“A witch often hides behind an innocent face.
That’s why you must know the signs to look for.”
—The Path
Leaf 17, Vein 26
Hand in hand, the witch’s children walked down the empty road.
The girl, twelve and as thin as a willow branch, wore a simple black school dress with a white collar, patched in several places but immaculately clean. Her dark hair was coiled in a tight bun. Sometimes she allowed a few rebellious strands to hang across her forehead, but not today.
Her name was Kara. Mostly she was called other things.
Taff, her brother, was small for his age, with sandy hair. The morning was cold, and twin blooms of red spotted his pale cheeks. Without thinking, Kara reached over and checked his temperature with the back of her hand.
In the distance a figure approached.
It was early, even for the few farmers who used this road to transport their goods to the main village. Past hills of plotted land, sunlight peeked through the sky-scratching branches of the Thickety like an uncertain visitor.
Taff squeezed his sister’s hand.
The figure drew close enough for Kara to recognize the plodding gait of Davin Gray. He lived on the edge of the island but spent most of his time traveling from farm to farm, making repairs. She had once asked him to patch their roof when Father had been in a bad way. Davin Gray had laughed in her face.
Despite this, Kara knew her manners.
“Good morning, Mr. Gray,” she said. She squeezed Taff’s hand, who surrendered a quiet, “Morning.”
Refusing to meet their eyes, the man spat on the ground and traced a path as far from the pair as the road would take him.
“Evil,” he growled. “Just like the mother.”
When Davin Gray had passed, the children, used to such encounters, continued their journey. Perhaps Kara held her brother a bit closer. That was all.
I don’t want to do this, Kara thought as they approached the farmhouse. She started to turn around but then remembered her desperation last night upon boiling water and finding nothing—literally nothing—in the cupboard to cook. What Kara wanted wasn’t important anymore. It was all about need.
Before she could change her mind, Kara trudged up the wooden steps, dragging Taff behind her. The farmhouse had recently been whitewashed, and an expensive Fenroot branch hung across the door so Timoth Clen would recognize the residents’ devotion upon his Return. It reminded Kara that she needed to chop some firewood before night fell.
She took a moment to straighten her dress before knocking on the door.
“Be good,” she told Taff.
Taff nodded.
“Promise.”
“It ain’t me. They’re the ones—”
“Promise.”
Taff sighed deeply. “I promise, Kara.”
The door opened.
Constance Lamb’s face, a poorly harrowed field of scars, loomed before them. Kara looked away. The sins of my mother are not mine to bear, she reminded herself, but the thought provided little comfort. It never did.
“What are you doing here?” Constance asked. She wore a freshly starched housedress and a white linen bonnet. Even the clouds of flour on her apron looked neat and orderly.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lamb.”
“It’s barely morning at all. And I asked you a question.”
“I’m here about your horse, ma’am. Mr. Lamb sent for me. He spoke to my father and told him he had a mare with a gimp foot. My father suggested I offer my assistance. I’m good with animals.”
Constance inhaled, slowly and deeply, then freed the air through clenched teeth.
“Well, if there was such an arrangement, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Mr. Lamb agreed to two browns.”
“Two!” Constance held a hand to her heart as though such an outlandish sum might strike her dead on the spot. But Kara felt that the price—which would buy them little more than a dozen eggs and some new socks for Taff—was more than fair.
“I’ll do a good job,” Kara said. “I promise. I’m good—”
“—with animals. Yes, you mentioned that.”
Kara waited. There was no sense in speaking more. The woman would either allow her to earn the seeds or she would not.
“You can find your way to the stable, I presume?” Constance finally asked.
“Yes, ma’am. What’s the mare’s name?”
“Shadowdancer’s what we call her. Though I don’t see why it matters any.”
It mattered a lot, but Kara didn’t bother explaining. Constance wouldn’t understand, and the truth would only cause rumors and whispers.
“May as well know, that horse is crazy. Don’t let my husband or any of the farmhands near her on a good day, and now that she’s hurting . . .” Constance shook her head. “Broke Eric Whitney’s arm when he tried to help her.”