Page 34 of Anathema

“The Banished spoke to her in tongues, for goodness sake.” The woman in pink feigned a shiver that ruffled the lace of her dress. “If that’s not proof of her malevolence, I don’t know what is.”

“Don’t forget the young girl she murdered years ago,” a woman on other side of the accusing man added. “Lilleven Pontrey, I believe was her name.”

It was her name. One that I had thought of every day since, particularly so on nights when she’d sneak her way into my nightmares.

“And what about her?” Moros couldn’t have possibly looked more disinterested, as he held his wine up, seeming to examine it with more curiosity than he showed for the woman’s comment.

“Well, she was trampled.”

“By Ms. Bronwick?”

One of the guests chuckled, but the woman who’d spoken wore a frown. “Of course not. The girl willed Lilleven into the road.”

“By her own hands?” Moros continued to mock the woman, perhaps already aware of the rumor.

“No,” she answered sharply, eyes narrowed on him. “By her evil mind. She spoke the words of the devil, and Lilleven ran in front of the carriage.”

In the thick of an argument, I had told her that I wished she’d get trampled by a horse. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth, and she’d turned and walked into the road, where she’d gotten run over by a carriage. For the two years that’d followed, I’d refused to speak a word, believing I’d caused her murder. I’d believed that I really was evil.

Moros chuckled in response, his reaction earning another gasp.

“It’s true! Lilleven’s brother saw the whole thing. This girl is the anathema, a witch, and deserves banishment to The Eating Woods!”

Before I could breathe so much as a word, Moros rested his hand over mine, offering what I took as a reassuring squeeze, though my first inclination was to push him away. “It is apparent to me you’ve not ventured outside of Vonkovya—perhaps not even Foxglove Parish. There are no witches here, I can assure you. If you long to witness witchcraft in its purest form, observe a priestess from one of the Lyverian tribes. They’ll have you shuddering.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Moros,” the older man cut in, “she is birthed from the same evil that resides in those woods.”

“It is my understanding that the girl was found abandoned. A child cast off by a frightened mother, I presume. You call her an anathema, but I say it’s a miracle she lived!”

The man hmphed, glancing at me again. “Our Governor says she was not harmed because the evil recognized her.”

“Your Governor is a kind but foolish man.” The comment earned Moros a collective round of whispers. “I’ve traveled far enough to know that evil does truly exist. And I can assure you, this poor young lady does not harbor such malevolence. As for the girl who was trampled? Well, it would seem to me, she’d have done well to watch for approaching carriages before stepping into the road.”

A hum of chatter followed, his words undoubtedly new fodder for gossip. Fortunately for him, he was a respected man.

Every part of me wanted to push his hand away, but perhaps my speculations were correct about Mr. Moros. Perhaps he was my key to freedom, somehow. So long as I played along.

“She’s quite lucky to have such a kind and benevolent suitor, Mr. Moros. I’m certain you will make a fine couple.”

Moros raised his glass of wine. “Thank you. I look forward to our nuptials next week,” he said, and tipped back his drink.

Having just swallowed the water I’d sipped, I immediately coughed into my glass. “I beg your pardon, Sir. Next week?”

“Yes. I’m a man who gets things done. Why postpone the inevitable?”

“It’ll be a glorious wedding!” the woman in pink exclaimed with an air of celebration. As if she hadn’t insulted me only moments before.

“Indeed,” said the captain beside me, patting my thigh beneath the table.

Frowning, I swatted his hand off and turned my knees to the side.

“Tell me, Captain,” Moros said, drawing the man’s attention from me. “I understand Lyverian rebels have crossed Sawtooth and seized Murkmire Parish in the north. What are your intentions there?”

The man beside me groaned. “Murkmire is nothing but wetlands and the poor who refuse to leave its sinking abysmal property value–certainly not worth our resources.”

“But aren’t you afraid of the message it sends? If one parish can be seized so easily, perhaps our defenses are … weak?”

“I fear nothing, Mr. Moros. Should they dare to test our defenses, they will find themselves at my mercy.” He turned to me, offering a slight smile. “Only those deemed worthy long to be there, I can assure you.”

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