Page 37 of Beyond the Cottage

“When do you expect the storm to end?” she asked.

“It’s hard to say. Another day or two, probably.”

“What are you going to do after? You’ll have to tie me down if you think you’re keeping me here.”

His shoulders went rigid. “I’ll escort you to Antrelle when it’s safe to do so.”

Gretta’s fork lowered, and she stared at him. “Really, it’s that simple now? You’re just going to let me go, come what may?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t entirely disbelieve him, but he’d done little to earn her trust. If he reneged, the master key would at least let her leave on her own. Maybe her dust would replenish ahead of schedule?

As Gretta continued eating, she caught him repeatedly glancing at her.

“Can I ask…” he finally said. “How long have you lived in Antrelle?”

“I don’t.”

“Where do you live?”

Gretta swallowed a bite. She didn’t have much interest in swapping life stories, but offering a few broad details was better than uncomfortable silence. “I live in the capital. I was only in Antrelle for work.”

“What do you do? It sounds dangerous.”

She debated answering that one before deciding it was worth feeling out if he could point her in the right direction. “I hunt witches. A type of witch, technically. I believe the one I’m looking for lives in your swamp.”

Ansel abruptly stopped fidgeting with his apple. “I see. Do you know where to find her?”

“Not specifically. If you have any ideas, I’d be much obliged.”

“Considering our history, your profession surprises me. I’d think you’d prefer to avoid witches.”

“Our history is one of the reasons I hunt them. In my pursuit of the right one, I slit the throats of the wrong ones along the way. It’s quite cathartic.”

He recoiled slightly.

“You disapprove?” she asked.

“I don’t know. While I obviously understand your perspective, mine has become nuanced.”

“What does that mean? Have youforgivenher?”

“Of course not. What the Eater did is unforgivable, and I imagine you’ve rid the world of many like her. But I don’t believe any species is all good or evil.”

He was right—except for witches. “Talk to me after you’ve seen three teenaged boys chained to a mattress in a lust witch’s basement or the jars of eyeballs a clairvoyant believed would improve her second sight.”

His expression grew concerned. “How do you hunt them? They have a rather unfair advantage over the rest of us.”

“I’ve had some close calls.” Gretta’s first year hunting, a fire witch had singed off half her hair. “I surprise them, and I wear a spun silver cloak when I attack. But mostly the job is research and recon. How long have you lived in the swamp?”

He glanced away. “I grew up here.”

“For real? You told me you grew up out east.”

“I suppose I didn’t want you to know I was swamp trash, as you’re so fond of putting it. Call it adolescent insecurity.”

“I’d call it lying, however you spin it. I guess there was something of Lab Coat in you even then.”

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