Page 48 of Anathema

“Had no choice. Winter was cold, and food was scarce.” Another puff of her pipe, and she upped the pace of her rocking. “My brother and I had chased a rabbit deep into the trees before we came upon the beast. His skin like the bark of a tree. Eyes soulless pools of black.” She stared off as if she were looking at the beast right then. “You see the dead, Girl. But have you ever stared death in the face yourself?”

Jaw slack with my absolute engrossment, I shook my head.

“As it consumed my brother, tearing the skin from his bones, I escaped. I ran until the air burned in my chest. And that’s when I saw it. That shimmering veil. Like a wall of liquid glass.” Her eyes held a spark of awe. “I dared myself to reach through.”

“Did you?” I asked, rapt with fascination, having always wondered what existed beyond those crooked trees.

“No. An inexplicable fear came over me.”

“More fearful than being consumed by the monster?”

“Yes.” The enchantment in her eyes from a moment ago faded to a troubled expression. “I fled the forest and never returned.”

“The governor said no one has ever returned from the woods.” It wasn’t that I meant to challenge her. On the contrary, I wanted to know he was wrong.

“Yes. And so he calls me The Crone Witch. He tells you that I lure children into the woods with fantastical stories, and share their flesh with the beast.” Our own governor, whose son she’d saved from death, had branded her with that horrible rumor.

“If you found yourself stood before the archway now, would you still fear it?”

“Yes. You’d do well to stay away from the forest.”

While it felt like an end to our conversation, I sat a moment longer, wanting so badly to ask her if my sister had sought her out, but I didn’t. I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for anyone having gotten a whiff of Aleysia’s pregnancy.

“Did your egg hatch?” The witch asked, the question severing my thoughts.

“Yes. A baby … bird.”

“Is it now? Rather large egg for a bird, don’t you think?”

“You’ve not seen large birds in these parts?”

“Not such that warrant an egg so large.” She drew another puff of her pipe. “And what did you do with it?”

“I let it go,” I lied. “Would’ve drawn too much attention.”

She made a grunting sound in her throat and waved her hand. “Probably better off. That wretched grandmother of yours would’ve surely destroyed it.”

I didn’t say anything to that. Agatha was wretched—on that, the witch and I agreed.

“Go on now. I’ve much to do.”

“Of course. I’m sorry to have kept you.” I gathered my basket of figs, offering her a few of them, which she accepted with a nod, and headed in the direction of home.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ZEVANDER

Boots kicked up on the desk, Zevander held the small red stone in his fingers, studying the erratic silver veins, while forcing himself to ignore the vibration beneath his skin.

A mortal. A weak fucking mortal had sent him furiously trudging back through the woods without the stone. He’d never encountered a creature in his life that he couldn’t turn to ash by summoning the flames, but somehow the girl managed to resist him.

How?

Was she veniszka?

He’d heard of the mortal witches, well-versed in alchemy and spellcasting, whose magic wasn’t bloodborne, but potent just the same. The curiosity had gnawed at him for days, his thoughts becoming obtrusive.

Obsessive.

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