CHAPTER 2

"I saw you last full moon," Aunt Maria said.

The words lay there, dropped like a bombshell, as Adira and her mother, both stared at one another, both remembering their ritual beneath the full moon when they chanted sacred words round a sizeable open-air fire at midnight.

"I know you have powers, and I don't care if they are sinful or not. Not now, when I need you to help John. If you have not made this plague appear using a magic ritual, then prove it. Cure him, Beth. If you refuse..." Aunt Maria's eyes narrowed, but she did not finish her statement.

"If I refuse, you will do what, dear sister? Bear witness against me to the magistrate? See me tried and hanged for witchery?" Beth asked Maria.

Maria did not answer. She didn't need to. Adira saw Aunt Maria's answer in her eyes, and her mother saw it as well.

"You do not need such threats," Beth told her. "All you needed to do was ask for my help. I would have tried my best for your son, just as I did for John. But witchery or no, I may not be strong enough to help him."

"If he dies, I vow, I will see you hang!" Aunt Maria staggered toward the plank door, tugging it open on its rawhide hinges. "Gather what you need and come at once. I must make haste back to his bedside."

She left them in a swirl of snow, not bothering to close the door. Adira went and shut the door, then stood for a long moment, her hand on the door. She had a terrible forewarning that the events of the last few moments would somehow change their lives forever. Adira did not know, how, or why, but she felt it to her bones. Drawing a deep breath, she turned to face her mother. She knelt beside her mother taking her hands in hers, staring up into her eyes as black as her own. "Don't go to him," Adira begged her. "You cannot help him any more than you could help Father. And when he passes, she will blame you."

"He is my nephew," her mother whispered. She tugged her hand away, got to her feet, and began to make preparations, taking sprigs of herbs from the dried bunches hanging on the wall, pouring a bit of this powder and a bit of that into her special pot. The one with the hand-painted red roses adorning its broad belly. She added steamy hot water from the larger cast iron pot that hung in the fireplace to the preparation.

"We should leave this village," Adira pleaded as she worked at her mother's side, measuring, stirring, holding her hands above each concoction to push magical energy and healing light into it. "We should leave tonight, Mother. Our secret is known, and you have told me how dangerous that can be."

"I cannot break my vows," she said. "You know that Adira. When someone needs help, asks me for help, I am bound by oath and by blood to try to help them. And I will try." Beth looked into her daughter's eyes. "You should pack a bag and go to London. Take the horse. Leave tonight. I will send for you when..."

Adira interrupted her. "I will not leave you to face this alone," Adira whispered, and she flung herself into her mother's arms, stroking her raven hair just like her own, though hers was knotted up in back, while Adira's hung loose to her waist. "Do not ask me to leave, Mother."

Her mother's mouth curved in the first smile that Adira had seen cross her lips since her father's death. "So strong," her mother said softly. "And always, so very stubborn. All right, then. Come let us hasten to little John."

They quickly packed their potions, and some crystals and candles into a bag pulled their worn homespun cloaks over their heads and shoulders, and stepped out into the brutal winter's night.

But Adira's cousin, John, was dead before they even arrived at her aunt's house. And they were greeted by a wild-eyed woman who a few minutes back had claimed them as kin, and the group of citizens she had roused from sleep, all bearing torches and shouting, "Arrest them! Arrest the witches!"

Cruel hands gripped Adira's arms, even as she turned to flee. Accusations rang out in the night, and people stood around watching as her mother and Adira were surrounded, and then dragged over the frozen mud of the grooved streets. Adira cried out to her neighbors, begging for help, but none was forthcoming. And her heart turned cold with fear. As cold as the wind-driven snow that wet her face.

"It was a long walk, in fact, it was the longest walk of Adira's life. The poor huts of the village fell away behind them, as they were pulled and pushed along, and they emerged onto the cobbled streets that ran between the fine homes of the wealthy in the neighboring town. At last, they stood before the house of the magistrate himself, trembling in the icy wind while their accusers pounded upon his door.

The Magistrate emerged in his nightclothes after a time, looking rumpled and irritated. "What is all this?" he demanded while twitching his whiskers.

"These are the two witches!" shouted the man who gripped Adira's mother's arms tightly. "The ones who brought this plague on us all, my Honor."

The old Magistrate's eyes widened, then narrowed again as he scrutinized them. Beyond him, Adira could see the glow of a fire in a large fireplace, and feel its heat on her face. She longed to go warm her hands by that fire. Her fingers were already numb from the cold.

"What evidence have you against them?" the magistrate asked.

"The word of this woman's own sister," said another man, pointing at her mother.

"Maria is not my sister," Adira's mother, Beth, said, her voice ever calm, despite the madness around her. She would never forget her mother's face, beautiful and serene. Her eyes so brave, and there was no hint of fear in them. "She is the sister of my husband," her mother replied.

"Your husband who died of the plague!" the man cried out. And now your nephew is taken as well."

"Many have been lost to the plague, sir. Surely you would not accuse every bereaved family of witchery?" Adira's mom replied calmly.

The man glared at her mother. "Maria DaCosta bears witness, your Honor. She has seen them practicing their dark rites with her own eyes."

"It is a lie!" Adira Thompson shouted. "My Aunt is maddened with grief! She does not know what she is saying!"

"Silence." The magistrate's command sent shivers down Adira's spine. He stepped forward, glancing down at the woven sack her mother still clutched in her hands. "What have you there woman?"

Beth lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. Adira could see thoughts moving behind his eyes, the way the magistrate looked at them, judging them, though they were strangers to him.