She nodded. “A good green witch, indeed.”
I say that to myself now. A good witch. A green witch. I use herbs and create spells. I do not hear the voice in my head; I do not feel its pull; I am a good witch—
Will a good witch survive this?
I scream and fly to my feet, the iron bar back in my hand, and with my last fleeting remnants of strength, I pry the other bars free and gouge enough dirt out to widen the opening.
I will not give in. Not today. Not tomorrow.Never.
I throw that word up against the voice in my head.Never, never, you will never get me; you’ve taken enough.
A stream of smoke floats through the cellar window.
It could be mist on an early morning breeze, common enough now in winter—except for the smell. Wood and cinder, earthy and rich, a fire on a summer night, a smoldering kitchen flame under a boiling pot—and it isn’t innocently gray. It’s heavy, choking black.
The oddity doesn’t make it past my focused terror.
I need to get out of this cellar.Now.
The smoke blows, obscuring the town square, filling this cellar until every blink is grating sand on my eyelids and every breath burns.
Once the bars are freed, I stack more crates back beneath the window and haul myself up to the opening.
My body scrapes against the edges of the window hole as I wiggle free. Streaks of dirt drag along my coarse blue kirtle, my square-necked shift beneath splotched with grime and sweat as I roll to my feet outside.
“Mama!” I scream into the smoke, coughing each breath. “Aunt Catrin! Liesel!”
Why haven’t any hexenjägers swept in on me yet? I’m out of the cellar; they might not be able to see me in the smoke, but they should be able to hear my screams now. I don’t care. I’m too overcome with panic, and I shout the names again.
The wind shifts.
The sky clears first. Brightest blue, high afternoon, a crisp December day as any other.
Liesel wanted to make sweet zwetschgenkuchen today but use apples instead of plums.No, I told her,I’m sorry, Liesel, I can’t. Mama needs my help with the chores I didn’t do yesterday, on my birthday.
My birthday.
The thought of it cracks my heart, shatters what’s left, and it’s in that state that I see what has become of Birresborn.
Bodies lie everywhere, left to fall where they were killed. Somehexenjägers; not enough. Mostly my family, my coven, shot with rifles or stabbed with blades.
I stand still for a moment, the world off-balance, and I realize—I’m the only thing standing now in this village. The surviving hexenjägers have left. My coven is…
In the center of the square stands a single stake.
How long did I cower in that cellar? Too long, not enough.
The wind whistles, catches, puffs smoke higher, and I hear only the thud of my shattered heart beating in my ears. I hate the absence of noise more than screaming, this incessant, defeatedsilence.
I drop to my knees in front of her stake. Her burnt remains are held to the charred wood by a great iron chain.
They didn’t take her back to Trier. Didn’t give her the sham of a trial.
They branded her chest. A curvedD, for dämon.Demon.
I did not hear her scream when the kommandant lit her fire, when he branded her—she would never have given him the satisfaction
“Mein Schatz.”
