Wolves Among Us(62)

“I sent her to another village with a sheriff I know. She is safe there.”

He pushed her through the door into a dark cell. He pushed Alma in after her and stepped back to lock the door.

“Bjorn. Look at me, please.”

Mia clutched Alma to her chest, shrouded in darkness. Bjorn stood in the door, light illuminating him, a frightening angel with a black shadow across his face. He did not seem to be looking at her, though she had called him. His head was bent low, as in prayer. Perhaps his heart had softened at last.

“My boots are filthy.” Bjorn used one foot to pull the other out of one boot, kicking it across the floor, striking Mia in the shin. He pulled off the other and flung it into the darkness. It landed near her.

“I’ve nothing to clean them with.” She meant it as a request.

“The shame you’ve brought me? Visiting a witch? Gossiping about me? Whispering about me to strangers? You should lick them clean.”

“No. You’re wrong. Drink the vial I gave you. Then you will know I am a good wife.”

Bjorn shut the door, leaving her in total darkness. She heard his steps fading away.

Mia heard voices from other cells. They spoke as if she couldn’t hear them, treating her like an enemy. No one was indifferent now, not after Bastion’s kiss on the church steps. Mia was an enemy, even if she was jailed too.

“Mia is here. Bastion must have changed his mind again.”

“What vial did she give him?”

“Where did she get it?”

“Who is there?” Mia called into the darkness. The voices softened into whispers so Mia would not hear.

“Mia? Is that you? Are you safe? Is Alma with you?” Father Stefan’s voice rose above the whispers.

“Yes, Father Stefan. We are together. And we are safe.”

Mia stroked Alma’s hair as she spoke. Alma did not seem afraid, because Mia was always there in the darkness with her.

Her closed, scarred heart broke open as she understood the truth of what she had said. Mia gasped and hugged Alma tighter, mercy and grace exploding in her heart so hardened from fear. Mia saw her past, illuminated at last, the brittle wall around her heart shattering and falling away.

Sitting in the dirty cell, she had never been so free.



As the hours wore on, Mia had nothing to feed Alma and no relatives to supply their meals. Surely, though, Bastion would think of this, even if Bjorn did not. Surely Bastion wouldn’t let Alma starve. He had made promises.

Mia could not be afraid, not for herself, not anymore. But Alma might still be frail. She needed food. Mia would wait. Someone would come, someone to help.

Hilda had not been brought here. Perhaps it had been better for Hilda that way. Perhaps her heart had given out, and no one had touched her. Mia hoped the men buried her. Most criminals were not buried. Their corpses were left out to be despised and abused.

She remembered that. She remembered how her father had hung from a beech tree until the birds came and picked him clean. She had stayed hidden in the streets, only coming out at night to steal, looking on his bones that fell, one by one, beneath the tree, watching as dogs carried them off, tails high and wagging.

It had all started, or ended, on a beautiful morning, cool air and burning sun. The miller’s grindstone had just begun its low growl as it started to turn for the day. Chickens pecked at bugs in the dirt outside her father’s shop. She had gone to fetch a remedy from the herbalist. Her father had been out drinking the night before, celebrating the completion of Tyndale’s forbidden Bible. Her father did not often have time to get drunk, so when he did, he did not do it well. He had no experience in it. He had been lying in bed that morning, groaning when the light hit his eyes, ignoring the other jobs begging to be done at the press. The last chapter of How to Be A Good Wife was yet to be printed. Mia danced around the press, yelling for her father to wake up and get on with it.

Mia knew the shopkeeper—a friend of her father’s—would have something to make him right again, so she took a few coins from their hiding spot and ran out the door. The shopkeeper began acting so odd when she came into his shop. His wife pursed her lips and poked him, prodding him to do something. Mia could not guess what. Without a mother of her own, older women were a mystery to her.

“Wouldn’t you like to look around?” he asked. “Surely that is not all you’re buying. We have excellent remedies for gout.”

“What gout? My father’s quite well. He’s just hungover—that is all.”

“Yes, I know.”

His wife butted in. “We all know, Mia. Your father was not himself last night. He told many tales, to many people.”

“What do you mean?”

The wife sighed a loud, laboring noise. Her husband tried again.

“Wouldn’t you like something for yourself, too? Maybe a treat for a good girl who serves her father so well? Have you tried these almonds my wife makes? They’re spiced and so filling. You wouldn’t even need to make a meal today. Come, I will fill a bag for you.”

Mia’s stomach had tingled as if she should be afraid.

The shopkeeper came round the counter, reaching for her with an odd smile. Mia didn’t think it was a good smile. It was a smile that hid something.

She backed up as he edged closer to her. She moved nearer the bottles of remedies left by the door. She knew the one her father needed to cure his hangover.