1
FRITZI
DECEMBER, 1591
My mother’s eyes are fire embodied, smoldering with such fury that I feel their heat on my skin. That fire burns straight to my core, spearing me, as I stand helplessly in our little kitchen, arms splayed, empty potion vials clutched in my fists.
“Go, Friederike,” she tells me, a growl of command. “Get in the cellar.”
The shouts of battle outside haven’t waned. How long has the fight lasted? And still, each cry of attack is as jarring as a crack of thunder, surging alertness into my veins, a building stockpile ofwake upanddangerandgo.
Mama tells me that again. “Go,now.”
I only came in here to restock my supplies and regroup. Our coven needs help—
“Mama, you cannot ask me to hide. Youcannot.”
She throws a glance through our warped front window. A protection talisman hangs against our single pane of fogged glass, ash tree twigs knotted into a triangle, limbs strung with rosemary bundles still fresh and floral-sweet.
A lot of good that talisman has done.
A lot of goodanyof our protection spells have done.
I grab for the herbs spread on our kitchen table. Birchbark for protection, fennel seed in a cedar box for defense; what will work, what will beenough? I brought everything that we had out of the cellar, all our last remaining herbs, but I turn back to the open hatch helplessly, like something else will appear, some great solution I’m too panicked to see.
“Mama,” I try again. I am faltering, my voice is too high, my movements too unsteady. When I reach for the herbs again, the cedar box tips, spilling dozens of tender fragrant fennel seeds across the wood. “Let me make more potions. I can do it quickly. Let me try—”
The wrinkles around her usually smiling mouth tug down. She smooths back her unruly blond curls, identical to mine, hoping to wipe away some of her uncappable sorrow. I have seen that look before; it is branded on my soul, and I know, a flash of realization, what’s changed in the last few seconds.
This battle teetered on the edge of hope before it even began. We always knew the witch hunters would come for us, so we had defenses, strategies planned, but success relied too heavily on luck.
And every ounce of luck turned its back on us from the start.
Whatever my mother saw outside has told her: We can’t win. Wewon’t.
I pull the empty vials to my chest. “We’re still standing. We have to keep fighting!”
Mama surges forward to cup my cheek in her palm. She smells of sweat and gunpowder.
Outside, screams. From my family. From hexenjägers, the vile witch hunters. Spells explode and rifles pop.
“Mein Schatz,” Mama whispers, her thumb soft on my face. “I don’t need you to be brave now. I need you tolisten.”
I shove the potion vials into the leather pouches hanging from my belt and grab her wrists. “Mama, please—I need to tell you—”
She presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you, Friederike.”
Then she pushes me.Hard.
I stumble back, stunned, and trip on the open hatch door.
It’s my fault,that’s what I was going to say.The battle outside, the witch hunters being here, is my fault. You cannot save me from it—
I fall, hands tearing on the rough wood ladder, knees banging against the wall until I drop with a jaw-clacking thud on the dirt floor of our cellar.
Pain pierces through my body, bright and shattering, as I look up at the hatch and see Mama gazing down on me, backlit so there is only darkness where her face should be.
“Wait!” I cry. “No—”
