Devil By Daylight [Vinaein/Mim]

[Madam Mim]

Scotland
1593

Summer was dying.

It had been a slow death at first, but now as the colorful leaves turned brown they fell in great heaps. This would have been no great wonder, except that it was only late August and already the folk of Orymen were starting to bring their animals inside for warmth. The village of Orymen sat in the foothills of the Highlands, a week's walk from Glasgow and perhaps a day or so from the bonny banks of Loch Lomond. It had, of late, earned a nickname from surrounding villages: Buitseachbaile. Over the past three years, five witches had been found to be living among the good people of Orymen, hexing crops and livestock and killing bairns with impunity. While the crops and livestock were bad enough, really it was the bairns that would not hold. The village midwife would bring them through the birth alright, even if sometimes it was a little touch-and-go...only for the poor wee souls to go home to the Lord before they had reached six months. The villagers usually dealt with the witches themselves, but this was getting out of hand: in a village of both Catholics and Protestants, tensions were mounting too high to tolerate much longer. Violence would break out if something wasn't done, so the Elders had sent to Edinborough for a proper witchfinder to come before the snow started.

While the witch finder walked through the village square, screams came through a nearby open window. It was the unmistakable wail of labor, accompanied by less distinct sounds which were clearly words of encouragement. Wind swept through the square, sending dead leaves skittering and swirling around Justin Crowe's feet, before sweeping upwards to the open window. Inside the midwife threw a glance toward the sill which might have been taken for gratitude before using her bicep to wipe sweat from her brow and push a bit of stray hair away. She was up to her elbows already in blood and other similar birthing fluids, and while she clearly wasn't scared of getting dirty she preferred not to have it on her face.

Abigail Broughton had been difficult for the past eight months; why should the birth be any different? She hadn't listened to suggestions to stay in bed, nor followed dietary restrictions or anything else Isla Catanach had told her, and as predicted this pregnancy had been far more difficult than her previous four. Of course, between the two women--and only them--they knew that this wasn't exactly like her other four pregnancies in other ways, too. Mister Broughton was away on business often, and Missus Broughton got lonely (and bored) easily. Father Turnbull had come to the village three years ago after their old priest had died, and the young, handsome priest had subsequently heard many women's confessions about the sins committed for his sake. Abigail had been among these.

"One more, sweetheart."

"I can't--!"

"Just one more, I promise. I promise."

"I...I ca..." She shook her head weakly. But after a few hyperventilating breaths, Abigail took a deep breath and finally, with one last mighty push, a baby boy was born into the world.

A silent baby boy.

Abigail slouched back in the birthing chair, a delirious smile floating across her features. Isla, however, frowned. Carefully she opened the baby's mouth and swept her finger side to side. She turned him onto his stomach along her arm and patted his back, gently at first then as hard as she dared. Nothing. The exhausted mother was beginning to push herself upright, concern slowly darkening her features, as Isla whispered over him rapidly and pleadingly.

"What's wrong?"

Not allowing her concentration to be broken, she finished her fervent whispering before holding the baby's mouth open and breathing into it. She pressed gently on his chest and waited.

"Isla, what's wrong? Give me my baby." Devastation melted her features. "Isla give me my baby! You wretched little girl give me my baby!"

The midwife shook her head, sadness creasing her fine features. "I'm sorry Abigail. I'm so sorry. I..." She looked down at the tiny, still form in her arms. He was so dreadfully still. "We need to get him to the church. Father Turnbull will look after him." It was a promise as much for religion as for family. "I'm sorry." She didn't know what else to say. Isla had been the village's sole midwife for five years, and had trained with the old midwife for another five before that. In that decade she had never once lost mother or babe. Not once. She glanced out the window, wondering briefly if this was punishment for calling on the gods to aid a Christian.

No. She couldn't think of things like that. Not right now anyway, not when there was work to be done. With a sniff she wiped at her face, this time smearing blood across it, as the servants came in to clean up their mistress. Clearly they'd been standing and listening outside the door; this was particularly obvious not only by the speed with which they had appeared unbidden but also by the sympathetic looks cast at the little bundle of rags in the midwife's arms. Isla gestured with her chin toward the door and the head maid nodded before returning her attention to the wailing woman in the chair. Her throat burned with unshed tears as she rose and left faster than was probably appropriate, but still slower than she would have wished.

Down in the town square, the witch finder was intercepted by two figures. A younger man dressed entirely in black, distinguished in occupation by the ubiquitous dog collar of the clergy, crossed the square at a decent clip. The wind tousled his hair and made his robes flap like the wings of a great black bird or perhaps a bat. As he crossed the cobblestones he lifted his gaze from the witch finder only once to spare a glance at the open window where the setting sun struck fire from the closed glass around it. Almost as soon as he had, someone pulled it closed and he focused again on Justin. His smile was friendly as he reached a hand out to shake.

"Mr. Crowe, I presume? Yes, we were told you were coming and I'm so glad you're here." He shook Crowe's hand vigorously. "I've been doing all I can to keep the forces of evil at bay, but I feel like a tiny little dinghy tossed about on the ocean in a great storm. I'm sure if you can help us pull out the evil by the root over winter, it will go a long way toward making our little village safe again. Ah, yes!" He opened his arm in a welcoming gesture to the second, older man who had seemed just as eager to meet the newcomer but refused to allow it to show. "This is Mr. Carlisle," Father Turnbull explained, "our magistrate."

"Mr. Crowe." Carlisle's smile didn't reach his eyes as they shook hands. The man had seen too much evil in recent years, and while a semi-permanent witch finder was a welcome addition to their arsenal he had every reason to mistrust outsiders at this point. "We're glad to have you. If there is anything I can get you, any way in which I can be of service, please don't hesitate to ask. Come! I believe you were on your way to the inn? We'll make sure you're given proper lodgings." He gestured with one hand, and with the other put a hand on Justin's shoulder and steered, making it clear he had no choice in the matter. The wind barely touched him. It stirred his pant legs but didn't dare get more presumptuous than that. His shoulder-length hair stayed pulled back and tied in its ribbon, every hair neatly in place beneath his hat, and his coat didn't billow and blow the way the other two men's did. There are some men that no god will touch without cause.

As the trio turned, though, they were stopped once again by the sight of a petite figure jogging out into the gloaming. Ginger hair pitched about her face, obscuring it, and pasted her skirt against her legs as she walked briskly across the cobblestone toward the church. Once, she managed to shake her hair out of her eyes, sending a firey mane streaming after her like a woman borne on the wind instead of fighting it. It was then, as she turned her head, that she spotted them and changed course mid-step. She was small, no more than five feet or so. Her figure, revealed by the wind, suggested that she didn't often have to skip meals, but neither did she have the softening curves of motherhood at her hips and thighs. A shaft of dying sunlight fell between the buildings and, as she walked through it, struck copper from that wild mane and the grey-green of stormy seas from her eyes. As she shook the hair from her face again the sunlight highlighted the contrast of her freckles...and of the blood smeared across her nose and mouth. Blood also clotted her fingernails and crawled up her arms, just past her elbows, and she gripped a cloth bundle tightly in her arms. If the other two men were alarmed to see a young woman, no hat or coat, covered in blood, wandering their streets, they didn't show it.

"Ah yes!" Turnbull gestured, holding out an arm in welcoming as she approached. "The Widow Catanach, the town midwife. She's also been known to dabble in herbal remedies, when the illness is too small to call for a doctor. Mrs. Catanach, our new witch finder! Mr. Justin Crowe."

The corner of her lip twitched briefly in annoyance. "Anything short of plague is too small to call for a doctor," she pointed out with forced humor before turning her eyes to Justin. "And call me Isla, please. Everyone does." She manged a brief smile before her expression fell back into looking as though she was about to cry. "Erm...Father...?"

"Ah yes, I'd heard it was Mrs. Broughton's time. How are they...?" Halfway through the question, Turnbull's gaze dropped to the bundle in her arms.

Isla's chin quivered and she shook her head. "I um..." She swallowed hard and shook her head again, then held out the bundle. "I thought it best to bring him straight to you. Abigail is...well, she'll live." In the shadow of the dusk it was easy to think that the look in her eyes might be sympathy.

"Yes." He cleared his throat as he took the bundle. "Yes. Um...gentlemen, if you'll excuse me. I'm afraid the Lord's work never rests, as you well know Mr. Crowe." He tried to be jovial but his heart wasn't in it. "Yes. If you'll excuse me." The same brisk pace with which he had met Justin was used to retreat back to the church, and he was grateful for the wind and the growing darkness.

A beat.

"And now, Mrs. Catanach," the magistrate had never once in her entire life called her Isla, "if you'll excuse us, Mr. Crowe is probably tired and needs to find a room. And you, my dear, ought to clean up. This time of evening, this time of year, you're likely to frighten someone."

She lowered her chin and curtsied. "Yes, Magistrate." There were men in the village she knew she could challenge, and men she knew she couldn't. Carlisle landed squarely in the latter category. He was already steering the witch finder away as the wind carried her voice to them. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Crowe. I hope you have a pleasant stay."

 

[Vinaein]

Justin Crowe prayed for guidance when the sun rose. It was not anything unusual for the Witch Finder General, it was nothing unusual for anyone in all of Britain, not in England, Scotland or Wales. But today's prayer bore a distinctive flavor to it, an edge that he only sharpened when he began to work....for Justin Crowe did not work in labor as honest and good might might understand it. He did not barter, he did not mill, he did not run any shops. Justin Crowe's business was that of the Lord's work, of the Church of England. Justin was a Witch Finder. He was a man who battled sin and vice, battled the fiendish workings of Satan and his works and pomps in the material world. Justin battled the darkness; that was the calling of his life. That was the path of righteousness he walked.

So he prayed for guidance. He prayed for strength. He prayed for forgiveness in the weaknesses of his faith after all he had seen. Justin had battled a witch who had raised a plague against grain and flesh alike, whose wickedness had nearly been the undoing of three towns in the East of Anglia. He had encountered one who had lived among the woods of the south, in the great wilderness of the mighty forest of England who had lured children into her woods to consume and to use the fat for blasphemous rituals. He had battled one man who had delighted in the suffering of others, seeing them die by the noose, the rock or in some cases by flame- or that of his own blade as the bodies burnt then. But that had been before Essex and all he had seen there, before Killearny, before Frederick-By-Wood...and his faith was not what it had been in the days before.

So Justin prayed, knowing his faltering risked his own damnation. He was no grave Puritan, to associate even the slightest hint of hesitance and the mere act of existence with hellfire, no preaching in his church on the nature of damnation explicitly tied to that of living. One failed by deed and by merit. But to doubt in such instances, to give even the vaguest of credence to evil could only usher in the risk to his very soul. By Hellfire, he thought, why did the Almighty make the answers to difficult? Vicar Robert had once told him that answers were as precious as gold in their difficulty to obtain- he knew the Almighty damn well took his time in distributing them, at least.

The frustration overtook his piety for a moment. It was not cruelty that so chilled him. It was not what he had slain that gave him pause- it was who he had spared, more than once. What he had left behind, before he had ridden north. He was on the path to collision now, dedicating himself to investigating and rooting out another infection, a blight upon the land. Something that had taken him all the way to the land God had abandoned...

Scotland. With all its wild moors, with all its wild customs, with its hale and hearty people, all but considered another kingdom. But thankfully, King James was a friend to Witch Hunters, understanding the superstitions and the import of never allowing a witch to live. It gave Justin a pleasant sensation all through the long ride on his horse to know that there were still good and godly rulers in this world despite Rome's attempts to stifle them....the missives had traveled from Edinburough down to reach him, this must have absolutely been vital as far as they saw it.

His arrival was announced and expected. Justin did his best to conceal his hunger and thirst as he dismounted, seeing the gazes of the people on him. Justin was a handsome man, with black hair worn short, a smooth-shaven face and penetrating blue eyes. He was dour now, unsmiling, having tried to douse his doubt and frustration in drink and flesh in another town along the way, his eyes darting about them with the woods swaying and rustling in the distance. The people of this town went about their lives as any god-fearing folk might, not a trace of the strife and tension filling Scotland having seemingly touched it.

"Mr. Crowe, I presume?" The man to approach him was dressed in black, with short and wild raven hair, a beard worn short on his curiously boyish features.

"He stands before you," Justin said in a clipped and proper voice, nodding with all due pleasantries.

"Yes, we were told you were coming and I'm so glad you're here." The man clasped at Justin's hand to shake. Justin grasped back, but largely let the fellow indulge himself in the friendly gestures "I've been doing all I can to keep the forces of evil at bay, but I feel like a tiny little dinghy tossed about on the ocean in a great storm. I'm sure if you can help us pull out the evil by the root over winter, it will go a long way toward making our little village safe again. Ah, yes! "This is Mr. Carlisle," Father Turnbull explained, "our magistrate."

The magistrate seemed to still have his youth, Justin decided, with slightly longer hair and a sly cast to his features. "It is what I am here for," Justin said. "Though I am obliged to warn you, I have attended numerous villages seemingly in the grips of this malignant sickness. I can assure you that if this is a waste of my time, there will be a steep fine for it." Now that was obnoxiously the way of it sometimes. Family feuds, scorned lovers...those had ways of escalating out into accusations of witchcraft. Some had it into their skulls that any failed crop or stillborn was the result of infernal maleficence and Justin felt he spent as much time debunking such notions as actually hunting his quarry. "Am I understood?" There was quite literally a price to be paid for wasting his time.

but they seemed earnest enough at this, he thought as he cast his eyes upon the village, cloak fluttering in the breeze while the cold air brushed against his smooth features. He opened his mouth to say more when a woman rushed out...

"The Widow Catanach, the town midwife. She's also been known to dabble in herbal remedies, when the illness is too small to call for a doctor. Mrs. Catanach, our new witch finder! Mr. Justin Crowe." Justine heard the words and nodded quickly.

"Widow Catanach," Justin said with a calm, polite air. Young to be a widow; a beautiful woman with red hair and lovely eyes, he considered. It must have been a tragedy. "Your efforts as midwife are appreciated here, no doubt." She seemed distressed, doubtless some sort of incident at her own bloody work. Though Justin made sure to file this information away for his own purposes...He saw the bundle in her arms. "...My sympathies," he said with genuine feeling. "My absolute sympathies, Mrs. Catanach." He waited until the rest was done, leaving with the magistrate. "A tragedy," he began. "Though you did right to summon me...how did Madam Catanach become a widow?" He looked at the magistrate as they walked for his lodgings.

"If there are any suspects, I will get to work promptly," Justin added, daylight dying. "I require food and libation, however. The road was long...and dry upont he way. It will be night soon as well, and doubtless there may be foul deeds done in cover of moonlight. Place me where I may watch the edge of town. If one tries to slip from the buildings towards the woods, I shall know."

It was time, the Witch Finder knew, to get to work.

 

[Madam Mim]

Father Turnbull blinked at Mr. Crowe's stern tone. Waste his time? Did folk go about pretending to have witch troubles? "Yes, of course," he answered in a quiet, rather stunned voice. "Mr. Crowe I'm not sure if you've heard, but we've been plagued by witches these past three or four years. Something's just got to be done about it. It cannot stand, sir."

But their conversation was interrupted when Isla brought the baby. So tiny a corpse, Father Turnbull had never seen. His son, his poor boy...

With a clearing of the throat he excused himself to go perform final rites and prepare the baby for burial.

"Appreciated or not, I am the only midwife," Isla said, brushing hair out of her face with her bicep to avoid further smearing the blood of another woman across her face. When he expressed his sympathies, she shook her head. "Sympathies belong with the mother," she insisted, although her voice was choked. "And I told you, please call me Isla. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." She bobbed a quick curtsy before heading home in the gloaming.

Magistrate Carlisle eyed the witch finder keenly when he inquired after Widow Catanach, though he held his tongue for now. He wasn't blind; she was a striking beauty, every man in the village thought so, who had eyes to see. It was no surprise that the witch finder might think the same. It did no good to cast suspicions upon a righteous man the moment he had noticed a pretty girl. What he did with that pretty girl would be the rock upon which his ship might be broken.

"Plague." It was a single syllable, but it laid heavy between them. "Six years ago plague took William Catanach--a good man--along with her mentor Mistress Aching, leaving Widow Catanach our sole healer and midwife." Carlisle watched her in the blue twilight of dusk, copper hair marking her passing on the road out of town. "They had been wed barely a year. And after all the tongues set a-wagging by their marriage. Catanach was...well, I doubt you could call him wealthy, precisely, but wealthy enough for these parts, and had never wed. Twice her senior, Isla McCloud was the first woman he ever turned a serious eye to, a mere girl with nothing to her name but her trade. The buzz of gossip about them had finally settled when no child came of it within the year...then he died and it started all over again. She stood accused of witchcraft once before." A wry smile twisted his lips as he looked over to Crowe. "Though that proved to be more...female jealousy than true witchcraft. All the young lads turn their eyes to her, even those who've spoken sweet nothings to some farm girl or house maid, and after a hard birth she can sometimes be seen as you just saw. She'll go about to the church and down the road home with her hair unbound and uncovered. But wicked though it may be, being a slattern is not witchcraft, nor was even the slatternliness ever proven." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Strange, though. She's been midwifing round these parts nigh on a decade and the Broughton child is the first she's ever lost." He cast a meaningful look to Crowe.

"If there are any suspects, I will get to work promptly," Crowe assured him.

The magistrate laughed shortly. "Oh, there will be a preponderance of suspects, I expect. The true work will be sussing out true witchcraft from petty squabbles. And I can help you there; my family have been helping govern these parts nigh on two hundred years. I am more than aware of which family is feuding with which, and who might have cause to quarrel...Or, for that matter, might quarrel with no cause at all."

"I will require food and libation, however," the witch finder noted. "The road was long...and dry upon the way. It will be night soon as well, and doubtless there may be foul deeds done in cover of moonlight. Place me where I may watch the edge of town. If one tries to slip from the buildings toward the woods, I shall know."

This elicited something more of a genuine laugh, though Carlisle didn't seem to actually know how to laugh, so it came out a snigger. "This is not the city, Mr. Crowe," he said. "We have but one inn, and it is in the center of town." He pointed with his walking stick toward the dark building which loomed above all the others, a warm light pouring from its downstairs windows and one or two candles lit on the second floor. "And if going out toward the woods at night were cause for suspicion of witchcraft, you would have to arrest half the town." He nodded toward the road. "Look where they go." Isla was now nowhere to be seen, but there were certainly a number of other townsfolk heading out on the road to their own homes. "Though we have our tradesmen, we are mostly farmers. On the road you came in on, you may have noticed a number of paths leading away, unpaved and to the untrained eye, untamed. These are paths to the homes of many of our people. If t'were so easy to catch a witch, we would do it ourselves, would we not?" A smirk slid up the side of his face. "No, I am afraid that you must catch the Devil by daylight."

And daylight did come. Isla had spent much of the night praying, looking for answers. In a voice choked with tears she croaked prayers, pleading with her gods to offer the child safe passage into the afterlife. Then she pleaded for answers. Why him? Why Abigail? Was she, Isla, being punished for some transgression she hadn't realized? She had never lost a baby yet, and a number of times that had been thanks to quick thinking and a little bit of magic. This time, however, not even her magic had been enough to save him. Isla spent much of the night tossing and turning, troubled by dreams of the priest and the wails of his lost baby, and of the sharp blue eyes of the witch hunter watching her. But daylight did come.

It came with the dawn, when she was up to feed her half-dozen chickens while feeling like she hadn't slept at all. Then after a small, solitary breakfast it was back into the town proper to make her rounds: Mr. Ewing had a nasty case of gout she was treating, and Anne Forbes had broken her leg two days ago so that needed looking after. Really it was her father who needed looking after, but no matter how much Isla complained to the Magistrate he wouldn't do anything about it. No one would. So the best she could do was look after the girl and her brother herself, and offer them help or escape whenever they needed it. Then, of course, there was Abigail. Isla sighed and shook her head as she walked and thought about Abigail Broughton. What should she say to her? What could she say? Child death was common enough in other parts of the country, but not here. Not where Isla had her steading, where she watched over her people.

"We stand at the threshold," Mistress Aching had once told her. "We stand at the door of life and death, and must shepherd our people through the threshold either way. It's our duty to be there."

"'At beginnings and endings,'" Isla quoted to herself under her breath. Mistress Aching had taught her to look at their profession as a shepherding of sorts: through birth, through death, and through all the aches and illnesses in between. She pulled the babe into the world, she sat vigil for the dying...and she took on the burden of those left behind. With a sigh she brushed a bit of hair out of her face.

The town square felt...different. The midwife looked around with a frown for the danger, feeling like a rabbit in an empty field. The square was bustling with activity, but it still felt as though she was drawing stares as she crossed. She deliberately kept her eyes from drifting to the center, where they had built pyres in the past. The council had decided to keep it there as a warning to other witches. Even above all the bustle the slam of a door was clear. Isla winced while others looked around for the source of the noise.

"Mrs. Braughton...Abigail, please, this is serious--!" Father Turnbull jogged after Abigail, who was storming angrily across the square toward the inn. He glanced guiltily at the midwife as they passed.

"I won't--! You should know better than anyone!" she argued shrilly. As though it had registered a beat too late, Abigail froze, spun on her heel, and marched back the few paces to the midwife before grabbing her firmly, painfully, by the arm.

"Ow! Mrs. Braughton what--?"

"You know very well what!" Abigail snapped, dragging her along. Her grip switched with the practiced speed of a mother used to boxing ears and gripped Isla by the scalp. "And now we'll see what the authorities have to say about it!"

"About what?"

"About you!" She was vicious in her reply, but refused to give any more information. In addition to stitches and herbs to help stop the bleeding, Isla had quietly cast a spell to help her heal more quickly from the difficult birth. That spell, at least, had worked. After a kerfuffle in the inn, ignoring the priest's protests about the seriousness of this charge, the door to Justin's room burst open. A righteously furious Abigail came charging in, dragging the younger woman behind her by the hair before tossing her at his feet. "A witch!" she pronounced triumphantly, pointing a vicious finger.

Isla's brain froze. How could she...? "A what?" She didn't. Not really. She couldn't know; the midwife had been so careful! She was grieving after the loss of a child. It was natural to blame the midwife. Still, the thought sent a cold chill tingling across her scalp. Lost children were how other midwives had gotten burned, too. "I'm not a witch, Your Honor," she protested, using the honorific in case he was the type of man who needed his ego stroked. "I'm not! She...she lost a baby yesterday, she's mad with grief and knows not what she says!"

Abigail spat at her with a sneer. "That's what a witch would say, isn't it?" she snarled. "Of all the babies you've ever delivered and mine is the one--the only one--that's lost? And I saw her casting a spell!" she added to Crowe. "She's a witch, Your Honor, and for that she must pay!"

 

[Vinaein]

Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani.

Those had been Christ's final words on the cross, as all hunters of witches knew well. A plea, a sacred call for salvation, to save all of humankind. These were words that the witchfinder endeavored to live by, thought Justin Crowe as he straightened with all his dignity and strength, not caring for Turnbull's confusion. "Three or four years. Why were we not told beforehand? Was it merely fear? Nevermind, no need to answer this, good man," he finished. "I assure you, I shall get to the bottom of this, in the name of God and country. It cannot stand," he repeated it...even as he thought of the previous hunts, of what he had achieved, of what he had allowed.

It cannot stand. It could not be allowed to stand. It pounded in his head like a drum. It could not stand, witchcraft could not be allowed to stand.

So why had he let it? Why had he lied? Why had he...

He stopped short, catching himself. A child was dead. He could spare crumbs of compassion in such a brutal and trying time, he thought as he looked to Isla. "I extend my sympathies with all who require them, Madam Catanach," he said in a voice as gentle as he could manage. "Midwife and mother alike. Children dying is a sorrowful thing, worse still if magic is involved. Perform the rites, of course..."He had heard her request for "Isla" and dutifully ignored them. He was a formal man here and had proprieties to manage. He did not seem to notice or comment above the beauty of the Widow Catanach.

"Plague. Yet she looks untouched and without any hint the plague has ravaged her. Curious," he murmured to himself. "This shall require a thorough investigation. "and mentor as well. A genuine tragedy that shall warrant scrutiny...does she have a protege herself?" He asked. He did not care for scurrilous gossip, his that interested him not at all. "I did not imply I cared for what she does with her body." Of course, there was the possibility that this was at it appeared: a young woman simply using her body to ensnare an older man...

Or maybe there was more to the story. Justin would find out in due time, he decided as he picked up his pace. "Present me with a list of potential suspects, beyond the Widow Catanach as well...I shall attend the inn." He glanced over at the edge of town, sighing heavily. "...I forget myself on the frontiers sometimes," he muttered as he walked down the road. "I shall get to work on the morrow and begin the tests..."

He arrived in the inn, finding the accomodations welcoming enough, if meager. He took food, a collection of vegetable stew with a good source of mutton and water to drink before he retired...his dreams tormented by memories of flame and the words of the Magistrate: to catch the devil by daylight. He slept, troubled and battered by the anxieties of his mission, awakening with a heavy sigh, his mouth curled downwards into a grim frown.

Justin took the time to acquaint himself well with the village, unable to banish thoughts of the Widow Catanach as much as he might have tried, and her distress at the dead child. He had an unfortunate feeling of foreboding about this village and its farmers. Where could he begin? He would need to examine any possible suspects, but a widow, young and unattached was on the top of the list...unless someone was conjuring up suspicion about her....that would not be the first time someone envious had crafted accusations, he thought.

He rose and dressed, taking a modest breakfast before he set out into the village. Barely did he arrive when he heard what sounded a commotion. His brow furrowed, Justin stepped down, in his cloak of office as he cleared his throat, hearing the proclamation: "A witch!"

....had his investigation just been completed for him? Who knew what he didn't/ He could see the woman upon Isla, folding his hands into his cloak as he approach. He waved a hand to dismiss the 'Your Honor,' not caring for personal fripperies at the moment while Isla Catanach landed at his feet. "...She has delivered multiple child, Madam, yet only loses yours?" He had a deep skepticism in his voice now. "What spell did you see? I would know all information before I pass judgement upon a woman who has apparently dedicated herself to healing her neighbors and delivering their children." He adopted a stern expression.

"Widow Catanach, you stand accused...and I would hear the evidence you present, Madam...?" He looked at Abigail...waiting expectantly.

 

[Madam Mim]

"Broughton," Abigail said promptly. "Missus Abigail Broughton. This wicked child," she pointed suddenly at Isla, causing the midwife to flinch, "has murdered my child! My poor little boy lies dead in the church even now because of her wickedness!"

Isla scowled up at her from her place on the ground at the feet of the witch finder. "You wouldn't list--" She cried out as the back of Mrs. Broughton's hand struck her cheek.

"Stop your wicked tongue!" she snarled before turning her attention back to Justin. "I saw her whispering her spell over my babe before she put her mouth on his and stole his breath away."

"I was praying, your honor, and trying to breathe life into him!"

The older woman's hand met her face again. "Insolent wretch! If you'll not keep your peace I shall keep it for you!" She lifted her hand again and Isla flinched away. "She's delivered nearly every babe in this village for ten years with nary a problem. Then she quarreled with me and suddenly mine is the first to be lost! What justice in that is there, sir, if not her own?"

"Mrs. Broughton, the cord was wrapped round his throat," Father Turnbull said gently. "I saw the marks myself."

It looked for a moment as though she were considering slapping the priest, too. "You don't think," she said through gritted teeth, "that perhaps she put the marks there to hide the fact that he'd been witched?" Her nostrils flared. "And explain to me then the Finlays, her neighbors. She quarreled with Mr. Finlay once, too, over their property line and his boy came down with a terrible ague. On the brink of death, I heard. Finlay paid her in milk and oats to heal the boy, but it wasn't til they'd settled the property line that he got better. And her husband, and Mistress Aching!" Abigail was working herself back up into her righteous fury. "Plague took both of them the same year, but wouldn't touch the likes of Isla McCloud! And she nursed so many others through the plague that year, but couldn't save them? They who left her a tidy little cottage and a steading of her own?"

"How dare you!" Isla was back on her feet, finally having heard enough. Other accusations she could and would calmly explain away, but this could not stand. "I loved my husband and I loved Mistress Aching, and if you don't think I would trade God anything, even my own self, to bring them back--!"

"A whore of Satan has no business with the name of God on her tongue!"

Isla made it all of half a step forward before Father Turnbull stepped between the women. Abigail was of a sturdier build, but he'd once seen Isla successfully wrestle a he-goat by the horns to buy time to get children out of the way; he didn't fancy having to watch who would come out on top. "Ladies, please--"

"She has a familiar!" Mrs. Broughton shouted to Justin over the priest's shoulder. "A cat-sidhe! A great black, ugly cat that follows her everywhere, but won't go into churches. She consorts with the Devil through him!"

"Kellas doesn't go into any building in town," Isla argued. "And he isn't ugly!"

"Isla, please." Father Turnbull knew how wretched Abigail's temper could be when she was crossed, and so relied upon the midwife to keep her own head. With a deep breath he looked over Isla's head to Justin with exasperation. "There's a cell in the church, where an interview could be conducted quietly and the accused would be secure." He looked down at Isla. "Mrs. Catanach, you stand accused of a serious crime. Would you be willing to submit to interview, examination if Mr. Crowe deems it necessary, in a place secure from the rest of the village? If you go willingly, we will not chain you."

It was difficult for Isla not to smirk at Abigail's enraged expression. "I would. I've nothing to hide, and God will recompense me for injust imprisonment." She looked loftily at Justin as she and Father Turnbull turned toward the church. "Your Honor?"

 

[Vinaein]

"Madam Broughton," Justin made his voice delicate. "I am sorry for your loss," he said. But Justin knew there were a thousand reasons why children could die that had nothing to do with witchcraft. The lord giveth and the lord taketh. But he did not voice this yet. Why cause pain to a grieving mother at the worst of times? It was his role to temper justice with mercy. But above all, with logic.

But when Abigail Broughton's hand snapped down, Justin frowned. "Madam!" He said firmly. "The Widow Catanach stands accused by you. You are permitted to accuse. You are not permitted to strike at her. I understand the delicacy of your feelings in such a loss, but I shall not condone harm done to the Lady yet." He stepped forward to Isla Catanach, and he seized Abigial broughton's hand. Not hard, but enough to calm her. He gently set the hand down.

"Ten years she has delivered all children in the village. Ten years with no deaths? Has she never quarreled with any before?" He sighed internally. The last thing he needed was a village rivalry and ill-will to become a problem for his investigations....

And Father Turnbull as well. This was seeming to lean more and more in one direction at every second. The cord around the throat, a furious mother grieving and so enraged to even be standing that moment. His life was about to get quite a bit more difficult in this, Justice reflected with a sour edge to his thoughts. "This is getting us nowhere," he raised his voice. "These are accusations of a most heavy weight!" He stood between them, asserting himself in full authority.

"You are grieving, Madam Broughton. Such grief is understandable. But if there is a witch in this village, I shall find him or her. Accusations of this sort are counterproductive to my own investigation. I must temper my investigation with logic, do you understand?" He barely waited for a response before he turned to father Turnbull. "I shall have an accounting of the Finlay boy, of her husband and of Mistress Ahcing. There must be records to review. He was grateful the priest placed himself between them.

And she had a cat. Of course she did. Superstitious peasantry had such a thing about cats, Justin thought bleakly. He was ready to investigate this and simply clear Isla Catanach...everything was telling him the woman was flatly innocent. Of course a healer would keep disease from them and help others for a price. His patience was expiring. "You have a cat then," he asked Isla, with a dry edge to his voice. "Doubtless, you'll let me examine him." Give the blasted thing a pat on the head, a bite of fish and send it on its way, that would be that.

"I will gladly take the cell to speak with Widow Catanach." Usually there would be a fine for wasting his time, but Abigail Broughton was clearly hysterical with grief. He could handle that. He looked to Isla with a firm expression on his face. "Will you walk into the church?" He asked.. "I would hope your cat does not find his way into the buildings for reason of sanitation if nothing else. Unless the church is having a problem with mice." Or would that also be the work of a witch, he thought with an internal roll to his eyes.

"Widow Catanach, you stand accused. It is in my power and authority, my god-granted responsibility to ensure this be handled properly. Let us depart with all haste."

 

[Madam Mim]

"You have a cat then," the witch finder said, more statement than question.

Isla lifted her chin a little. "I have a cat," she confirmed. "And yes, he is a black cat. My husband saved him as a weaning kitten from some village boys throwing rocks at him."

"Doubtless, you'll let me examine him."

"Examine, yes." Her chin jutted out a little. "But I'll allow no harm to come to him. He's a gentle soul I tender as dearly to my heart as I would a child. And if he is a cat-sidhe," she added with a pointed look at Mrs. Broughton, "well then he has never told me so." There was a wry little smile. When asked whether she would walk to the church she nodded. "I will. And as I said, Kellas does not enter buildings in town. He will enter my home and my neighbors' barns to hunt for mice, snakes, and birds, but he knows that otherwise coming inside is very rude indeed."

As they left, Isla made a little clicking-tutting sound with her tongue. As though created from the shadow of a nearby shop, an enormous black cat with amber yellow eyes emerged and came to sit obediently at his mistress's feet. She grinned and leaned down to scratch him behind the ears.

"There's my handsome," she cooed. "Come on. Time for church." Without needing to be told twice, Kellas began trotting ahead of them, leading the way to the church. "They've never seen a cat so obedient," she said to no one in particular, "so they think it must be witchcraft. Really he just gets horribly anxious and lonely without me."

The cat sat outside the door to the church like a statue, waiting for them, and sat so tall Isla barely needed to bend to pat his head. The beast was nearly three feet tall sitting down, with a large head and a blunt face, and a long tail that flicked patiently. Once the last of them was inside he trotted around to the side of the building, peeping in windows until he found the one which contained his mistress then laid on the ground and stared unblinkingly into the room.

Father Turnbull led them to the church's cellar, where sacramental wine was kept and a small cell had been built before his tenure. Really three brick walls had been constructed hastily and a door with a barred window put in, specifically for holding witches. Everyone knew that witches didn't do well on consecrated ground. The priest had the sense to look embarrassed at the makeshift cell even as he held the door open for Isla and Justin, muttering his apologies as he closed it behind them and handed Justin the key through the barred window.

"I'll just give you some ah, some privacy shall I?" Before they could answer they heard the scurrying of footsteps as he quickly retreated up the stairs.

Isla shrugged and held her hands out to her sides a little. "So what do I do?" she asked, standing as far away from the witch finder as she could, though that space was only a few feet in the tiny room. "Do I strip naked and allow you to search me for witch's marks, like they've done to so many others? Are you going to torture me until I confess to that which I've not done? Or must I be confined here until you've ducked me in the river to see whether I'm capable of drowning?"

 

[Vinaein]

"You have a cat. How...diabolical," Justin could not keep the sarcasm from his voice. "A cat. Surely a sign of the maleficent upon this..." He shook his head. "Enough petty superstition! A cat is no more the sign of a witch than a broom!" His voice took on an irritated edge. "The only danger such a thing might be is to mice and uncovered legs, more often than not. He turned his attention back to Isla. "I intend to examine him gently....if we are quite finished with this performance in the street?"

Justin's patience was well exhausted by all this now. He wanted to be on with his work. "Your devotion to your feline is admirable, Widow Catanach." It did not take long for a rather large, golden-eyed beast to crawl from the shadows. "A rather handsome beast," Justin said with admiration. "I like cats and dogs. Loyal creatures. Massive, this one. Glutted well upon the town's mouse population, which must be in dire straits." He gestured her to the church and followed calmly along. The church did not seem a particularly impressive one, but the house of the Divine was the house of the Divine. The cat was staring into the church which was a touch unusual, but not of much concern.

Isla handled church ground with no issues, to Justin's satisfaction. he found himself likingn the Widow Catanach and would prefer he be able to clear her. The Witch Finder removed his cloak out of respect while they trod down to the cellar, ignoring Father Turnbull. He gave a sigh at Isla's reaction.

"That would be the customary beginning to this, yes. Do not fear for your dignity, Widow Catanach, my interest in this is not carnal. I have no intent to torture you or hurl you in the river..." He folded his arms. "I doubt there is anything untoward here, but I must be certain....please undress and we can both be done with this whole sordid mess. The sooner I can see you back to your work and your abnormally large feline, the better."

He gently removed his gloves. "I shall be as gentle as I can manage, Widow Catanach."

 

[Madam Mim]

Isla couldn't help but snicker at the witch finder's irritation. It was refreshing to know that he was nearly as put out by the entire ordeal as she. "Why of course a broom isn't a sign of a witch. Haven't you heard, your honor? Up here in the Highlands we ride to our Sabbath on a yarrow stalk." It was said with another ironic little smile and a tone dripping with sarcasm. Both brooms and yarrow stalks were pure fantasy; she walked like any self-respecting child of the forest ought, thank you very much. "I assure you, Your Honor, the performance is no fault of mine." There was another look at Mrs. Broughton as they turned toward the church. "And here he comes now, the Devil himself. There's my handsome!"

"Your devotion to your feline is admirable, Widow Catanach," Crowe said, and Isla favored him with a small but genuine smile.

"Thank you, sir. I find it only fair to show him the same devotion he shows me." Her smile widened when he called Kellas handsome. "The handsomest that e'er there was." This was directed more toward the cat trotting in front of them than to the witch finder. "Dogs are fine, but they require so much attention and training. Kellas basically trained himself...or he's trained me so well that I cannot tell the difference. And I simply cannot abide by the licking." She nodded at the comment on his size. "Aye. I should have listened to my William when he told me that a kitten with paws as large as his would give smaller dogs a run for their money. He's come through for me in hard times, though; mice are not his only foes. He brought me a badger once, in the middle of winter, and how he managed that I truly cannot say. I've seen foxes run from the sight of him, so he must truly be something fearsome in the woods at night."

Once down in the cellar, though, she found her mood changed. Isla no longer felt chatty with the witch finder, as she had up in the free air. Down here in the church cellar she was more hostile, though she intended not to put up a fight; that would be the quickest way to bring suspicion upon herself. When he told her not to fear for her dignity she narrowed her eyes slightly.

"My dignity, sir," she said with a hint of frost, "does not depend on whether or not your interest is carnal. The fact is that because one woman decided not to heed her midwife's advice through a long and very difficult pregnancy, I am being forced to bare myself to a complete stranger. Though the river comes as a relief; it is quite cold this time of year." Though her tone still dripped with sarcasm, it had lost its playful touch. "And if you will not call me Isla, please at least call me Mrs. Catanach. Widow Catanach is so dreary, and not only does it constantly remind me of my loss but it makes me sound as though I'm about eighty years old. I hate being called Widow Catanach." She eyed him as he gently removed his gloves and asked her to strip, promising to be gentle. She pursed her lips and sighed. "There's many a fine story of women asked by strange men to do this, then their mothers chance to notice a thickening round the waste and the stranger is never heard from again." It was a gentle barb, but it made her feel better.

Isla moved slowly as she removed her clothes, if nothing so that she might make him as uncomfortable as she might be. Slowly and carefully she untied the tidy knot at the front of her bodice, then eyelet by eyelet removed the laces and let both laces and bodice drop to the side. Next was her gown, the over-layer, which she similarly unlaced although this time at the back, working from the bottom-up to make it easier to dress herself. She let the sage-green fabric pool at her feet before pulling off her kirtle and dropping that with the bodice. She was down to her chemise and stockings. Bending over, she unlaced her boots and kicked them off, setting them tidily against the wall, before stepping up to one wall where he would be made uncomfortable--if, truly, there was no carnal intent--by a full view as she pulled up her skirt and slowly undid her ribbon garters, letting them fall before slowly rolling her stocking down, then pulling it off to bare her foot and leg. She let it fall before repeating the process with the other leg. Then, with an unpresumptuous but tempting air, she bunched her skirt to the knees before pulling it off over her head and letting it fall with the rest of her clothes. Isla stood completely naked in front of the witch hunter.

Except her bonnet.

"Oh, how silly of me." She untied the head covering and tossed it aside without breaking eye contact, then reached up and pulled the pin keeping her hair in place. As it fell she shook her head so that her firey hair cascaded around her face and down her back, falling past her rear. Isla stood proudly, without shame and without breaking eye contact with the witch hunter. She refused to be made less-than by the laws of man. "As is plain on my face, I am afflicted with freckles," she said in a casual voice, as though she weren't standing, unmarried, in front of a man without a stitch on her. "They cover the rest of my body as well, as you can now plainly see. I hope they will not be construed as witch's marks or signs of the Devil. I was born with them, and surely the forces of evil would have no use for a babe but to eat it and bathe in its blood."

The accused woman stood proudly in front of him, not bothering to attempt to hide anything. He would see it all anyway, what was the point? Isla Catanach was short, barely clearing five feet. Her hips were full, though not with the same fullness as motherhood, and her stomach mostly flat and unmarred by stretchmarks or scars. Her breasts were round and pert, full, and though she hadn't been graced with overly generous proportions, a man would still find softness in them that he might not in most other women of the village. Her legs, though short, were shapely and tapered gracefully to well-formed calves and ankles. While she had never been vain, exactly, Isla knew that she was well-formed and with a pretty face, and she did not bother to hide that knowledge now under the gaze of the man sent to murder her.

 

[Vinaein]

Isla amusement did not escape Justin for the moment. A deep sigh, however did. "Yes, yarrows. I forget the local customs. I humbly cry your pardon, Widow Catanach." He swept his hand out towards the church as they walked, glancing down at Kellas. "While he seems a fine cat, I would encourage and indeed urge you to refrain from even harmless jests at this time." He inspects the rather large cat who seemed to look quite pleased with himself. "He seems quite ordinary. Perhaps overly plump and large. But ordinary."

It was for the best, he was not here to be chasing down the vagaries of felines now. Still, Isla's rather heartwarming devotion to the massive beast was endearing. "Dogs are loyal beasts," he said fondly. "Admirable and fond creatures. But there is no harm in cats...you said your husband found Kellas?" He reached to rub the cat under the chin gently. "A badger, did he...? He runs free in the woods at night? Would that the armies of Her Majesty in England have his like, the Spanish would be doomed..." He gave a light chuckle before thye descended down into the church...he did not necessarily enjoy this part of his job, though it was...necessary, he reminded himself.

He liked Isla Catanach thus far. He did not wish to humiliate or harm her. Her beauty was...admittedly intoxicating. "You are correct," he admitted. "I do not do this with joy, either. The sooner I can clear you, the happier we both shall be. Madam Catanach." Not 'Mrs' but perhaps as casual as he could manage it. "...Perhaps I deserve that. But I can promise you'll not be thickened round the waist from me. If all goes well, soon enough you'll know I am never heard from again, however."

He watched as her clothes were shed, doing his best not to stare...seeing that body come into view, before the bonnet was likewise removed. Long red hair, a freckled face, creamy and dotted skin...He walked up to her, examining the spots upon her. "I can indeed see," he said gently before he put his hands upon her shoulders, feeling them even. "Do not be absurd. There is nothing devilish about such markings or we should have a great deal of trouble all through the land." He brushed her hair away to examine her neck....before he looked upon her breasts and moved them, seeing no distinguishing marks, before he examined her rear, holding his breath before running his hands along her inner thighs. "We are innocent of sin at birth," he said. "It is only letter than the devil might tempt..."

But feeling her....her skin was so soft, so warm and inviting. He brought his fingers across the inside of her thigh, fighting to prevent the obvious physical reaction, whether she might see it or not. He pulled away from her. "There are no other marks I can see,Madam- Isla Catanach."

God. She was...exquisite, in fact. Her husband had been a fortunate man to have her love and he was frustrated at the waste of both their time. "I apologize for the...inconvenience," he stated simply. 'You may dress now, I am satisfied this tragedy is as it appeared. I would ask you, while you are here, however....do you know of any others, any examples of this witchcraft proper within this village, Isla Catanach? It would speed my investigation should you be able to tell me something..."

 

[Madam Mim]

"But I can promise you'll not be thickened round the waist from me. If all goes well, soon enough you'll know I am never heard from again, however," Crowe promised.

"More's the pity." Isla smirked and cocked an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. At his reaction she shrugged. "I am a mirthful soul, sir. You seem a reasonable man to know a joke when he hears it. And if you are not, then an innocent woman might jest all she wishes anyway for soon it won't matter."

Slowly she stripped for him, intentionally drawing his eye where even Kellas was polite enough to turn his gaze out the window. Isla pointed out her own freckles, which Justin thought absurd to be called marks of the devil. Well, that was a relief, at least.

"My mother told me they were the kisses of angels," she said softly, tilting her neck to the side for examination as he put his hands on her shoulders. "But all the boys called me a speckled toad." She laughed lightly. "Their tone changed as we grew, but I've a long memory and one of my self-admitted faults is that my good opinion, once lost, is lost forever. For this they think me haughty."

Crowe's hands moved over her shoulders, across her breasts. Light pink nipples hardened and puckered readily under his touch. Slowly he moved his way downward to examine her rear. It might have been erotic if it weren't for the occasion. Isla breathed in sharply as his hands slid along her inner thighs, and she braced herself with one hand against the wall.

"I admit," she breathed, "when my husband died, I did not imagine that the next time I felt the touch of a man it might be like this." Her breasts heaved gently, but then he pulled his hands away and the tension was broken. He instructed her to dress and she nodded, pulling her clothing back on just as slowly as she had taken it off. Once her skirts were back on she hiked them up to her hip to pull her stockings back on and tie them with pink ribbons. Others would have called her vain or prideful for using colored ribbons, but she didn't care; it wasn't like they saw them, anyway.

"I am satisfied this tragedy is as it appeared," Crowe said as she dressed.

"Are you?" Isla arched an eyebrow again mildly. "I'm sure once you've proclaimed me innocent, you'll hear of all the young men I've seduced with my devilry and all the crops I've hexed. That I send Kellas to steal into people's houses at night and cause mischief, and cause married men all manner of ungodly dreams." She rolled her eyes. When he asked her to name names, however, her eyes narrowed and she looked sharply at him. "I'll make no accusations, Justin Crowe," she retorted sourly. "I've seen no witches here, only souls come to misfortune and attributing it to malice." She parted her long hair in two and began plaiting it into two long braids. She watched him keenly as she did so, considering him.

"How many witches have you caught, Justin Crowe?" she asked at length. "Real witches. You seem to know the difference. I don't take you for the sort of man to hang an innocent woman or burn a child just to have done with it. So...how many witches have you found, Witch Finder General?"

 

[Vinaein]

At Isla making a joke, Justin Crowe cocked an eyebrow. And then? he smiled, a rueful expression followed by a sigh, even grinning playfully. "Well. As long as it's not about the devil, I can tolerate a good joke, Isla Catanach," he said as he waved a hand. "I appreciate mirthful souls in this line of work. It can become rather dreary." he was surprised to find himself sharing so much with a woman like her, an accused witch, standing nude before him... But the lord did work in such mysterious ways, he thought...

"Kisses of angels indeed," he said with a soft chuckle. "The boys needed eyes then. Knotholes alone would tell oen that these are far from toadlike....and I shall have to endeavor to keep your good opinion, Isla Catanach." He was perhaps being a touch formal, but it seemed only...fitting, he decided as he examined her closer. "You'd not be the first woman to be misjudged..."

His hands moved across her and he tried to ignore the reactions of her body, taking a deep breath as he felt her. "I apologize..." He whispered softly, not noticing the cat having turned its head...for THAT may have aroused suspicion if nothing else. "They say you witched your husband...from what you mentioned of him, he sounded the good man." Keep her mind on something else...he thought before he pulled his hands from her.

"I have heard nonsense before...and you have said Kellas does not enter buildings, does he? I am quite certain there are all sorts of explanations for you entering dreams," he said it before he could stop himself, with quite the sarcastic edge to his voice, shaking his head and waving a hand. "I am not expecting accusations. Just information...my work is dark at times, but must be done." He said that, even as he failed to truly believe it...when he heard what she said and paused in his stride, turning to her.

"I have caught many," he said firmly. "True witches. I do not keep count. I have known those who would truly harm overs, inflicting cruel devilry and plague. Those who would steal children before baptism to butcher them for their fat...what is your interest in such things, Isla Catanach?"

 

[Madam Mim]

His breath was warm against her skin. Isla disliked that she noticed it. Not that she was bound to remain faithful to a dead husband for the rest of her long years, nor that she was prejudiced against Christians. Justin was an attractive man, and she found herself liking him despite his sarcastic sourness. But he was a witch finder, or really more appropriately a witch killer. He had been sent specifically to find and murder her, and women like her. And then there was the matter of the innocents he'd burned along the way. She wanted to dislike him, and she wanted to be able to ignore his touch and the caress of his breath...but it had been five years since she'd felt the touch of a man. Gods were selfish, though not in a way which would deny her pleasure, and she missed the gentle lovemaking, the playful give and take of a human man.

Then Justin mentioned that the villagers said she witched her husband. Isla scoffed and rolled her eyes. "I'm well aware of what they say," she sneered. "There's three rumors, actually. You may as well hear them all, alongside the truth. The first is that I married him for his money. His family was, seemingly, very wealthy and mine was very...not." She smiled ruefully. "My father was an oddjobsman for hire, which never made very much. Between his death and my being old enough to apprentice with Mistress Aching, we lived on the kindness of strangers. And yes, Mr. Catanach's family had been rich...but by the time his father died it had all turned to debts. When we met he was working as a cooper and cartwright to live and pay off his father's debts. Not many folk knew this because it was none of their business. The second rumor," she ticked them off on her fingers, "is that I was with child. I suppose this is because he was thirty and had never married, and I was seventeen and had already turned down a proposal from the butcher's boy. In truth he had never married because he didn't feel it right that he should look for a wife until he had restored some honor to his family name, and had enough to support a wife. I turned down the butcher's boy because I didn't love him. They think I am too proud to marry their sons, when in reality their sons simply aren't worth marrying. I made enough to support myself by then, I wouldn't marry simply for that." Isla smiled a little. "I admit, we did know each other in the flesh before we were married in a church. But I've confessed that before my Lord and been absolved, and it's nobody else's business. Love is God's law; marriage is man's. I was once with child...but we had been married a sixmonth and I did not know until I was losing it that I had been so blessed." The smile turned rueful. "That, also, is nobody's business and I doubt they would accept that a midwife who's not lost a single babe in delivery could lose her own in the womb. The third, as you know, is that I witched him, which I'm sure is because he was rich and twice my age. But tell me something, Mr. Crowe: even if you could witch someone into loving you...would you? Living with them all your life, knowing that they only care for you because you've forced them to?" She shook her head. "I would not. If I will not marry for the support of a man, nor would I marry through deceit. It is no basis for a lifetime."

William had also been a consort of the horned god Cernunnos, and a favorite consort of the fae queen Mab. Isla wondered sometimes whether Mab had cursed him and Mistress Aching with plague to punish her for stealing away her favorite plaything. She had, in fact, never known a witch to die of old age; Mistress Aching had been nearly 400 when she caught ill. Which only made her more suspicious. But despite being a favorite consort of Cernunnos, she was still human and certainly in no position to be bringing accusations without evidence against Queen Mab.

"I loved my Will," she said, a touch sadly, "and he loved me. We loved each other for our brains, and for our hearts. He taught me to read, I taught him to heal. He was going to go to Glasgow to become a doctor, so that when he came back there was nothing we'd not be unable to protect our people from; if I couldn't heal it, he could. Poor thanks we'd have gotten, it seems." When Justin addressed rumors of her entering men's dreams she scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Women must pay for men's wickedness; this is the way it's always been. We must cover our hair so that a man might not be tempted, rather than teaching men to control themselves. I am neither blind, stupid, nor naive Mr. Crowe. I know that I am comely enough that a man might lust after me. For this I've been accused of witching the men in the village before by jealous girls and wives, and men happy to let them believe so rather than admit aloud to the infidelity in their hearts."

"I've caught many," he answered when she asked how many real witches he'd caught. "True witches. I do not keep count. I have known those who would truly harm overs, inflicting cruel devilry and plague. Those who would steal children before baptism to butcher them for their fat...what is your interest in such things, Isla Catanach?"

Isla put her hands on her hips. "Because, Justin Crowe, we've had so-called witches burned here before. And as I've said, it is the burden of women to pay for the sinfulness of men. I've seen no witchcraft here, only the forlorn and frightened looking for explanations where there are none. Whether they'll have me or not, these are my people. Mine." She raised her head and fixed him with a piercing grey-green gaze to ensure he understood. "I stand at beginnings and endings, and it is my duty to shepherd them through the door of life, whether into this world or out of it. Your duty is to find evil where it exists, and that's fine. Noble, even. But rest assured should you choose to start the fires burning again I'll be there every. Single. Time. And if you choose to take an innocent, one of my innocents, there shall be a reckoning Justin Crowe. You can have my word on that." Just because she liked him didn't mean she trusted him. She eyed him for a long moment, then nodded. "You're a good man, Mr. Crowe. But I fear you may be tempted soon from the path of righteousness, if you haven't been already. Doing evil things, even if for a just and noble reason, doesn't make them less evil."

 

[Vinaein]

The Witch Finder General was liking Isla more and more. Her gentle humor, her pleasant demeanor...he could not blame any lingering frustrations on her at the moment. God's wounds, he would be, too in her place. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he caught her unease, trying to make this easier on both of them. The poor woman was a widow, he reminded himself, who had lost her husband, and this was the first time a man had seen her so exposed or placed hands on her? He could feel her boy shiver delicately by him however, the way in which her nipples hardened. He kept his gaze from them with no small measure of effort.

Justin was protestant. No vow of chastity had ever escaped him and the pleasures of the flesh were a thing he valued highly. He had known great escape within willing and inviting arms ore than once, to escape the rigors and pressures of his works. And his doubts...all those doubts could be chased away in bliss. He thought this, looking deep into the eyes of Isla Catanach while controlling himself as best he could. "Three rumors, indeed?" He asked.

He had already guessed her husband was a man of means while Isla wasn't. Coupled with the age difference, it would indeed set tongues wagging. "So he was not a wealthy man in practice then...but most see only the coin and not the liens that go with it. and if I may ask, why did you turn down the butcher's boy's proposal then?" The notion tehy had 'known' one another did not come as a shock...many did as they would, whether sanctified by he church or not...I do mourn your loss, however..." he said.

The question on witchcraft made him shake his head, his mouth downcast. "I would not," he said it hard and firm. "Not now, nor ever. I am a man of God, Isla Catanach...honesty goes in that equation, even if there are those in Rome who have done their best to sully such ways. I never shall. For your Will, I offer my deepest sympathies and I hope he watches down from heaven upon you....as for dreams I can certainly see how you might enter them, in ways they would blame you for."

He made little comment on the rest, dismissing most of it...some of these frontier villages had those with no notions of modesty. Still, he had ample cause to believe men with no basis of self control were more to blame. Justin had never married, never had time, as many lovers as he had known. "Take precaution," he said quietly. "Some might act...regardless of what I say and do. And yes, I have caught many...I do not countenance the burning of innocence, in manners done by amateurs without professional guidance. Too often are mistakes made in such manners..." He listened to her willfulness, finding how much he liked it, while he stared at garbed body.

"The path of righteousness is ever fraught with temptation, sprinkled upon it like broken glass we must be wary to tread upon, Isla Catanach," Justin said. "I have no intent to sacrifice or slay innocent people...I have my word given on that much, Isla." He nodded to her. "I am satisfied for the moment...you and Kellas are free to go...If you have more information, I shall be at the inn."

 

[Madam Mim]

At Justin's comment on Rome Isla raised her eyebrows and her mouth fell open slightly. "A Protestant...I see..." She nodded slowly. "I've no cause to quarrel with Protestants; honestly I see the schism as silly. We're all children of the same loving Father, are we not? But..." She paused and lifted her chin a little. "You may wish to take care who you express such opinions around. We've but one church, but it is shared by two faiths; Catholics in the morning and Protestants in the evening. This witch nonsense has flamed tensions already lurking under the surface. I would hate to see you accused of devilry yourself simply for your faith." She simply nodded when he offered his sympathies for her husband; he didn't watch her from Heaven, she knew that much, but the gods had been a little foggy on what, exactly, came after. Paradise was all she had ever been told.

"As for dreams, I can certainly see how you might enter them, in ways they would blame you for," he added.

Isla smirked. "So you will not blame my nightly visits to you on witchcraft and devilry, then?" It was risky, flirting with a witch killer. But then again, if she were a witch she wouldn't be flirting with him, would she? So she hoped the logic would go, anyway. The conversation turned to the witches he had burned and she informed him that she would be at every single burning, should he choose to take action on any supposed witches he found. He professed not to burn innocents, and she pressed her lips together and shook her head. "Nobody ever does," she warned, "but innocents die anyway. Just remember, Justin: These people are mine. They belong to me, and I do not share well, nor do I take kindly to their persecution even if they would do the same to me. There will be a reckoning."

He nodded to her. "I am satisfied for the moment...you and Kellas are free to go...If you have more information, I shall be at the inn."

She nodded and waited for him to open the door, taking the stairs before him. She smiled brightly to Father Turnbull, who sighed in relief and made a gesture of the cross in her direction as they left. At the end of the aisle Isla turned, knelt, and crossed herself before leaving. Contrary to popular belief, most witches were perfectly capable of entering any house of worship they pleased; their gods did not hold with the God of Abraham, but it would be poor service indeed to punish them for being in the presence of rival divinities that had invaded their lands.

Outside the church, a crowd had formed.

Isla frowned. "What's this?" When Abigail Broughton stepped forward she groaned. "Mrs. Broughton you can't--"

"Witch!" she shrieked, jabbing a finger in her direction. "Witch!"

"I've been cleared by a witch finder," Isla shouted over the rumblings of what could very easily turn into a mob. "He's found no sign of the Devil on me! Ask him yourself!" She stepped aside for Justin to address the crowd.

Abigail was having none of it. "She's bewitched the only man who can protect us," she protested. "None of us are safe!"

 

[Vinaein]

"The schism as- mind your tongue!" He snapped harsher than he intended. "There are men and women who have given everything, died to have the freedom from Rome and the Pope's tyranny," he said, catching himself. "I mind the local custom in Scotland...but truth is truth, Isla Catanach," he caught himself, the stress having been getting to him just a bit. "We are all children of the same loving god, except when others depart from such grace. That is the necessity for men as me...in hopes others learn their own lessons well.

At the mention of her nightly visits, hisjaw dropped. "You are...most indecent," he said, before he smiled. "Not that I am minding on that front, but given the context and circumstance....it might be best to hold yourself at bay, lest any suspect things are untoward between us now..." At the rest of her words, he gave another, deeper frown. "...There will be no burnings, should I have anything to say about this." He was beginning to suspect there was no witch here....granted, the way Isla was talking was not how women normally did "I would believe these people belong to themselves and to the Lord, Isla Catanach...you are filled with fire, the more I see, the more intrigued I find myself in fact....this is quite unusual. If not a witch, though...I see how you can cultivate the envy of others....if you do appear in my dreams, I wonder what form they may take."

He was a rational man, of course. He would not be driven afright by babbling dreams, even if Isla Catanach was stunning. No signing a devil's book from this one...When they emerged into the light, Justin gave a stern nod while he saw Father Turnbull. "I am satisfied your midwife is a godly woman. Insolent. But godly..." He paused to see a crowd....

Oh, no, he thought. This was not good. He stepped forward, chin raised. "ENOUGH!" He shouted it, taking in authority to his voice. "You will disperse and you shall obey! I carry the weight of god and crown beside me! In the name of this woman's grief, get her from here, but I shall have no unjust persecutions!" He roared it now. "I will not here it suggested I am witched or that my mind is impaired! By god, I promised you safeyt and you shall have it!" He was now out of patience, his arms folded grimly. "If you need this so confirmed, I shall stay at her home myself!"

 

[Madam Mim]

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. "And good men and women have died to keep everyone under the authority of God's Will on Earth," she pointed out. She was neither argumentative nor heated, in fact she sounded bored. "All because the old king no longer wished to be wed to his brother's widow." She arched an eyebrow pointedly. "This is all what it comes down to in the end: women paying the price for the sinfulness of men. Everywhere in Christendom it's all the same."

He called her indecent, but smiled all the same at the mention of visiting his dreams. "Not that I am minding on that front, but given the context and circumstance....it might be best to hold yourself at bay, lest any suspect things are untoward between us now..."

She leaned in and smiled. "Then I shall endeavor not to enspell you while you sleep. I promise you, Justin, if I cast any spells upon you you shall be wide awake." She grinned and winked. Not that she intended to enspell him, but she did think it a dirty trick to cast on someone who was sleeping, unless it was the slumber of the deeply ill. Isla believed in forthright witchery: close-range spells on people who were conscious. It was easy to let the power go to your head if everything was done in secret and you never risked any consequences. Not that she cast very often on people: mostly animals and plants, or sometimes the occasional weather prayer which necessitated going out to the woods. A real witch, a good witch, rarely needed magic to work her will.

Justin promised there would be no burnings if he had anything to say about it, since he saw no evidence of witchcraft, and she nodded firmly. "Good. These people do belong to God, Justin...but when God will not work His mysterious ways, that's where I step in. I've never seen God turn a breech baby, bind a broken bone, or pull a man through plague. When misfortune happens they say it is either witches or God's judgment; when they are blessed with fortune, they say it is God's favor. I believe God helps those who help themselves, and when they will not then I will help whether they like it or not." She pressed her lips together and lifted her chin again. "These people belong to God, sir, but if they belonged to themselves they would perish by year's end for foolishness and spite. So they belong to me. I am full of fire because they are full of mud; together we might build something to outlast us all. And if you do dream of me..." She leaned in and smirked knowingly. "Know that it is entirely the machinations of your own mind. I did not volunteer to be stripped naked in front of a handsome stranger, so I'll not pay for thy sins." With another wink she lead the way out of the cellar.

And was met by the crowd being whipped into fury by Abigail Broughton. Justin called for silence and a cease to talk if witching, but they wouldn't heed him. He was a stranger, and to half the crowd he worked for the enemy. In fact the one thing they could all agree on was that there was a witch killing crops and at least one bairn, and that the redheaded midwife was as likely a suspect as any. They shouted arguments at him when he ordered them to disperse. When he declared that he would stay with her, however, they took to arguing among themselves whether this would prove anything.

"If not a witch then a whore," Mrs. Broughton sneered.

Isla had had enough. "Abigail Broughton you hold your tongue or I swear by all the powers I will drag you to the pillory by the hair and shout to the world all your sins!" Mrs. Broughton stopped mid-shout, caught off-guard by the threat. She knew that the midwife knew who the real father of her baby was, and though Isla did not relish the thought of punishing gentle Father Turnbull who had done her no wrong and every kindness, she would not burn for his sake. "Perhaps you should reflect upon God's judgment before casting judgment on others in His name," she continued fiercely. "I pity you in your grief, but I will have justice. Mr. Crowe shall be a guest in my home. He shall follow me wherever I go, as faithfully as Kellas and more. He shall watch me closely as I work, as I rest, as I eat, as I sleep. If this man sent by king and God does all of this, never leaving me alone, for two months, and finds no evidence of witchcraft, will you be satisfied?" When Abigail hesitated, appearing to consider it, Isla stepped up nose-to-nose with her. Or rather, nose-to-chin. Even drawn up to her full height Isla was small but no less an agent of righteous fury. "Will you be satisfied?"

"I..." Isla had lost her temper with her once or twice, but Mrs. Broughton had never before been the target of the full strength of her unbridled fury and fire. "Yes," she said at last, rather lamely.

"Good." She glared for a moment at her, then included the crowd in it. "Go back to your work and your homes. False righteousness is naught but an excuse for idleness." She began to push through the crowd, Kellas close at her heels, not caring whether or how closely Justin followed. "And I'm going home," she added under her breath.

 

[Vinaein]

Isla's easygoing manner...was endearing, the witch finder general had to admit. Perhaps a touch blasphemous, but... "Your speech is wild and godless," he said. "But I find I like you." He pretended he did not hear what she had to say about the deaths of innocents there...and her boredom was unusual. "I find solace in prayer. Isla Catanach. I suggest you do the same as well sometimes. It is most invigorating when done properly. Like much anything else. It would also doubtlessly assist with your reputation here. As for my dreams, I will trust you not to afright them..."

There was an oddity to Isla Catanach he could not easily describe. Not an indecency, surely, but she seemed so quick to say things others would flush at. Justin had not seen this from many others-the witches he had met, those of 'light' considered themselves of a milder persuasion by virtue of defense mechanism. There was still so much he did not know here as well, so he knew he needed to tread lightly. "I said there will be no burnings if I can help it. I intend to help it a great deal. God gives us the power to help ourselves, Isla Catanach. He gives us that strength and the knowledge. He shapes all in the natural world for us to find and thus test our own mettle. But it is only a fool who remains in one place, waiting for God to save them without turning to save themselves. On this much, we agree. It is why I am yet here....I also show people how to help themselves."

He smiled pleasantly at all this, finding it enjoyable to discuss theology before her...the smirk on her face was more enticing than he could have noted, however...his breath quickened a touch as the memory of her naked came back to him. "...In my dreams...I am sure you will be lecturing me as well, Isla Catanach..." He leaned in and he kept his lips my her ear. "Suffice to say, I would hardly find it unenjoyable..."

Isla was a pleasant sight. The display of an angry mob was less to....Justin was unnerved to find his word was not working now, the mob whipped into a near frenzy. This was dangerous, he thought. A riot was an ugly thing; once started, it was very difficult to stop short of bloodshed. A grieving mother turning them to a frenzy could only end poorly.

At the rage of Abigail Broughton and Isla's retort...Justin remembered Father Turnbull's odd reaction to the child's death. He had given it little thought at the time, but something clicked into place...still, he did not intend anyone to die because of a fury, and he was grateful Isla had it in her to cease this insanity. Then again, Isla was making a few....decisions without even consulting him. So he played along, as if indicating it was all his idea. "Isla Catanach speaks true," he said firmly. "I shall investigate her most thoroughly, as I have all other towns. I swear to you, good people...if there is a witch here, we will find them!"

Broughton's meekness brought him some respite, the witch finder general exhaling in relief that he had not realized before. "...I shall follow her now," he said, perhaps lamely as he dogged Isla's heels, whispering in her ear as he caught up with her.

"Well. That was rather fantastic," he muttered. "Which...umm...which house is yours?" He was still a might out of sorts in the village and Kellas was close enough to them to be rather...mindful of a cat who might bring down a badger.

 

[Madam Mim]

"Well. That was rather fantastic," Justin muttered as he caught up to her.

Isla inclined her head. "I told you, these are my people. I know my people." She glanced sideways at him. "A midwife and a healer learns many things by necessity. I dislike blackmail, and I cried for the child, but I won't burn for the sake of one lost bastard." Her nostrils flared.

"Which...umm...which house is yours?"

She didn't answer. Her temper was still inflamed and she didn't trust herself to speak, instead silently mulling events over in her head. Stewing. Her mother had always told her that stewing led to simmering, which led to boiling, and you were likely to burn yourself. Mistress Aching, on the other hand, encouraged stewing. She had always said she did some of her best thinking while stewing, and it helped to cement which things you ought to remember later down the line. Forgive, but never, ever forget. That had been her mantra. Isla wouldn't soon forget Abigail Broughton's grief, or the people she would drag down in that grief. As she stewed, Isla led Justin to the road out of town. The cobbles stopped shortly after the gates, becoming a gravel road. After nearly a quarter mile she pulled off to the left, down a dirt path worn down with cart tracks. Brown leaves rustled dryly as they past, the wind sweeping another bunch from their branches. At this rate the trees would be bare before mid-September. After a while the trees gave way to a farm bordered by a field stone fence. Isla smiled and waved at the man driving sheep, but he pretended not to see her. She sighed and scowled. Along another half mile through the trees the dirt turned to grass, though there was a definite worn tread where Isla had walked. Kellas, who had pranced alongside his mistress the whole way, trotted ahead. Rather than a fence or a gate, the trees were narrowed by thick blackberry hedges which opened out into a clearing.

"Welcome to Briarwood Cottage, Mr. Crowe." Isla gestured grandly to her patch of property.

The clearing was a lawn, though not one mown short by scythe or sheep. Rather it was more like a meadow that by now was mostly green and brown, though bees buzzed lazily over a few of the late flowers not yet killed by the unseasonable cold. A half-dozen chickens could be seen strutting through the knee-high grass, clucking contentedly and bending every now and then to peck at some bug or plant. A little ways off, three beehives could be seen near the trees that bordered the property, and it was a little ways off from the hives that a pair of goats foraged in the underbrush. The only fences to be seen were around the garden which appeared to curve around the side of the house, and an area around the chicken coop and goat shed, both of which also sat along the treeline but far away from the bees. The garden was mostly dirt and clover by now, having harvested everything else and put it up for the winter, but pumpkins, onions, corn, and some greens still grew. Included within the boundaries of the garden, though it was out by the far edge of the fence where it might be easily reachable from either side, was a covered stone well. The cottage itself was picturesque to say the least, with tidy, whitewashed walls and clean windows. A strange spiral had been built next to the door out of field stones and filled with plants, but Isla offered no explanation.

"My Will grew up in this house," Isla said, stamping the dirt from her boots before opening the door, which had not been locked. "We had planned to raise our own children here. You can see why folk might think I had married him for his money. Before Da died we lived in a boarding house in town with ten other people. After, well...Ma took up spinning, but couldn't spin fast enough to pay the rent, so we managed a little sod hut right outside town. You can still sort of see it if you quint through the trees, but it's mostly fallen down by now. But this house?" She looked around it and smiled. "A bonnie wee mansion. Far too big for a woman alone, but I've not yet met a man I'd trust with it. And so long as I'm unmarried, my property is my own. Will left it all to me, and no law can take that away." She nodded firmly.

The kitchen was clean and tidy, and smelled of bread and rosemary. The fresh loaf sat on the scrubbed wooden table which marked a sort of boundary between kitchen and sitting room. The sitting room was similarly bright and cheerful, consisting of a dilapidated old sofa, a footstool, and a single chair all facing the fireplace which was, for now, cold. One end of the couch was marked with a dense black fuzz which Kellas had claimed to be His Spot. That had been the end the late Mr. Catanach had favored. To one side was a cabinet filled with linens, clothes, gathering baskets, tools, and on the very bottom shelf an old pair of men's boots. Everything was neatly organized in its place, with the linens and clothes taking up the top shelf and the boots all alone on their bottom shelf. Near the cabinet was a single shelf with a dozen books, of which Isla was immensely proud but too self-conscious to point out to a man who had probably seen the inside of a library. In the corner, next to the fireplace, was a tub. One bit of magic Isla did use on a regular basis with absolutely no hint of guilt was to warm her bath water. She supposed one reason folk had become suspicious was that she always started the day so clean. To the other side of the fireplace was a staircase which curved around the chimney and led up to her bedroom, which she dutifully showed the witch finder should he wish to inspect it. At one end was a vanity which had belonged to Will's mother. Though his father had been a Christian, his mother had raised him in the Old Ways and had always allayed Mr. Catanach's fears of witchery by pointing out that the decorations above the mirror were simply phases of the moon. Despite the chill, the window next to the bed stood open, overlooking the garden and bringing with it the smell of an early autumn.

Although Isla's bedroom took the entire second floor, her bed and vanity stood at one end. At the other, an old crib sat hopefully against the wall. It would have been in style half a century ago, and was likely to have housed not only her husband but her father-in-law, but it remained dust-free and smelling of beeswax.

"When my garden can't provide, I sell honey, candles, spare eggs, and soaps," Isla told Justin over her shoulder as she led the way back down the stairs. "I buy my wheat and oats in town, but otherwise try to do for myself. As I said, when I was a child before I was apprenticed, Ma and I relied on the kindness of strangers. I've learned that this is an inconstant way to live; I'll not be reliant on anyone else ever again." They stood in the living room and she gestured to the couch. "As you can see, I've no bed for a guest but you're more than welcome to take the couch. We'll build up the fire nice and hot before nightfall, and between the coals and the stones you ought to keep warm. There's blankets as well." She gestured to the cabinet. "You're welcome to anything in there as might be useful, except the boots. You're not to touch the boots." Her steady gaze made it clear that it wasn't a question. The boots, like the crib, had been kept polished and free of dust. She glanced out the window, where Kellas had stretched out, to the setting sun. "You hungry?"

 

[Vinaein]

"You do indeed," he admitted, albeit with reluctance, "know your people, I give you this." He was showing a measure of respect for ISla as he walked on with her, trying not to indicate he was now at something of her mercy. Deep breaths, he thought...these people had almost disregarded his authority. They had been on the verge of killing him. It was a brutally sober realization for him...and Isla had stopped them.

The accused witch had stopped and shamed them. "How long has Abigail Broughton had an affair with Father Turnbull?" He whispered to her, deciding to forego any hint of modesty in the subject now as he walked along with Isla. His feet stepped gingerly against the cobbles, trodding heavily on the ground as they went. He would need to watch himself around this area, he thought...he knew he was likely in danger should anything spark out again...the feeling was not something he enjoyed. Not even remotely, he thought.

Such a pretty town. Such a dangerous town. He liked that combination not at all.

"Your home has a name?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is it a storied home, I hope? A place of renown and mystery and wonder?" He was jesting with her playfully now. And enjoying that mightily, too. And it was....beautiful, with the path and the gardens through the emerald colors....the flowers indicating it was well kept, the gardens gorgous. Surely god's light had shown down on her, how could anyone see this and think her anything but blessed?

His breath had caught. He was staring at the bees, at the goats..."It's beautiful," he whispered. "No wonder he was such a good man," he said as he looked it over. "It is indeed yours, and..." He was to be staying here? HERE? "The animals seem happy and well fed. I presume there are good crops...I see where the envy comes from. you keep this land well, Isla Catanach..." He actually smiled, a warm and bright beam now. "It is yours, by law and by deed..."

The inside was as amazing as the outside, he thought...and Kellas seemed to have a spot for himself. "Your cat enters here well enough, the handsome brute. No bones of badgers about, I see....well, Kellas must be taking it a touch easy." He gazed all about. "a lovely, fine home. Thank you...for giving me room and board here." his heavy boots clopped upon the floor.. "And a good honest wage as well," he said. "I will be...fine on the couch. Though that seems a touch close to...Kellas's spot. I trust he is now...altogether afeared of interlopers?" He cleared his throt. "Not that I am worried about the cat." He walked over to pat Kellas quickly to show how not scared he was.

"I would appreciate food, thank you!"

 

[Madam Mim]

When Justin asked how long Abigail had been carrying on with Father Turnbull, Isla raised her eyebrows slightly. "Year and a half is my best guess," she murmured back. "I can't know for certain, but I'd noticed them making cow-eyes at each other, and when she fell with child Mr. Broughton was away on business. I can count, but I suppose he can't."

When he teased her about her home having a name she smiled, and the smile grew as he stared at all she had been blessed with. She shrugged. "I think more that because he was a good man, it's beautiful," she said softly. "But all built on witchcraft, of course. My crops grow through spells and my animals eat naught but magic, as you can clearly see." It was a gentle tease, spoken aloud in the dripping golden sunlight now that they were away from town. "No woman could make this all work entirely on her own, no matter how hard she worked."

Isla led him inside and gave him the tour, proudly showing all her husband had give her and how well she had kept everything since his death. Kellas lounged on a windowsill, eyes very nearly closed so that they were gold slits in his black face, and flicked his bottle brush tail gently as he watched over his domain. The great beast lifted his head when Justin patted him, raising his chin to encourage further scratches and emitting a rumbling purr that could be heard across the little cottage.

"Ocht! Kellas fears nothing, and he'll do as he pleases," Isla said with a shrug. "If you sit in his spot, he'll simply ignore you and pretend that the couch is lumpier than usual. Humans don't bother him much. And we've naught to fear for badger bones unless meat starts getting low in the winter. I don't hunt in these woods, but again...Kellas does as he pleases." She smiled a little. "You hungry?"

"I would appreciate food, thank you!"

Isla opened the cabinet and grabbed a basket before handing him one. "Well come on then. I'm neither your Ma nor your maid." Slipping past him, she nudged aside a rug with her foot, revealing an iron ring. She pulled and stepped down the ladder into the cellar. It didn't follow the footprint of the entire house, but perhaps half of it. Shelves lined three walls, and at one end were barrels. From the low ceiling hung herbs, onions, and garlic. She stood, pondering for a moment, before grabbing a clay jar off of a shelf and setting it in her basket.

"Grab an onion, will ye?" she instructed over her shoulder while considering a box filled with sand. After a moment she nodded to herself, dug through the sand, and pulled out some carrots, brushing off the sand. "And there's some tatties in the barrel behind you."

There were two barrels against the far wall. One contained apples, while the other contained potatoes, each with a label carefully painted on the lid. Near the lip of the potato barrel, a jagged little heart was carved, and well worn by years. Inside the heart was "WC + IM". Upon turning around, Isla smiled at it.

"He didn't believe in wasting wood," she said. "Said he got distracted one day while he was working. Well, he needed a barrel anyway so..." She smiled and shrugged. "C'mon." She nodded toward the ladder and climbed up one-handed, basket in her other hand. "Go fetch some water from the well please."

When Justin returned Isla was at the counter, singing an old song in a soft but clear voice as she moved about the kitchen, cutting up the rabbit Mr. Ewing had traded her in payment for treating him, creating a roux with goat milk and flour, cooking up the onions and garlic. Cooking was meditative for Isla, and singing had been an old habit of her mother's. Mistress Aching had encouraged her to use what she already knew to work her magics into her every day life, and had insisted that kitchen witchery was among the most effective for charms and protective spells. Rosemary for protection, thyme for courage, salt to keep away evil, rabbit to outrun her enemies and because fresh meat was never to be squandered. Potatoes because she liked potatoes. Singing helped her focus, and added what she considered to be her own special something to her work. Wordlessly she dipped a leather cup into the bucket Justin brought and added half of it to the simmering pot, drinking the other half. Taking out another cup, she set it on the counter and poured them both two fingers of a dark brown liquor, pushing one cup toward him.

"Stew should be ready in a bit," she said, walking over to the table and taking a seat on one bench. "So..." Isla tilted her head and her keen eyes seemed to look into him. "How does a man come to be a witch finder, exactly? Especially a man who's not a man of the cloth." She took a sip, watching him over the rim of her mug.

 

[Vinaein]

"I suppose Abigail Broughton is lucky. I do not condone such things," he said quietly. "But it is none of my affair." Perhaps it was a poor choice of words. "Is Mr. Broughton dangerous? Or is he simply an unfortunate bore?" He was hardly here to judge anyone, after all. "I am not here to force morality into others, merely to ensure their physical and metaphysical safety. On my behalf..." he gave a shrug. "Their souls are their own affair, Isla Catanach..."

It was hard to see that Isla might be touched by the devil- her home was beautiful. Shockingly so, in fact. It would absolutely inspire envy from others. It would definitely result in touches of one of the most deadly of all of the deadly sins. "Built on Witchcraft. People will believe anything," he said with a dismissive snort. But, he did not tell Isla, there had been times he had seen Witchcraft build, seen it heal and seen others destroy...but those had been different times. Different witches, he thought with a grim set to his lips. He was suddenly troubled, carried away by the memories of everything he had experienced. He tried to cover it up so Isla would not easily see the conflict.

But her home was indeed one of the more beautiful he had seen. Justin had only ever lived in less than ideal areas himself, little time for beautiful gardens and crops. "Try not to jest about magic overmuch," he said. "I take my work seriously still, Isla Catanach."

Thankfully, Kellas was friendly. His black fur was soft, not at all like the thick coal it appeared from a distance. "Ah, you are no monster, are you? Only in size and in hunting capacity." The purr was like that of a great beast and Justin began to scratch firmly at him. "If he is a wicked familiar, he hides it well. Perhaps a touch spoiled and indulgent, but a proper cat. Fearless brute," he said as he rubbed at his head, the prospect of food secretly delighting him while he remained fixed to the mighty cat.

At Isla's playful urging, he followed her into the cellar, walking down the heavy steps until they touched the dirt, his eyes roaming across all he found there. "I see you have the best home in all the village. No wonder some are envious of you. This home is more elaborate and well kept than many in the cities...Isla Catanach who is neither my mother not my maid."

He caught the basket of vegetables and lifted an onion, then potatoes, clearly stunned to see them. "...How did..." he began. "I've only heard rumors of some...shipped back from across the Atlantic..." he stopped when he saw the small heart there...I was not prying, I promise," he said....the woman was clearly putting him to work!

He stepped from the house, thinking of everything he had seen. Isla was a hardworking widow, not a witch. Wasn't she? Of course she was! There was no reason to be suspecting her...the people were merely harassing her. With his cloak off, he began draw water up from the well, amazed how easily the old chores came back to him. He had not always been a Witch Finder after all, he'd had a childhood where he had performed labor multiple times. Though not many would so charily order him about...

As he returned, Isla's voice carried strong and clear, making him listen contemplatively...it was not one he had ever heard before...but she was hard at work indeed. "I appreciate the hospitality," he said. "Ah, I haven't had rabbit in some time..." He accepted the liquid, sniffing at it, before he took a sip upon seeing her do so.

Upon asking that question, his lips turned downward into a frown. "....It is a long story," his voice turned dark and grim for a moment. "There are many reasons one chooses this road. Not all of it good. Someone died," he said simply, holdingto the steaming cup.

"Someone died very badly."

 

[Madam Mim]

"Try not to jest about magic overmuch," Justin warned her when she snidely pointed out that people believed she had her home through witchcraft. "I take my work seriously still, Isla Catanach."

"Maybe if you could call me just Isla I may just about it less, Justin Crowe," Isla returned with a cheeky smile. The smile turned warm when he pet Kellas. "Spoiled to be sure," she confirmed, "and fearless. But make no mistake, he is a wicked monster. But as I've said, if he is a familiar he's never told me so." And that much was true; familiars tended to be a bit more overtly communicative with their charges than Kellas had been. She had suspected when he was a kitten, and William had suggested as much, but no evidence to support their suspicions had ever arisen. He was simply an unusual cat. "One thing I've learned over time is never to trust a body Kellas doesn't like. Cats know things, more things than can be divined by you or I, or even witches, I suspect. They know who means well and who means ill, and act accordingly. Mrs. Broughton's never done me an ill turn before, but Kellas avoids her so I've always treated her with caution; friendliness, of course, and neighborliness, but never have I let my guard down for her."

When Isla kicked the rug off of the cellar door Kellas lifted his head in an effort to keep Justin's attention, but when that didn't work, he jumped down and trotted over to the trap door and watched them from on high. Down in the cellar, from the ceiling came an incongruously high-pitched mew. When the witch finder complimented her home, she shrugged.

"Will's family came with the Normans," she said, "and he said they'd always made cellars for their food. When his great-grandda built this place, they decided to make it all the more convenient so they wouldn't have to go out in the snow during the winter." She smiled and shrugged. "It's been a boon many a time, especially since he's passed. There's some tatties in a barrel behind you," she added.

"How did..." he began. "I've only heard rumors of some...shipped back from across the Atlantic..."

Isla raised her eyebrows mildly. It had been a gift: the satyr who had given it to her for Ostara had told her to cut it up and plant the pieces, and her yield would be tenfold. He had told her that it was enough to hold a man over for the winter if he had nothing else to eat. It had held true for years, but she'd never thought to question where it came from and visitors were so seldom that she'd never had to worry about questions.

"My brother-in-law's wife's cousin is a scullery maid in a grand house in Yorkshire," she said with a casual shrug. "Nicked a couple, and my brother-in-law gave us one. They're easy enough to grow, and can fill out any dish as well as a parsnip or turnip." Her brother-in-law had drowned at sea before she and Will had ever married, but the witchfinder need not know that. Her three nephews did live with a coven in Yorkshire, though.

Upstairs she sent him to fetch water while she set to her work. Flour, broth from the clay jar, milk, vegetables, meat....everything for a good, hearty chowder. It would warm them in the chill of the evening. When he came back in and she finished up, she poured them two fingers of a mysterious brown liquid and set one in front of him, taking hers to the table. She winced a little when she took the first sip; the whiskey burned all the way down. But it, too, was good to warm up on a chill evening.

"Well, like I said I don't hunt. But Kellas does, and plenty of folk in town will trade what they've hunted or trapped for my help, so I don't usually want for meat." She shrugged. "You're likely to have more rabbit and stoat than ever you cared to, but sometimes I can get some lamb or pork. So..." She tilted her head and her keen eyes seemed to look into him. "How does a man come to be a witch finder, exactly? Especially a man who's not a man of the cloth."

Justin frowned. "It's a long story," he said. "There are many reasons one chooses this road. Not all of it good. Someone died. Someone died very badly."

Isla nodded slowly. "So it's revenge, then." It wasn't a question, merely a statement of fact. "Not just the witch who killed someone you love, but all witches everywhere. A righteous, vengeful rampage." She took another slow sip of the whiskey and watched him. "Has it made you feel any better?"

 

[Vinaein]

Justin was attempting to work on being less formal, but Isla's rather lackadaisical attitude made that supremely difficult. He tried to parse through what made this so light for her as his frown deepened enormously. His hands folded across his chest. "Hm, and I am certain Kallas talks to you often?" He added dryly. "He certainly looks rather one to inform you if he ever has something to say." He ran his hand upon Kellas's soft head, stroking there in response to the thick purrs. "I am sorry for Madam Broughton's harshness then. Losing a child must be...I cannot even imagine," he said. He looked into Kellas's burning eyes, like hot coals, he thought. "Animals can be talented judges of others," he agreed softly, still giving the cat a number of rubs to the head before he went down, leaving off Kellas for the moment.

"How late from Nromandy were your husband's family?" He asked, still oblivious to anything out of the ordinary between Isla and her William. "You said his great-grandsire, then?" He turned for the food, hearing the explanation. In the end, it didn't matter where the food came from, but it was like finding fresh grapes in the heart of London. Minor gripe as far as he was concerned. If Isla was making food via witchcraft, she would be the absolute first to do so. He accepted the explanation easily enough. No needto pursue about her family.

When he returned with water, he gave Kellas a fond look. "I have likewise found good hunting at times, though it is not my passion... "No," he shook his head firmly. "It was not revenge. I wish to be quite clear on that. It is not revenge at all...." He clutched his cup, staring at it without sharing details. His eyes held a new shadow in them. "Not revenge...never that. My cause is merely justice. There is not someone, not even a group of anyone I seek out for it. I merely seek to prevent an injustice from ever occurring again, Isla. no more and no less. It has indeed assisted...but what drives you, if I may so inquire?"

 

[Madam Mim]

"Hmm? Oh, no his great-grandda built this house. They came with the Normans, not Normandy. Invaders from Norway who landed at Lindesfarne some centuries ago." Isla nodded, proud of being able to recall such information even years after being told. "It's just an old family tradition. My Will was Scottish as thistle and unicorns." Indeed as an apron Isla wore an old tartan tied round her waist which had once belonged to her father-in-law.

Upstairs she told Justin how she came by meat, but a heavy look darkened her features when he mentioned that he hunted. "Well, I'd caution ye against hunting in these woods. They don't like strangers, and nasty things watch from the hills." She cast a cautious look out at the hills, blue in the dusk. She didn't hunt or trap because she was forbidden from it, and as part of the agreement her people were allowed to take some, not overmuch, that they and she might live. Over the years the folk of Orymen had learned how much game was too much; that was when folk started disappearing, or having strange things happen to them.

When Justin insisted that his motivator was justice, not revenge, Isla nodded. "I see. So...the five some who've been burned here, is that justice?" she inquired gently, but with a definite stern tone. "The hundreds or thousands of women like me, women whose only crime was being alone in the world, or having too sharp a tongue, or laughing in church, was that justice?" She folded her arms across her chest and watched him carefully. "70 good folk in Berwick murdered because the sea dared to bring a storm on a king, was that justice?" She sighed. "You say you only light the fires when you're certain, and to be sure you've more care than a common witch killer. But how could you possibly be entirely certain? Certain enough to murder another human being? Your king in the North and all his learned men, were they not witches? What makes them different? Because they were men? Wealthy? What justice is there in that, when rich men rule countries with magic and poor women burn for it?"