Page 12 of The Witch

As he says the words, his gaze strays to the gallows that are set up just outside Town Hall, a set of wooden stakes on a platform, with a noose dangling from above. I detest looking at the gallows and wish it were not in plain sight during the market. I have been told that many people have died at those gallows, although I have never attended a hanging in all my years at Woodhaven.

“Thank you for the meat,” I say in a strangled voice. “Fare thee well.”

Elias nods curtly.

I place the package of wrapped meat inside my satchel and hurry back to where I tied up my horse, suddenly extremely eager to journey back home. I thought a trip to Town Square might take my mind off my worries, but I am left feeling more uneasy than ever. At least Hitty, thoughtful as she always is, was able to give me hope. Perhaps after the next moon, I will be able to tell Archie that I am truly with child.

As I start to mount Lucky, I notice an unfamiliar man leaning against one of the trees on the path to my home. Woodhaven is a small settlement, and I know every inhabitant, if not by name, then by face, but this man is one I have never seen before. I might not have noticed him but for the intent way his eyes follow me.

I strive to turn my attention away from him, but his stare scorches me like a brand across the skin. When I gaze upward, I am unimpressed by his shabby deerskin garb. His burnt-umber hair flows long and untamed around his shoulders, and his beard sprouts with wild abandon. He might be fair of countenance under that beard, but it is impossible to tell. He could be a harmless wanderer, yet there is a flicker in his inky stare that gives me pause.

This stranger is not harmless.

“Good morrow.” The man speaks up in a voice deep and rumbling.

I consider not responding, but Father taught me to be courteous. I bow my head slightly. “Good morrow.”

I start to mount Lucky, but before I can, she lets out a whinny and backs away from the man in the tattered clothing. I have only seen her act this way once, when we found a snake slithering across our path. She is spooked by this stranger, who simply watches the two of us, a flicker of amusement on his face.

“My horse does not care for you,” I inform him in cold tones.

“I see that,” he says.

And yet he remains still.

“Pray tell, where do you call home?” I blurt out. “I have not before spied you around these humble lands.”

The man considers my question for a moment before he speaks. “I am just passing by.”

I wish to suggest that he get on with his passing by, but I cannot bring myself to be so bold. I steady Lucky and climb on her back. It is only after she has taken me a good distance from that man that I start to relax. Archie is right. I need to tread more carefully while a murderer roams in our midst.

8

PRESENT DAY

JULIA

Tonight will be my first night at Pemberton since I was a teenager. And I’m beginning to wish I decided to crash on a friend’s futon outside my old apartment instead of moving here.

I haven’t always felt this way. When I was very small, I loved Pemberton. It seemed like a fun adventure to visit the old, creaky manor where Gram lived, and I was always up for an adventure. Plus, this house was my birthright. Gram told me it had been in our family for hundreds of years, and someday it would be passed on to me. I would explore every nook and cranny of the estate, fantasizing about a day when I would tell Pemberton folklore to my own children.

Plus, I loved my grandmother. She told the best stories, and whenever she knew I was coming, she would bake me a big bowl of monkey bread. She made the absolute best monkey bread, dripping with cinnamon and sugar.

Then one night, everything changed.

But tonight, I’m trying not to think of that as I sit on my bed, slipping on the pajama pants that supplement the oversized T-shirt I usually sleep in at home. I don’t have a private bathroom, and I’d rather not run into Mick in the middle of the night in my underwear. Or get judged by Ethel.

After I’ve brushed my teeth, I run into Ethel on my way back to my bedroom. She has changed into a pair of green silk pajamas, but her hair is still tied back in that severe bun. I don’t know how she gets it so perfect—she must use magic. She’s holding a stack of blankets in her arms.

“I wanted to give you these,” she tells me. “It can get chilly at night.”

I heave the pile into my arms. “It feels pretty warm right now.”

“Yes, but it’s different at night.” She looks like she’s about to say something else, but then she shakes her head. “Are you going to bed now?”

“Yes, it’s been a long day.”

I had offered to help with dinner, but Ethel waved me off. She made chicken breasts that were moist but nearly flavorless, paired with a pile of boiled carrots. During the meal, I thought about mentioning my conversation with my father, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. I did go out on the front lawn and managed to catch a few bars of reception again, at which time a text message from my father came in confirming that the museum curator would be expecting me at ten o’clock the following morning.