"They know what you did." Little Elsa's eyes are dark with fear.
I nod and add willow bark to the pot, stirring slowly. It is the last remedy I'll brew for Larsen's headaches. He'll be here to collect it soon enough—with all his friends besides.
My calm increases Elsa's agitation. "They're going to kill you," she clarifies, as though I do not already know their purpose.
I look at her, letting my face reflect my resignation. I've been here many times before. All are happy to accept the advantages of my craft—until they discover my potions are the smallest of my powers.
I had to do it.
Salva's birthing was long and torturous. Though her child was born breathing, her bleeding would not be staunched.
Salva. Calm, clever and generous. Even as she faded, she cared only for the life of her babe, rejoicing in each lusty scream.
I did not think on it overlong.
I slipped into the garden and plucked a hen from roosting. It was the work of a minute to speak the words of power and break the bird. I returned to Salva's side, fingers red and hot with blood, and painted on her belly the rune that would condemn me.
Salva's bleeding stopped. Colour returned to her cheeks even as it drained from those of Inga, her mother-in-law.
"Good morrow, Mother Lilja." Inga spoke stiffly, shielding the newborn as though I might snatch him from her.
I rolled my eyes. I did not need her grandson's blood to fly or retain my youth—fictions invented to frighten women from their power. I informed her Salva and the child would thrive, but her hard eyes revealed my own health was not so assured.
I returned to my cabin and set about making up a bundle. My rarest herbs, clothing, food, water—my most essential needs. Exhausted, I curled into my bed for the last time and listened to the fluting of the owl that nested in the eaves until sleep took me.
Little Elsa's knock had me fearing I'd underestimated the mayor's efficiency. Her warning is unnecessary but knowing she cares enough to risk her own life is humbling.
"Go, girl. With such crimes, they are quick to accuse innocents. Save yourself," I command.
She is loath to leave but to stand with me is to burn with me.
I fill an earthen jar with Larsen's remedy and seal it, marking it plain enough for him to find when he comes for me. I sweep thick rushes from the stony floor. The interlocking lines of the hexagram are fading, but the circle remains closed. I stand within the hex and begin the incantation.
I draw the hexagram in chalk
and bid the lipless dead to talk
and guide my steps at Deaden Fork
as through the Darken Door I walk.
I pour the birthing blood as I intone the final line.
The door opens.
I step into the dark.
