A flash of lightning cut across the sky as wolves howled, shrill calls above the low growls of thunder. Bjorn stumbled through the door into the room, almost landing on his knees before regaining his balance.

  “He doesn’t believe anything good about you, Mia.” Bastion pushed him out of the way, stepping into the room. More men stood behind him. Mia recognized them from the village. She felt a cold wind blast in through the door. The great storm that had been lingering on the edge of winter, on the edge of the village, had come.

  “Thank you, Bjorn,” Bastion said. “I had every faith you would lead us to Mia. But this,” he said, pointing at Hilda, “this is a surprise. This must be the witch the women confessed to, the one who undermines the village.”

  Bastion picked up Alma, stroking her hair as the men poured into the home, dragging a screaming Hilda out into the rain. Alma went limp, her eyes wide with fear. Bastion smiled at Mia.

  “I am surprised you ran away. You knew deliverance was at hand.”

  Mia took a deep breath and forced herself to look Bastion in the eyes. “Put her down. You came for me.”

  Bastion turned to Bjorn. “I know why I followed her. But why did you, Bjorn? Why are you here?”

  “I did something stupid. I should have known better. But I listened to Father Stefan. He said if I found Mia, if I guaranteed her safety, it would prove I was a good man. It would prove my claim of witchcraft.”

  “As if you need proof. But you should admit the truth to cleanse your conscience. Why did you follow her? For her? Or for yourself?” Bastion watched Mia as he waited for Bjorn to reply. Mia looked at the floor. She did not want to be won this way. She did not want to be won at all.

  Bjorn did not look at her again, but shrugged like a child caught in a lie. “I did it for you, Bastion. For your work to continue.” Mia looked back up as Bastion smiled at her, his eyes half closed. He heard the lie in Bjorn’s words just as well as she did. Bjorn had come here only for himself. Not for Mia. He had done nothing for Mia and never would.

  Hilda’s scream from outside the home broke through Mia’s heart. She lunged for the door. Hilda was an old woman. No one should hurt her.

  One of Bastion’s men grabbed Mia by the arm. Bastion and Bjorn lunged for him at the same time. Bastion moved faster, throwing the man to the ground in front of Mia.

  “Do not touch her!” Bastion said.

  Bjorn stepped over her. “Leave her to me. A man has a right to punish his own wife.”

  Hilda screamed again, a clotted sound. Bastion glanced in the direction of the door.

  “Bjorn, you must see that the men use some restraint with Hilda. Try not to let her die until I can question her.”

  Bjorn glanced between Mia and Bastion, then went out the door.

  Bastion set Alma down. “Go and sit on the bed, little one.”

  Alma stared at him and did not move. Mia reached out and nudged her arm, not taking her eyes off Bastion. “Go on, Alma. Go sit.” Alma obeyed, sitting on the bed, then curling into a ball, sucking her thumb, her eyes like deep white moons.

  Bastion slapped Mia. “What have you done? Why did you not trust me?”

  Mia covered the burning spot on her cheek with the palm of her hand, too stunned to cry. “I do not trust you. But neither do I trust myself with you. That is why I ran.”

  Bastion pulled her in, and she did not resist, her limbs cold with fear. He moved her hand and kissed her red, stinging cheek.

  “Was there ever a woman like you?” He pressed his mouth and nose into her neck, inhaling deeply. She felt his chest expand against hers, his warm hands on her cold arms. She tried not to close her eyes.

  He nuzzled her as he spoke. “You must stop listening to your little fears. Do you want to die? Do you want Alma to die? In the village I came from last, they burned no fewer than five girls.”

  Mia let out a breath.

  “I can still save you,” Bastion promised.

  Her mind presented answer after answer, dozens of them in the space between two blinks of an eye. She should reject him and call on the name of the Lord. She should ignore her conscience and do whatever he asked to save Alma. She should scream for Alma to run. She did not realize her mouth moved as she sorted through all the choices, until he put a finger to her lips.

  “This is what you will do. Admit nothing. Insist on your innocence. I will see to it that you are cleared.”

  “And Alma?”

  “Alma, too.” He sounded surprised, as if he had forgotten about her.

  He went out the door and yelled at the men as a chilling breeze swept in. Bjorn appeared in the doorway, removing his belt, his hard and determined gaze making her shiver. The men talked quietly, but the cold wind brought the words to her ears. Hilda was dead. She had confessed nothing.

  Bastion chastised the men, his back still turned. Bjorn took a step toward Mia. She flinched as she imagined the belt across her face. Still, she motioned for him to come nearer. She had to try to do the right thing, no matter who he was inside, no matter that he wouldn’t do the right thing for her.

  “I am no witch,” she said as calmly as she could. “But I do know how to break the spell over you,” she said, taking the bottle from her bag. “Bastion told me that only another witch can break a witch’s spell. Hilda gave this to me when I begged for help for my husband. Drink this, and you will be completely free. It’s the only way to be free.”

  Bjorn walked behind Mia, pulling her arms behind her back, using his belt to bind her wrists together. He ran one finger down the soft length of her forearm, then he took the vial from her hand.

  Bastion returned. “Use my rope, Bjorn. It is easier to pull a woman along a path than to push.”

  Bastion walked to Mia, carrying a rope, and ran the rope once around her waist, moving in front of her as he tied it off.

  The tears on her cheeks shamed her in front of Alma, who looked at her with fear and anger.

  Bastion handed the rope to Bjorn.

  “I shouldn’t lead her. She is your wife.”

  Stefan could not get used to the smells inside the cell. Bjorn would not have washed them. Bjorn would want a criminal to suffer in every way, and once, Stefan would have agreed.

  He hoped he would get used to it after the first hour, but two nights had passed. Every time he relieved himself it grew worse. He could hear very little weeping today. The women in the cells flanking him had worn themselves out. Without family to pay for food and drink, many now saw their third day of starvation. Stefan hoped the other women, those who had families unafraid to visit them, shared their drink and food. If they did not, women would begin dying before Bastion could burn them. Stefan wondered if they preferred that. He wondered where Bastion and Bjorn had been and when they would return. He did not want to speed that hour, but neither did he want to remain here.

  “Pray for us, Father,” a woman called to him.

  Stefan could hear a guard fling the cell door open to another cell. He heard the crack of palm to face and the guard’s voice. “Do not blaspheme. Not on my watch.”

  “My son,” Stefan called. The guard appeared in the square window on the cell door.

  “Perhaps you are thirsty?”

  The guard frowned at the question.

  “If I give you my keys, you will have complete access to my beer cellar.”

  “Getting me drunk so you can escape?”

  “I am your priest. I answer to a higher authority than yours. Even if I could break down my cell door, I would go nowhere, for God has sent me to serve you and this village.”

  “You tried to hurt Bastion.”

  Stefan nodded with a forced grin. “Have you ever had too much beer and done something foolish? My son, take these keys and bring a good priest a drink, won’t you? You know we are all well secured here. Nothing will happen.”

  Stefan handed the keys through the window to the guard. He heard the guard rattling each cell door as if to check for strong locks, then heard the main jail door open and close.

  “Is everyone all right?” he called out.

  No one answered.

  “We are alone now. The guard is gone. Speak!”

  “We cannot trust you,” a girl called out. “Whatever we say will be twisted.”

  “No,” Stefan called. “Am I not in jail like you? I can be trusted.”

  “You will not be burned,” an older woman’s voice said. “Nothing you say can save us.”

  “Why not let us die in peace?” another woman called. “It is too much work to convince you of our truths.”

  Stefan did not recognize their voices, though the women must have been from his flock. He wondered if he had ever really heard them.

  “I have made many mistakes,” Stefan said. “I will do everything I can to save you, but it may be too late. Just tell me, in what manner did Bastion accuse you? What is his proof?”

  The first to speak was a woman Father Stefan knew well. Dame Alice. He closed his eyes in gratitude. Her voice was rough with no refinement. He had cringed often when she confessed to him, unaccustomed to a woman so devoid of interest in affectation.

  “I was brought in for questioning just after I tried to save Nelsa. His proof? My back was sore.”

  “What’s that?” he asked. “How did a sore back make you guilty of witchcraft?”

  “Anything would have done. But Bastion is clever, I will admit to that.”

  “But how did he do it?”

  “Mary, the dairyman’s daughter, thought a witch had caused the milk to dry up on her prized cow. On advice of Bastion, she hung an empty kettle over the fire. When it was red hot, she began to beat it with a stick.”

  Mary’s voice shot out from that same cell. “Bastion promised me that every blow would land on the witch’s back.” She sounded unrepentant.

  “Bastion will see you dead too, Mary. You should realize that by now,” Dame Alice replied. “Father Stefan, you know my back is often sore. My babies were the biggest in the village. That’s no witchcraft.”

  “Mary,” Father Stefan called, “why did you think a witch would have reason to curse your favorite cow?”

  “Bastion spoke kindly to me, and I feared other girls might be jealous,” she answered. “He would be a fine catch for me, seeing my father has no money.”

  “But why would Dame Alice care? She did not desire Bastion for herself.”

  “I don’t trust her, Father Stefan, and neither should you. She’s always sheltering strangers, trying to feed people who wander about. She has no discretion. She takes anyone in. It’s not proper. She even admits to trying to save Nelsa, who proved herself a witch in front of everyone. I wasn’t surprised when Dame Alice was revealed as a witch herself.”

  “But Bastion spoke kindly to me, too, and I am no witch.” A soft voice carried across the jail. Stefan was unsure who it was. “Would you like to see what he did to me last night?”

  Stefan heard gasps. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Iris showed us her fingers.”

  “And?”

  “They are burned. He laid a hot poker across them.”

  “Iris? Is it true?” he asked.

  No answer came.

  “What is happening?” he asked.

  Dame Alice answered. “She fainted. Poor thing. Her father hoped to marry her off this year. He hoped Bastion might be agreeable. Perhaps Bastion didn’t like his terms.”

  Stefan took a few moments before he could speak again. “Dame Alice? Finish your story. How did Bastion link you to Mary’s cow?”

  “One of their cows had wandered into the square again, and I brought it home to them. Bastion said it was proof that I was the witch. I had their cow, and my back was sore, as if the blows had landed on me.”

  “But how did Mary get arrested, then?” Stefan’s head hurt. How many lies did Bastion have to keep up with? he wondered.

  “Bastion said I tempted him. He blamed me for liberties he took.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first.”

  Stefan didn’t know who said that, but heard stifled giggles.

  “What does he say will happen now?” Stefan asked.

  Mary replied. “We are to be tried. If we are found guilty, we will be burned. Pray for us, Father.”

  “It doesn’t seem enough,” he said.

  Dame Alice answered. “Do it anyway.”

  “But I am the one who brought him here. I brought this upon you.”

  Mary answered. “Did you not know, Father? Have you not heard the stories of the witch hunters, that in some towns there is not a woman left?”

  “I thought you were not like those women. You would not be accused.”

  “Have you not heard, Father?” Dame Alice’s voice mocked them both. “Women are stupid, lusty, insatiable, gullible, given to imaginations. We must be driven from the garden.”

  “I have taught this?”

  “You have taught nothing in its place. That’s what will kill us.”

  “What can I do now?”

  His cell went white with light, a crack of thunder chasing it. Stefan jumped, his heart pinching in fear. Lightning killed shepherds and servants, anyone who worked lonely days in the orchards and fields. Stefan always told children not to fear it, feeling stupid even as he said it. Lightning was God’s creation, but so was hell, so what comfort was that? Impotent words, always. The lightning showed him his cell, his squalor.

  “You have made your choice.” The voice came from inside his mind. “Well done.”

  Stefan clapped his hands over his ears, and lightning lit his cell, thunder making the walls shake. He gritted his teeth and pulled his hands down, forcing them to his side.

  “Father,” a woman’s voice moaned close by.

  “Who called me?” He could not tell if the voice was weak, or he could not hear it well.

  “I am here.”

  A hand reached through the dirty straw on the cell floor at his feet. Lightning lit his cell, and he saw the woman struggle to rise. She was nothing but grime, her hair hanging in thick cords, looking like wax candles hung upside down to dry in the merchant square. Her face, stained with dirt, with stray pieces of straw clinging to it, had channels down her cheeks where tears had flowed. Dried blood crusted around her ears.

  “How long have you been in this cell with me?”

  “You were asleep last night when I was brought in.”

  “Have mercy,” Stefan gasped. The words loosened his legs, and he went to her, helping her sit up. She flopped over, and he leaned her body into his, lowering himself to sit behind her, pulling her against him. “Do I know you?”

  “I sold you hops,” she whispered.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Elizabeth, did Bastion hurt you? Did he put you in here?”

  “No.”

  She was sixteen, a lovely girl who worked for a farmer’s wife. She had no parents to provide for her, but she had done well for herself, finding a childless couple who needed the help and a young companion.

  “Who put you in here, child?”

  “He said you knew everything, that you would say this was my fault, that he was bewitched and could not be blamed.”

  “Bjorn did this to you?”

  He tried to turn her around.

  “No. No. I do not want you to look on me.”

  The jail door swung open, and he heard happy whistling.

  “Excellent beer, Father. I will be enjoying some more tonight.”

  Stefan helped Elizabeth sit up against the wall.

  “Did you bring any back?” he called out to the jailer.

  “Not a drop.”

  “There are women in great need here. Bring them some of my beer, I beg you.”

  The jailer’s face appeared in the small square window in the door.

  “You know the law.”

  “Yes, but it’s my beer. Surely I can offer it to these women.”

  “If they want something to eat or drink, their families must provide it. I’m not your errand boy, and I don’t break the law.”

  “But there is a girl in this very cell who needs a drink, and one more in the next.”

  The jailer peered around Stefan.

  “She doesn’t need a drink now.”

  Stefan turned and saw Elizabeth face-first in the straw, her body slumped over, her arms behind her. She was unconscious. Stefan lifted his eyes to the wooden crossbeams of the ceiling as if to pray here in his squalor.

  Outside, wind shook the building, and the night began to build in violence.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Bjorn led Mia through the streets to the jail, through steam rising from the ground. The storm had passed by in the night here, too, punishing the town. Green buds littered the streets, torn from trees before they had the chance to bloom. She did not look up at the wounded, bare trees, or to the side to see what faces were in the windows, watching. She had never entered his jail before. She had always stayed clear from it, from Bjorn’s work, wanting to be home with Alma, not wanting to know who was imprisoned or for what crimes.

  She watched Bjorn’s boots, still thick with mud and forest leaves. Bjorn had carried Alma for the last mile; it had driven his boots deeper into the sludge. He would be so angry. He hated muddy boots. Mia wondered what to do.

  The door opened, and she felt the screech of its twisting hinges in her belly, the heavy wood swinging at her as if to strike her dead for her shame. He pulled on the rope, and she marched forward, struck by the smells inside. She could smell beer on the guard, standing close to Bjorn as he passed by, and she could also smell the salted metal of blood and urine. The jail was nothing more than a long, dirty hallway with horrid, dark cells on each side. Mia avoided looking through the square opening cut into each wood door, afraid to see what or who cried out from the darkness.