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.
“A rabbit,” Father Stefan said, patting his hands against the air as if to calm them. “Probably just a rabbit. Something is hunting it.”
Dame Alice caught Mia’s eye and motioned for her to come near. Mia jerked her face away, pretending to study Alma’s bare calf dangling from Bjorn’s arms.
Bastion raised his hands for silence.
“Tonight I will show you the truth of all I say. A witch has been identified and caught and has confessed. I present her to you tonight so that her evil may be ended and you good people freed.”
There were murmurs of approval. Mia thought that, taken together, the crowd sounded like cows.
Bastion smiled, stroking his chin and nodding before continuing.
“In some villages people must seek out a savior who can free them of a witch’s power. Not so for you. It is not Father Stefan’s desire, nor mine, that you be exploited in such a way. It reminds me, in fact, of a town I was called to by the bishop. The noblemen had set up a tollbooth, and all who were bewitched in their own persons or in their possessions had to pay a penny before they could visit the Inquisitor and be cured. And the noblemen made a substantial profit. Have I asked you for anything?”
The people shook their heads.
“That is right. Like Paul, I do not wish to be a burden on you. I want you to understand that my motives are pure. Can you imagine a man who would profit by another’s misfortune? And yet one man’s trouble is often the means of another man’s wealth.