"Verily, God has spoken His verdict," declares the fishmonger, spitting at Melany's crooked feet in disgust.
The fletcher's wife crosses herself. "Once that witch is ash, Belwyck will know peace again," she mutters. "No Godly creature is so hideous. We should have known."
"Must you dawdle?" roars the brewer at the witchfinders, barely restrained by other townsfolk in his rage. "Burn her now! She is a curse upon His earth!"
The chandler's daughter says nothing.
In silence, Alba struggles to tame her beating heart. It does not beat for hate or fear. Within her, fury boils over and scalds her soul. This trial is a farce. Melany - the poor wretched girl with a simple heart - cannot even tell a pig from a cow. She is a scapegoat to be burned at the stake for a pestilence she didn't bring, an innocent victim of Belwyck's murderous despair.
Because Alba knows knows the truth: she is the Witch of Belwyck.
Melany is to be burned at the stake in two days' time.
On the night of the trial, Alba wraps her brilliant golden locks in linen and slips from her father's house. The ruckus of celebrating townsfolk wails from the tavern. She scarcely shuts her mouth before speaking a curse so sharp that the merrymakers would snap in two. Instead she hurries off toward the old woods with rushed steps.
Rage clouds her thoughts as she reaches the derelict hut where the old crone once schooled her in ancient arts. Fingers move with practiced precision, gathering desiccated thrush eyes, mortar-crushed bile, and worse things in clay jars. The summoning circle takes shape almost unbidden.
Her blade flashes white in the moonlight. Deep enough to bind, shallow enough to survive - the cut across her palm sends scarlet droplets spattering across the blasphemous geometry.
Let the witchfinders hunt monsters if they crave them so much.
The spell is cast.
Something answers.
Alba staggers back, tripping over gnarled roots. She covers her gasping mouth, smearing her perfect face with streaks of red. Her pupils narrow. Teardrops well along her long lashes.
vous is conjured forth, just as the witch hoped for, but the utter monstrosity of the creature is beyond her ken. Terror banishes fury from her and also her wits. She finds herself unable to utter the words of binding. She can hardly breathe.
Alba parts her lips when there's no more room to crawl away. She can only plead: "Help me."
