Wolves Among Us(34)

“Father, no! He is my friend!”

“He’s going to get us all killed.”

“All we have is each other. You said that yourself!”

“You are not a parent, Mia. You can’t understand.”

“I want to know this truth he speaks of. I want to know.”

Father shook his head at Master Hutchins. “She is my only child.”

Master Hutchins made no reply. Father scowled at Mia. “Learn the letters if you want. But hear me: Letters become words, words become books, and you will become an unfit wife. It won’t matter that you know the truth. Is that what you want?”

Mia nodded her head yes with great vigor.

Her father had laughed without joy, extending a hand to Master Hutchins, lifting him off the floor.

Mia sighed as she remembered days that were no more, and men she had loved. Those loves were long dead now.

Carrying the silver piece of type with the letter M, she went back to the hole she had dug and dropped it in. Getting down on her knees as if to say a prayer over it, she leaned over the hole. “I am sorry.” She sat back on her heels and began pushing dirt into the hole, tamping it down, piling leaves and dead vines over the spot. With any luck, spring would cause something green to grow up over the spot.

Going back inside, Mia set her mind on the life she had now. She sat next to the box with great relief, waiting for strength to return. She smoothed the linens and christening cloth back into place inside the chest. Catching a hint of smoke, she pulled out the christening cloth and held it to her nose. It smelled like smoke and needed a good airing. She set it in her lap and fished in the chest for her sack of pearls.

“Burial cloth, indeed. Those days are gone, Father,” she said, though she knew she sat alone. “But you’ll see. I’ll sew my pearls onto this, and she will wear it at her wedding someday.”

The pearls were gone.

“How could that be?” Mia asked, dragging the chest closer in between her feet and searching again with trembling fingers. The pearls were small but not so small that they could go missing in this chest. They were held together on a simple string, tied together like a necklace with a silver clasp in the center. The clasp, a poor-quality one, had marks on it from the smith’s tools. Even so, that crude clasp proved strong enough to hold the little pearls secure. The pearls had been her mother’s, meant to be sewn onto Mia’s own bridal veil.

Hairs raised along Mia’s forearms. Tears started to build, making her throat burn as she swallowed and tried to stop them. No one even knew she had the pearls, save for Margarite and Bjorn. Why would anyone steal from her? She was neither rich nor proud.

Mia threw a hand to her mouth. A witch had stolen these pearls intended for a happier day.

“I have to ask Bastion. Why would a witch steal them? Are more curses still to come?”

The home remained silent, save for Margarite’s soft snoring. Alma stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled at Mia. She sat up in her bed, pulling herself up to the window. She loved to watch the squirrels scampering all around the house. Spring meant squirrels jumping from tree to tree, and turtles lumbering though the leaves, and birds singing at all hours. Alma slapped her palms against the window frame, cheering.

Bjorn opened the door, leaning in. Mia jumped, startled.

“Bastion will begin the burning soon. Will you come with me?” he asked.

“I am not sure,” she said. “I should stay here, keep watch over the house. And Margarite.”

Bjorn held out a hand to her. “Mother is asleep. She’s fine. Come with me. You need to know who the witch is. I don’t want to be the one to tell you.”



The fire popped and sent sparks in all directions, threatening to set them all ablaze. Mia realized Bastion had used fresh, uncured wood.

Alma slept against Bjorn’s chest. She looked like a yarn doll in his arms. She had fallen asleep in Mia’s arms, but she had grown so heavy. Mia could not hold her all night.

“If she wakes, I’ll take her back,” Mia promised.

A woman stood tied to a post near the fire, a leather face mask drawn tight around her and cinched at the neck. Mia could not recognize her by her clothes. Bastion’s caged witch sat a good twenty paces away. She would not be the center of attention tonight. Mia wondered if witches felt jealousy.

Mia pinched herself. Witches could not have human emotions. Thinking those thoughts, making them human, was a sin. Witches probably thought of nothing but curses and sacrilege.

The townspeople all pushed each other to get the best possible view, craning their necks, moving slightly this way or that, all wanting to be sure they did not miss anything Bastion might do tonight.

Bastion allowed the small children to sit up front, and he had a large semicircle of little faces watching him. He passed out sweets to them, little dried raisins that they gobbled up and begged for again, clapping.

Mia watched as Father Stefan stood to the right of Bastion, his hands behind his back, chewing his lower lip. Mia expected him, as their Father, to have something grave or comforting to add to Bastion’s words, but Father Stefan looked as if he wanted to run away. Behind them all, in the darkness near the edge of the forest, Mia saw a shimmer in the moonlight, like a horse’s mane. She bent her head forward and squinted.

Not a mane, she realized, but hair. The woman who watched them all, the healer herself, with her long, loose silver hair, was standing at the edge of the forest, watching them. A gray wolf circled round her legs, his head low as if spying his prey somewhere in the crowd. A shrill cry pierced the night and drew Mia’s attention away from the pair. The children screamed and clapped their hands over their ears, grimacing.