Bertram’s jaw is hard as he nods deeply, respectfully.
I dismount quickly. Best to be done with it.
I unlatch the brooch that fastens my cloak to my shoulders, letting the cloth drape over the saddle, careful to keep the dirt from staining it. My men follow suit—despite the cold air, the churning smoke from the chimney indicates that it will be sweltering inside.
Hilde learned from Mother well—keep the blaze going while brewing beer.
A pang hits me at this memory of home, and what that meant. Once.
Three short strides, and I’m at the door, my men behind me.
I feel the weapons hidden all over my body.
“God bless the righteous,” Bertram says as I reach for the door. His words make me pause, just a fraction, my fingers cold on the iron ring that opens the wooden door.
There’s a flicker by the window. Soft brown hair. White cotton kerchief. Hilde, inside. She’s singing to herself, the fire roaring—she has not noticed the loud horses and men who have arrived.
My eyes settle on the windowsill where a clay bowl sits with cream inside the house. Bertram has followed my gaze. He makes the sign of the cross. Bowls of cream like that are little offerings to the forest folk, the old ways.
The long-steeped habits of the Celts that have not yet been purged from society.
I throw the door open.
My sister spins around, eyes wide. For one fraction of a second, I am met with a look of love. My sister and I share blood only through our father, but we grew up together, happy children who truly loved each other.
But then her hazel eyes move past me.
To the men.
The horses.
The cage on the cart.
And when she turns back, I see only fierce rebellion in her gaze. She knows.
It’s time.
“What are you doing here?” she snarls.
“I have turned a blind eye to your practice for far too long.” I stand in the doorway. I can feel Bertram and the other men crowding behind me, trying to get inside, but I don’t let them. Not yet.
This is my sister.
This moment is ours.
“What evidence have you?” Hilde spits. Behind her, the firelight casts her in flickering shadow. Her defiance and the stifling heat do nothing to appease the hexenjägers gathered in her door tonight.
My gaze lingers on the cauldron at the fire. It’s copper, not iron. “A vessel for potions?” I ask, arching a brow.
“For beer, you damn fool, as well you know.”
I lift the tall, pointed black hat that sits on the little table by the door. It’s called a hennin—Mother wore one too, to stand out in the crowds when she sold beer in the town market.
Another sign of a witch.
“And a broom by the door!” Bertram says. He tries to press it into my hand, but I drop it. It lands softly on the earthen floor.
“You can condemn a woman for a pot, a hat, and a broom?” Hilde asks, hand on hip. “I make my living with beer. How else am I to brew and sell it?”
