She worked harder then, scavenging, learning to eat less and ignore the pains in her stomach. It had been a fall day, winter fast approaching, when her life ended for a second time.

  Thomas would not rise one morning though she shook him—which she never dared to do—and told him that she had enough to buy dinner, plus enough firewood to last through at least two days. He looked beyond her, unblinking.

  When she touched his cheek, she wondered if it had always been so cold. She pressed her hand to her own warm cheek. She put her hand to his again. Dead. The priest came to close his eyes, and a man with a foul, stained wooden cart came and picked up his body, throwing it in with others.

  As she thought on this, Bjorn exhaled heavily as he continued following along with Bastion’s prayers. Bjorn had found her shortly after Thomas died. He spied her stealing bread, and when he grabbed her to arrest her, she pushed herself into his arms, not caring if he put her in the jail. He would have to hang her if he wanted to be free of her.

  Bjorn threatened to at first. But soon he realized how many things she could do and that she never complained at his treatment, and never complained when he stayed out late, and never demanded newer clothes or a fancier house with mirrors to catch the fleeting sun in winter.

  He could continue his life just as before, she promised, only now he would have someone to keep him fed and warm.

  “The wise man is the one who builds his home upon the rock,” Bastion proclaimed, bringing her back to the moment. “When the storms came, his house stood. My friends, a storm has come to this town. Can you feel the wind rising? Yes. A storm has come, and the wise man’s house will stand.”

  When he smiled, something sweet crinkled around the edges of his eyes, something that made her want to encourage him further. He might be overcome with this kindness.

  But the hard blue stones that were his eyes flashed and cut through the crowd, refusing to acknowledge her again. He spoke, using his hands as teachers do, waving them through the air to emphasize some emotions, using a single finger to jab a word straight at one person. Mia thought he looked like a sculptor, his hands working with some invisible material, shaping it before their unseeing eyes, creating and building, stacking words upon words, so that when he finished, there would be something unseen but finished between them.

  “Eve stood in the garden. Though she walked with the Almighty God Himself, though she had the love of a perfect man, though she had paradise stretched before her, Eve took of the apple and ate,” Bastion said.

  Mia licked her lips without meaning to, hoping it didn’t make her look foolish. She glanced at the other women transfixed by Bastion. None seemed concerned with her. She knew of Eve, she knew of the apple, but she had never understood. This had the sound of truth.

  “Eve, the first woman, the woman who experienced complete paradise and knew nothing of sorrow, or starvation, or death—Eve could not be satisfied. What evil is in the heart of a woman, my friends! God offered her everything He has, and she wanted still more. What man, then, could ever satisfy a woman? Women want more than they are due.”

  Mia put a hand to her stomach, willing it to be quiet. Just like Eve, she wanted more than what she had.

  “The good brothers in Christ have, in response to the Holy Father’s proclamation that all witchcraft be rooted out and destroyed in God’s kingdom, completed a book called the Malleus Maleficarum. It is in this book that I find my work, my law. I do nothing except that which the church has commanded and the civil authorities require. Before I pursue God’s good pleasure among you, tell me: Do I have your permission to perform a great deliverance here?”

  Some called out the word yes. Others nodded. Mia’s heart lurched. Deliverance might be for Alma, too. Bjorn squeezed her shoulder, calling out, “Yes!” He was surely thinking of Alma.

  “Then understand the word of God: Eve had a carnal heart, which led her to damn all men for eternity. And now this same evil has caused great mischief among you. I have been brought here to deliver you from these women, to save those of you whose foundations are not upon the rock.”

  The crowd murmured. Mia strained to hear their words but couldn’t. She heard only the name of Catarina. Bjorn gripped her hand so tightly she winced.

  “Friends, for what reason did Satan visit paradise? Did he come to talk with God?”

  “No,” the crowd answered.

  “Did Satan come to tempt Adam?”

  “No.”

  “Satan came to paradise because a woman walked there. A woman’s weakness, her carnal lust, called the Evil One to the very gates of paradise, and she alone bade him enter.”

  Bastion raised his hands above his head, listening.

  “Satan,” Bastion called, “you cannot enter here. I am watching these gates. I will protect this flock.” Bastion looked back at the people, his finger a little dagger that he thrust at them one by one. “And when I discover a witch, when I find her black heart dead beneath a woman’s sweet face, I will tear it out and burn it so Satan will cry out in despair and see this town is lost to him forever.”

  “Death!” the woman in the cage screamed with a voice that sounded like a shrill cry of an animal. As she did, she tore out a clump of hair and spit at the crowd.

  He dropped his voice and took a step closer to the crowd. They huddled together, pressing back, away from the woman’s cage. Mia did not trust herself; had she understood him? Catarina was dead, but there was yet another witch?

  “I must warn you: There may be more than one. Like snakes, when you find one, you find a nest. The work will be dangerous, and some of you may suffer the wrath of these witches as I work. But build your house upon the rock, my friends.”

  “How will we know?” Bjorn called out. Mia pulled back to look on him, shocked he had spoken. She saw Stefan at the edge of the crowd too, his face frozen after seeing Bjorn ask a question like this.

  “How will we know the work of a witch?” Bjorn asked again.

  “Do children fall ill for no reason? Do they often die?” Bastion asked. Mia’s heart rose in her chest, her throat tightening. No, she thought. Alma’s illness could never be the work of another woman.

  Bastion saw her react, and he paused, his eyes resting on her. Mia looked away.

  “And men, what about you? Do good men find themselves unable to bear the temptations of a woman who is not their wife? Do good men ruin themselves with carnal lust? Is the marriage bed kept pure, or is it defiled? All these, plus rotting crops, injuries that will not heal, accidents and misfortunes, all these are signs of a witch among you. Go, then, to your homes, and tonight pray that your eyes may be opened. Think on sadness and trials you cannot find explanation for. And men, you must consider what evils you may have done, even if only in your heart, for these may be the work of witches. Go then, and tomorrow night return, for my work must begin with great earnest.”

  Mia glanced back up. Bastion studied her as he spoke one last time.

  “I will save the innocent and set the sinners free. Your time for deliverance has come. Do not be afraid.”

  The woman in the cage stood up as far as she could, with straight legs and a bent back, and snapped her teeth at anyone who stared too long. She urinated as she did this, letting the urine flow down her leg, creating a path through the dirt that clung to her legs. She caught Mia’s eye and gnashed her yellow teeth at her. Mia screamed, burying her head in Bjorn’s vest again.

  “Do not be afraid, my child.”

  Mia looked up. Bastion stood in front of Bjorn, Bastion’s hand resting on her shoulder like that of a god. His power buzzed through the fabric of her sleeve, the warmth of his palm spreading across her body. His cold eyes met hers, and goose bumps rose on her flesh.

  Bastion spoke to Bjorn, leaning his head at an angle as if to keep his words private.

  “From your question, my friend, I am guessing that you are perhaps afflicted?”

  Bjorn could not answer. Mia felt his body freeze.

  “Our daughter is often sick,” Mia said. “But I attend Mass every day and love God. I try to please Him.”

  Bastion nodded, not looking at her. He removed his hand from her shoulder and laid it instead on Bjorn’s. Mia’s shoulder turned cold, colder than before, all warmth lost.

  Bjorn took a deep breath. “Is it true? A witch can do these things? I’ve never heard this before.”

  Bastion grinned. “Hearing does not make a thing true. Even our belief does not make a thing true. Truth is actually quite indifferent to us. She cares little for what we think, and even less for what we think we know.”

  Mia wanted to speak but pressed her lips together. Bjorn knew how sick Alma was. He could get this man to help her if he wanted to. She had to make him want to. She had to be a good wife right now.

  “A witch can make a good man fall?” Bjorn asked. “She can make him suffer and sin, do things against his pure Christian will?”

  “That is precisely their method, my friend.”

  “Alma,” Mia whispered to Bjorn. “Ask him.”

  “Alma? This is your daughter, yes?” Bastion seemed concerned.

  Mia opened her mouth to explain, but Bjorn shushed her. “You say the Devil is responsible for Catarina’s murder, and her husband’s?”

  Bastion watched Mia, frowning. “We should not discuss this in front of your sweet wife. Let us meet tonight at the church, with Father Stefan. We will take refreshment, and I will teach you what I know. My friend, if you have been troubled, you will be troubled no more.”

  Mia’s stomach growled, catching Bastion’s attention. He betrayed nothing in his expression; she was not shamed. Mia smiled at him, and a slow smile spread across his face in response.

  Chapter Eleven

  The caged witch stared at Stefan, her lips wet from her tongue licking them repeatedly. His stomach turned as she stared at him. He couldn’t smell her from the porch of the church, but she made him sick just as if she were pressed up against his nose.

  Bastion had left him and sent Bjorn home hours ago, just before 3:00 a.m. He said he was eager to brush out his cloak and wash his face. He was asleep in the dormitory that stood across the church garden. Stefan stayed behind to attend to make preparations for noon Mass, though the bell had not tolled 6:00 a.m. yet. Stefan’s head swam with Bastion’s words. Bjorn had stayed and sat with Stefan and Bastion, with a rare smile to let Stefan know he had been forgiven. Stefan wondered at the change coming over Bjorn, his sudden hope in the ways of God, as if hearing the truth for the first time. That wasn’t right—hadn’t Stefan’s Masses been enough for Bjorn to learn the truths of God?

  Bastion had spoken of many things as both men listened. Women often became witches, he said, and witches did the work of the Devil.

  “Satan spirits them away to celebrate the Sabbath,” Bastion had said, “by fornicating, and spitting on the bread of the Eucharist, and drinking the blood of children.”

  “You’re saying witches can fly?” Stefan had asked, his eyebrows arched. He would not be made a fool, especially by a guest he had invited.

  “I’m saying their master can carry them off wherever he wishes. As a priest, I am surprised you do not know this. Remember that the Devil spirited Jesus away to the top of a hill in the great temptation?”

  True, Stefan nodded. He had been told that could be found in the Bible.

  “Men, Scripture is clear: Witches exist. Like their master, the Devil, they can go anywhere at any time. And God demands we rid the earth of them. To deny any of these essentials is to deny Scripture, to deny God. Only a heretic denies God.”

  Stefan replayed the words, finding no fault in them, only zeal. He stretched, picking up a rotted peel from the church steps. The church would be full in the afternoon, filled with everyone from the village who had heard Bastion last night and those who only heard his words repeated. They would be flowing out of the nave, pressing him further back into the choir, anxious for the wafers of the Host to be elevated and the bells to ring out announcing the presence of Christ through Communion as the morning sun pierced through the single rose window.

  Stefan kept his mouth shut and took shallow breaths through his nose, desperate to keep the witch’s smell from sickening him. He should walk back in. But he had never seen such complete pollution, a woman living in death. She embodied every sin, every condemnation brought to life. He touched the cross at his neck, and fury flashed through her eyes. She howled, throwing back her head so the sound rose above them both into the black hours. Goose bumps raised on Stefan’s arms. A movement at the edge of the square caught his attention. He stared into the darkness but saw nothing. Someone had stood there watching him; he was sure of it.

  He refused to look at her again. She had no cause to torment him. He set back to work, sweeping the church steps.

  “Father.”

  She made it sound like a joke.

  He forced himself to do it, walking straight to her, his eyes only on the ground. He grabbed the edge of the wool blanket and slung one end over the cage, running around to take the other end and pull it down, covering her from sight. Her hand shot out from between the bars, flailing in the darkness.

  “Father. Father. Father.” Her sour, gritty voice chanting his name. “Hear me. I want to make confession.”

  Stefan looked around for Bastion but saw no one. She was either very clever or pitiful and sincere. He could not refuse her, since he was a servant of God. She might ask for mercy. She might want to be delivered. Or she might be blaspheming. He edged closer to her hand, her fingers clawing at the air.

  “I know you’re there,” she whispered. “I hear you breathing. You are afraid.”

  “I am here.”

  “I want to confess. I want to be clean.”

  The witch belonged to Bastion. Bastion should know what she said, that she called for confession. Bastion should be there. Bastion would know what to do, handle it all effortlessly, probably rolling his eyes at this rural priest who could not even handle a confession.

  Stefan held his breath. He would do it. Bastion would sleep through it all. Stefan would deliver this woman in the name of the Lord and present her to the people the next morning. Their awe at the power of God, through Stefan’s hands, would be immeasurable. What Bastion could stir up, Stefan could stir up. Word would spread.

  “God help me,” Stefan prayed. “Help me to free this woman at last. Deliver her through me.”

  He grasped her hand, ignoring the grit beneath his fingertips. He whispered Latin words like a lullaby, waiting to hear of her deep and unthinkable shame.

  He thought of Bastion’s face, what it would look like when he saw that Stefan had delivered this hardened witch. And he was still picturing Bastion’s face as the witch yanked him toward the bars, as her teeth sank into his ear, ripping off a piece of his flesh. Her grip was stronger than any man’s, the fury of the Devil himself digging her fingers into his flesh as she bit into him again.

  Only in later hours would Stefan remember the moment clearly and swear silently to himself that he had heard the distant sound of laughter.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bjorn walked Mia home in silence, deep in thought.

  “You sat and waited? The whole time I sat with Stefan and Bastion?”

  “Is that all right? You wanted me to come, didn’t you?”

  He nodded, saying nothing more.

  She flexed her toes with each step, trying to get blood back in them, to keep the remaining toes from turning gray and hard. She said nothing, though. He did not need to hear of her troubles or discover a new flaw.

  He kept his hand at her back much of the way, except when he had to help her climb over a fallen tree, or step over a narrow turn in the creek. She wanted to thank him, or praise him for his kindness, but she did not know if other wives did that. It might call too much attention to her, make her seem insincere. She tried to copy the speech of other wives in town, but it always sounded false.

  The dark path provided welcome distractions. She loved the changing scent as they walked, weaving through the trees back to their home. Sparse areas had clean, quiet air, but deeper in, the moss scrambled and the trees rioted together, creating a denser air. Smells of decay and dirt and hidden dens mixed with the smell of crushed ferns and warm sap. Already there were flowers coming up. Mia wondered what else had grown underneath her, and all around her, during the long winter. She watched where she stepped.

  Mia paused for a moment to inhale a long draught of air, trying to fill her belly and keep herself moving. Her home sat away from the town square, away from other farms and families. Bjorn didn’t like noise or other people. He said he got enough of both in his work.

  Mia wanted to fill the house with more children, but Bjorn had resisted. Whether he did not want more children or just didn’t want Mia anymore, she never dared ask. She couldn’t even ask herself in the quiet at night, those long nights when he was working or having beer with townsmen. She worked to please him. She had pledged herself to him, bursting with so much gratitude she would have done anything for him, had he asked it.

  Still, sometimes being his wife wasn’t enough to sustain her. She had wanted marriage so badly once, dreamed of nothing better than a home and husband and a child to love. She had those things, but the awful ache, the dark loneliness, still hid inside.

  Mia tripped on a stone. Bjorn paused, waiting for her to regain her composure. Mia spoke to turn his attention off her clumsy fall.

  “You were moved by Bastion’s words tonight.”

  She tested the air with a long exhalation. She could barely see her breath. Spring worked to reclaim the world. Winter staggered back, almost finished.