”
Bash gave me a proud smile, clearly pleased with his version of our plan.
“Hm,” I murmured, imagining him in a compromising situation with a naked woman. There was simply no way—on the gods’ rainy realm—I was agreeing to that.
I shook my head firmly. “If we want these women to fight alongside us, we need to earn their trust. Deception and coercion won’t win us loyalty. The respectful approach is to ask.”
“What if they aren’t magical?” Bash asked. “What if you speak in Yfelle and they start screaming?”
“As long as we’re in private, we’ll be safe. If they do cause a scene, you can use that memory-loss incantation—the one you used on the baron that Fletcher stole from,” I replied.
Bash let out a long sigh. “Fine, we’ll do it your way,” he said with a reluctant smile. “You’re almost as bad an influence on me as my cousin.”
We left the shelter of the trees and rushed toward the exposed cliffs as the rain quickened, blinding me with droplets that clung to my eyelashes. Then, out of nowhere, a cloudburst struck. In seconds, the gentle shower had turned into a thunderous downpour.
We braced against the terrorizing winds blowing inland from beyond the thrashing sea. Glancing over the cliff edge, with prickly rain pelting the back of my neck, I saw no shuckers in sight—the shoreline had been swallowed by the tide, with waves crashing relentlessly against the rocks.
“Hurry!” Bash yelled over the roar of the storm.
We sprinted toward the Anchor, wading along the flooded footpath.
Bash, faster than me, gained considerable distance and reached the shelter of the brothel ahead.
There, he stood patiently in the pummeling rain, holding the heavy door open while I battled against the tempest. I tumbled over the threshold, slipping on the straw-covered floorboards.
Inside, the patrons glanced our way, drawn by the wailing wind that followed us through the open door. Bash slammed it shut, muffling the storm’s howl.
It was quieter than our last visit with the soldiers—only a handful of customers gathered around the trestle table. A lone figure sat by the fire, plucking a merry tune on his lute, while Jane stood at the bar, diligently polishing tankards with a mucky cloth.
Wiping the rain from my face, I scanned the chamber for Margaret—but she was nowhere to be seen.
Bash shrugged off his long coat, sending droplets of rain flying as he shook it out. His sodden tunic clung to his toned stomach, and I knew the gods were testing me, using Bash’s body as a divine challenge of self-restraint.
As I succumbed to lustful thoughts—imagining how each muscle might feel beneath my fingertips—I noticed Bash glancing down at himself, trying to figure out what had aroused my interest. He looked up, catching my eye.
“What?” he asked, chuckling awkwardly.
My mouth went dry, as if I’d swallowed a handful of sand.
“Gentlemen!” Mr. Bednot called out as he appeared behind the bar. “What can I do for you on this wet evening?” He flung open his arms as if greeting old friends.
I never thought I’d be thankful to see that sallow-faced man, but as he diverted Bash’s attention away from me, I found myself relieved by his presence.
Scraping my drenched hair off my flustered face, I followed Bash over to the bar.
“A private chat with one of your ladies,” I said, resting my elbows on the counter. “Preferably Margaret, if she’s available.”
Mr. Bednot raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you call it?” he asked with a sly grin.
I shook my head defensively. “I’m not interested in her for…” I hesitated for a heartbeat. “Carnal pleasures—I just want to talk. I find women’s conversations far more engaging than the frivolous chatter of men,” I said, sounding more like Niamh than Smith.
Mr. Bednot nodded slowly, as if convinced I was too timid to voice my true intentions with Margaret. Though he wasn’t entirely wrong, his assumption was far from the truth.
“Do both of you wish to have a conversation with a lady this evening?” he asked, nodding toward Bash.
“Yes, please,” I replied.
Mr. Bednot rubbed his palms together. “That’ll cost you ten pence and a shilling, each,” he said, licking his lips like he was peckish for pennies.
Bash flinched at the price, while I gave him an encouraging pat on the back, knowing I had no coinage.
“Fitzroy’d better give me one of his jewels for this,” Bash muttered, shaking his head as he dug out the coins owed.
He handed them to Mr. Bednot, who then hurried us through the fraying curtain and into the sordid back rooms.
“Jane will take care of you,” Mr. Bednot said, shoving Bash toward the chamber on the far left. “Margaret’s waiting to attend to your needs in here,” he added, ushering me into the bedchamber I’d visited before.
“All well, love?” Margaret asked as she closed the door behind me.
Uncomfortably, I stood in the middle of the candlelit space, tugging at the sleeves of my long coat and wishing Bash were with me.
Margaret’s motherly face bore big blue eyes and a small mouth, framed by thinning strands of black hair. The lines etched into her forehead made her look older than forty, though working here had likely taken its toll.
I recalled the last time I’d seen her, when Red had broken her nose with one mighty jab. I’d expected crooked bones and bruised skin, yet her face had healed suspiciously quickly.
“Have you come back to claim your reward for saving me the other night?” Margaret asked, gesturing toward the bedstead.
I nodded as I sat on the stained sheets, wondering if it could truly be called a reward—after all, I’d just paid ten pence and a shilling for her time.
Margaret perched beside me and tugged up her yellow kirtle to flash her stocking-covered knee.
“Oh,” I stammered, panic rising in me.
Margaret rolled the worn linen higher, exposing more of her flesh. My focus, however, wasn’t on her pale thighs but on the embroidered gloves she wore. The daisy pattern along the hems reminded me of the design etched into Fletcher’s stolen locket.
Leaning in, Margaret reached for the lapels of my damp coat, trying to shift a layer of clothing. I seized her wrists to halt her.
“I’m nervous,” I said, which was true. “Can we take things slower?”
From behind her ebony locks, Margaret offered me a kind smile. “Course, love.”
I felt queasy at the thought of asking her outright if she were a witch—especially without Bash nearby, ready to perform the memory loss incantation should she cause a scene.
Part of me wanted to flee, to bolt out the door and search elsewhere for members of Fitzroy’s magical army.
Yet another part needed to know if I was right: Were these women truly the cloaked figures I’d seen casting spells on the cliff edge?
“All well, love?” Margaret asked, interrupting my internal dilemma.
I nodded, though I felt anything but well. “Yes,” I replied softly as I took her hand in mine.
I resolved to stick it out. All I needed was a glimpse of Margaret’s palms to confirm her magical abilities.
I let my fingers trail up her arm before gliding back down, slipping beneath the seam of her glove. Just as the fabric began to budge—slowly edging off—she moved.
Margaret placed her palm on my thigh and leaned in to kiss me.
I returned the affection, taking this moment to plan my next move.
My hand drifted to hers, again trying to ease the glove away, using my tongue as a subtle distraction.
But when her hand slipped from my grip and slid upward to squeeze my nonexistent bicep, I realized nothing I did would distract her.
For Margaret, this wasn’t hedonistic—it was work.
Gently, she pulled me on top, lips still locked to mine. As I lay above Margaret, the softness of her skin reminded me of one summer when Avice and I were fifteen.
Avice had decided we should practice kissing to impress some handsome minstrel boys traveling through the Wetlands, and, as always, I obeyed her request.