Archive of Our Own

Disclaimer: I own nothing from either fandom.

A.N: This is 100% indulgent, completely AU past ep 3 of season 6. There's no romance in this, I just wanted to see what would happen if the two fandoms met. Also, I find it a lovely coincidence the same actress plays Thomasin in The VVitch and Gina Gray in Peaky Blinders.

A.N#2: As this takes place in 1934, this fic uses canon/period-typical slurs, so you'll see the word Gypsy be used. Also beware of gore, creepiness, violence.

A.N#3: Written to Netflix's The King OST, Jack Rose's album Kensington Blues, and "White Whale," by Everything Everything.

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"Black Philip, Black Philip
A crown grows out his head,
Black Philip, Black Philip
To nanny queen is wed.
Jump to the fence post,
Running in the stall.
Black Philip, Black Philip
King of all.

Black Philip, Black Philip,
King of sky and land,
Black Philip, Black Philip,
King of sea and sand.
We are ye servants,
We are ye men,
Black Philip eats the lions
From the lions' den."
—The VVitch, 2016

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Wych

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Is't the woman again, the crow-thing says. She brings someone. It flutters on its perch and takes flight out the hole in the roof.

Thomasin looks up from the rabbit she'd been disemboweling and leaves her hovel to watch the two approaching riders. The horses are without saddles, the bridles and reins nothing but old rope. The crow-thing circles overhead, cawing insults only Thomasin can hear. When the riders are about thirty meters away the horses start to sidle and prance, the whites of their eyes beginning to show. One of them neighs, head arching high. There's a reason the wild fell ponies don't graze near here anymore. They know what she is.

The riders dismount and the woman—yes, it's Esme—wrap the horses' reins around a nearby stunted tree to keep the creatures from bolting. They approach on foot, Esme in front, the man a half step behind. The man's impeccably dressed in a long gray overcoat, the tie pinned and waistcoat pressed. A fob hangs from a gold watch chain. His shoes are scuffed from recent travel but still gleam. A cap shades his eyes. Not a Gypsy, then? Thomasin wonders what's so special about this one to make Esme bring him to her. Over the years the woman sometimes brought members of her clan, but never outsiders. The man seems out of place with his tailored clothes and unpractical shoes. A rich client, perhaps? Thomasin allows herself a moment to recall how she herself used to dress like that. Elaborate dresses, rich furs, gleaming jewels, back when—well. Well.

When the visitors are within conversational distance the man stops short. He stares her for a moment before his mouth opens to reveal crooked lower teeth.

"What's this," he says, voice of someone strangled. He points a gloved hand at Thomasin but directs the question at the other woman. "What trick is this, eh? Esme?" He rounds on her, seething. "I fucking warned you what would happen if you wasted my fucking time."

"What are you talking about, Thomas?" Esme says, backing a step, blinking. "I've brought you to the witch, like I promised."

"This is Gina Gray!" the man says, near shouting. His gaze flicks to Thomasin, who hasn't moved beyond closing the door of her hovel. His eyes are like the horses. Restless, unsettled. It's as if despite his words there's a sliver of doubt.

"Who?" Esme asks, but Thomasin decides she's already had enough. There're potions she could be brewing, a rabbit to finish harvesting. She's been meaning to give her familiar new feathers.

"I'm called Nell," Thomasin says as the crow-thing lands on her shoulder. Its nails digs into her skin through her rough shirt. "You mistake me for someone else."

The man stares at her, the full weight of his attention like a frigid mountain bearing down. Despite herself, despite how long she's lived, despite the killing she's done and the soul she's traded, despite making a pact with the God-shunned creature himself, Thomasin can't help but shiver. They're about the same height, yet something about him makes her feel small. She forces herself not look away, tries to match his unblinking stare with her own.

I will pluck out his eyes, the false bird says.

Be still, thou thing, she replies, but fondly clucks it under its whiskery jaw.

"Your hair is too long," the man says after a moment, gesturing vaguely in her direction. "Your accent is English."

Thomasin half-smiles. "You may pull on it if you like. To prove it isn't a wig."

The man doesn't move despite the invitation. She watches him take in her modest clothes and unpainted face, clearly weighing it against the person he thinks she is. Thomasin knows she's never used the alias Gina before, and she's sure she's never seen this man. He's beautiful the way a broken mirror is, arresting yet fractured, as if gliding a fingertip along his cheekbone would mean drawing blood.

The man's expression hardens and goes unreadable as he looks away, towards the distant peaks. "Esme tells me you're a witch. Can you lift curses?"

"Aye." She glances at Esme. Surely she must've told him some of the things Thomasin could do, the things Esme herself have asked for. The other woman says nothing, watching them closely. Her scarf hugs her throat in the rising wind.

"My daughter," the man says, again in that garroted tone. He continues to stare out across the mountainous landscape, a muscle in his jaw clenching. "She's been cursed by a Gypsy woman and is now very ill. Doctors say it's tuberculosis."

"Can you bring her to me?" Thomasin says, but he shakes his head once.

"No. They've already collapsed one of her lungs."

"Where is she?" she asks. "I've to be close for my magic to work."

"In the sanatorium. In Birmingham."

Birmingham. That's a little over three hundred kilometers away. A sprawling, noisy city. It'd be filled with people. Children.

"I will give you ten thousand pounds—twenty, more—if you leave with me right now and lift her curse," he says, turning to her.

"Give us a moment," Thomasin says, and without waiting for a reply re-enters her hovel, the false bird still fastened to her shoulder. She leans back against the closed door and listens to her breathing, focusing inwards, straining for any hint of a cold presence. Nothing stirs besides her heartbeat. There's nothing, no sign she isn't alone. She bows her head. The quiet rot of her hovel presses against her eyelids. She can smell the rabbit's innards where they are coiled on the table and wishes they didn't seem so pitiful; they're no substitute for the viscera of an unbaptized child. Her eyes flick to a large grease-stained jar on the shelf, one she's had for centuries.

Thomasin pushes off the door. I will go.

Thou wouldst? Why? Her familiar's nails catch on the woolen fabric as it leaves her shoulder to perch on her forearm. Wouldst thou steal the child for thy own purpose?

Thomasin has already decided to leave this man's daughter alone. Why heal it only to then harvest? Perhaps if Black Philip bade her to, but she hasn't heard her lord speak in over a century. Not a whisper, even when she'd attended sabbats. Yet his power still flows through her during her spellcasting, her youth lingers despite the three hundred years. Not all witches can say the same. She tries to take heart in that.

Other hunting couldst be done, Thomasin says, but not that one.

Perhaps his silence is a test for thee, her familiar says after a moment. Thou hath ne'er strayed in thy worship.

And we will wait longer still. In his absence, I judge our path. We go help this man.

The false bird's voice turns sly. Ah, how they now come to thee for aid, when ages past they wouldst burn thee at their stake or drown thee in their river.

Enough. Turn thy shape, Thomasin says. Her familiar launches itself off her arm. In mid-flight its wings elongate into spindly legs, the heddles and thistles and bits of woundwart morphing into an equine neck and body. The besom and nightshade turn into a ratty tail. When the transformation's complete it stands in the middle of her hovel as this small, skinny thing with no eyes. Thomasin rummages in her pockets for a bit of lint, breaking it apart to gently stuff some in each of the false pony's sockets. Two white orbs appear. They're sightless, yet Thomasin can sense her familiar watching her. Its breath is cold, woody.

She spends a moment to gather her satchel. She keeps it empty, knowing her grimoire will appear as needed. Then she leaves the hovel and makes no effort to lock it, her familiar a step behind.

"I'm ready to go," she says to the waiting figures.

The man's standing like an executioner, legs braced, face a tombstone beneath his cap. He studies the pony-thing, forehead wrinkling at its anorexic sides. For a moment it seems he wants to comment on its state but points at her and says instead, "My name is Thomas Shelby. If you prove false, I will kill you."

Fie upon't! I shalt eat his tongue! her familiar says.

"I'm a creature of my word," Thomasin says. How would he do it? By strangulation? Bullet? Blade? He seems like a man who's comfortable with bloody hands. "Bring me to your daughter, Mr Shelby. She'll live." She finds herself curious despite the flutter in her stomach. What would death be like, she wonders. Would her body spill over like rotten fruit? Or was she hollow already and a knife would only reveal the emptiness already there?

There's no more conversation. Mr Shelby strides away to the horses, Esme hurrying to follow. They return to the shivering animals and mount them easily. Despite his horse's nervous prancing the man never loses his seat, spinning it around to control its head as if born to it. Perhaps there's some Gypsy in the man after all, Thomasin thinks. The horses are soon urged into a ground-eating canter, kicking up sod as they run. Thomasin follows at a distance. She's conjured no bridle or saddle, the pony-thing's knobby spine digging into her seat as it trails behind.

By the time they reach a car parked in the middle of nowhere, the sun's hanging heavy and has turned the mountains gold. The hour gleams off the car, highlighting its rims. Thomasin's seen cars but never of this caliber. Clearly a man of means, this Mr Shelby. She watches him dismount and can't help but think the construction of hard, expensive metal resembles him. He saws through the rope bridle and the horse gallops away the moment it's free.

Esme stays on her horse, watching from a safe distance away as Thomasin dismounts her familiar. When thou art hidden, return to me a bird, she says and it shambles away, threadbare tail swishing. She heads to the car, unable to hide the flutter of excitement. After a hesitation, Thomasin enters the passenger side and slides in, the seat creaking beneath her. The scent-mixture of leather and petrol tastes like luxury. Mr Shelby's shoes crunch in the gravel as he approaches and he swings into the driver's seat. He closes the door and she's suddenly aware how close they're sitting. She can almost feel the heat radiating from him.

"Don't forget the gold you promised," Esme calls out, but Mr Shelby's already pressing the engine button. The motor starts with a growl and he puts it into drive. The car starts to move and for a moment it's as if Thomasin's coated herself in flying unguent, the world hurrying past without effort. Her stomach flip-flops and she tries to control her smile. It's been years since she last flew. Even when she still attended sabbats with other witches, it wasn't often one provided the ointment. It seems Old Sisters like her were becoming few and far between, less and less each passing decade. Out of her original coven in the New World, she's the only left.

What deliciousness Thomasin has lived. Now she passes her days in monotony, undying, on occasion breaking her solitude to help Gypsy women . . . or strange men.

"Who are you to her?" Thomasin suddenly asks, unable to abide the mystery any longer.

For a moment it seems Mr Shelby isn't going to answer. He stares ahead, gloves creaking where they grip the steering wheel. After a pause he rummages in one of the overcoat's pockets and pulls out a gold cigarette case. He selects one without looking and rubs its filter over his bottom lip before lighting it. Acrid smoke soon fills the car.

"She was my brother's wife." His tone's blank. There's nothing to read from it. "Who are you to Esme?"

"A witch. Our paths crossed, years ago. She's been using my services ever since."

"I've known witches before," he says.

"You've known none like me."

There's no response to that. Thomasin doesn't ask anymore questions. The car's suspension system jolts and bounces as they drive over the ill-suited road, but it doesn't take away from the novelty of riding in a car. Thomasin watches the world go by through the windscreen, forever surprised at the marvel of technology. How much the world has transformed in three hundred years! For a moment she fantasizes how her mother and father—or perhaps even Caleb—would've reacted if they could experience such delights. Her humor fades. Even in her mind their meeting would've been fraught. Their fears had proven true; she became the very creature they accused her of. Perhaps her mother would try killing her again. Maybe Thomasin would let her this time, just to see.

A dark shape catches her eye and something in her heart leaps. But as Thomasin peers out the window, she sees it's only the crow-thing, its tattered wings catching an updraft.

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They drive until it's dark and stop in Preston at a hotel perched on the River Ribble. The main lobby's ceiling is a latticework of glass and delicate iron. Large lamps hang from every banister and overhang, casting the lounging patrons in rich, mellow lighting. Voices are hushed and polite. Somewhere a lady laughs, a soft peal that mirrors the mood of the late hour. Thomasin ignores the not-so-subtle glances snuck her way—she knows she looks like a sparrow amidst a muster of peacocks. Mr Shelby books them two rooms and she's amused when he requests them to not be adjacent. If this surprises the concierge, the man keeps his reaction hidden.

"Be here tomorrow at six sharp," is all Mr Shelby says before whisking off to the elevator. She watches him go. His clothes make him appear part of this world, but his stride marks him as different. The rich have all the time in the world—he acts as if he's running out of it.

"Miss—?"

It takes Thomasin a moment to realize the concierge's trying to catch her attention. She feels out of practice. "Yes?"

"Your key, miss." Wants her out of the lobby, does he? She takes the key but instead wanders to one of the padded chairs scattered around. Sinking into it is like sinking into sin. Thomasin sighs, letting her body go loose. She knows she could have all these things if she wanted. And she has: she knows the cool slide of sleeping in silk, knows the weight of diamonds around her neck. But as Thomasin watches people drink their nightcaps or drift to their rooms, all she can think of is the hollowness and repetitiveness of it all. She could switch the electricity for candlelight and it'd be the same.

Thomasin reaches into her empty satchel and pulls out a gleaming apple. She bites into its white flesh and eats everything, core and all. Soon she's one of the only persons in the lobby. Her eyes close.

"You're early."

Thomasin re-opens her eyes and is greeted by gray morning light. She looks up to see Mr Shelby standing by, checking his watch. He's dressed in an impeccable new suit, the starched collar in sharp contrast to a matching dark tie and waistcoat. Even the overcoat's dark. The flat cap's perched low over his face but she glimpses the brown rings beneath his eyes. She doubts he slept at all.

Thomasin glances at the large clock over the concierge desk. It's half past five. "You're early yourself."

Mr Shelby tucks his watch away, already turning to the door. "Have you eaten?"

"I can eat later," she says, standing. As much as the chair was comfortable, Thomasin finds she misses feeling the earth between her bare toes. She suddenly wants to have this business finished and to return to her exile.

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Like yesterday, there's no conversation as they drive. Mr Shelby pushes the car to high speeds, gloves tight over his knuckles. He doesn't look at her, eyes fastened to the horizon as if pinned there by some unseen force. Whenever they're stuck behind a much slower vehicle, his jaw sets and Thomasin can almost hear his teeth grind. For the most part Thomasin watches the scenery change, marveling at the distance they've already traveled. The mountains are long gone. Rolling fields dotted with sheep sweep the English panorama. A stretch of green replaces a town which replaces more green which replaces another town which replaces green, over and over, until Thomasin can't tell what's changing into what. Throughout it all the crow-thing follows after them like a tiny shadow. Its hunger pokes her. She'll have to feed it soon to replenish its magic.

When she's hungry herself Thomasin reaches into her worn leather satchel and eats the cold lamb sandwich provided. She doesn't offer Mr Shelby anything. The man just smokes, one cigarette after another. He doesn't offer any. The smoke clings to them, a meal unto itself.

Thunderclouds gather low in the sky the closer they get to Birmingham. The sun doesn't so much as set as disappears, and soon they're driving in the dark in a thundering downpour. Despite the low visibility Mr Shelby keeps the high speed, hunching over the wheel, only slowing as they enter the main thoroughfares of the city. Thomasin grips the seat to keep from jostling too hard.

They finally pull to a stop in front of a large ornate stone building. Thunder rumbles overhead as Thomasin gets out of the car, the smell of cold rain replacing the haze of cigarette smoke. She takes a moment to inhale the storm, rain wetting her upturned face.

A door slams open and a woman runs through the entranceway. "Where the fuck were you?" she shouts. "Where were you, where the fuck were you?"

Mr Shelby's climbing the steps to her, saying, "I've brought someone, Lizzie, Ruby will be well—"

The woman moan-screams. "She's gone, Tommy!"

Mr Shelby freezes. The woman, clearly the mother, continues remorselessly: "Just now. Five seventeen. You weren't fucking near here. You weren't—" Then she stops, aware for the first time of Thomasin's presence. Something ugly scrunches across her features. "Is this what going into the mountains got you, Tommy? Your daughter's gone and in the place they put the dead people and this fucking woman is all you have to show for it?"

Mr Shelby's rigid. He doesn't move.

The crow-thing titters from the car's bonnet. What will thou dost now? it asks, but Thomasin's already mounting the steps. She isn't thinking; her feet are telling her she should go. She gives the woman a wide berth but Mrs Shelby only has accusing eyes for her husband.

Thomasin enters the sanatorium ignored and unnoticed. It's quiet inside, the rain reduced to a faint pittering against the windows. An antiseptic stillness hangs in the air. No, it's more like a hush. Though she cannot step foot on consecrated ground, it makes Thomasin wonder if this is how being in a church feels like. She takes it all in before continuing on, letting her feet lead her to the girl's corpse. She passes the lobby's bench and turns down a high-ceiling'd corridor. Perhaps it's the hour because everything's empty and silent, the lights turned low. Once a uniformed nurse passes her but she's harried and doesn't look at Thomasin as she rustles by.

Thomasin descends some stairs and after more navigating arrives before a set of double doors. It's cooler down here, even less-lit. Something's growing inside her, building with each step she takes. It feels like she's on the cusp of joining a witch's sabbat, when the anticipation and hunger are at their ripest. She lets out a shaky breath and pushes the mortuary's doors open.

It's empty of life and lit by a single bulb. Formaldehyde and ammonia fill her nose as the doors close behind her. There are ten ordered rows of gurneys, some bare, some occupied. Despite there being several girl-children Thomasin hones in on the daughter. Mr Shelby hadn't shown a picture but Thomasin knows it's her. She moves closer. The girl's fresh-dead, not even stiff yet, cheeks rounded and soft. She appears only sleeping, one quiet word from waking. A white sheet's pulled to her chin. Thomasin tugs it off and lets it pool to the floor, revealing the girl's still wearing the hospital gown she'd died in.

Thomasin's heart is hammering so fast it's throbbing in her ears. She reaches inside her satchel and pulls out her grimoire, its heavy presence not there a moment ago. She rests the leathery spine in both hands and it spills opens to a blank page of its own accord. Nothing happens for a moment. Suddenly blood seeps up and forms the words of an arcane, unknowable script that Thomasin can't read. Yet the moment she opens her mouth to utter them, she understands their meaning and ululates Black Philip's spellwords like a prophet possessed.

Once the spell's said-sung-hissed-whispered, she sets the open grimoire at the girl's head. Something compels her to reach inside the satchel again and this time pulls out a rich black cloak. It slides like sun-warmed silk in her hands and she holds it to her nose to breathe in its animal scent. It's made of goat hair, matted and tangled, less blanket and more like a hide, yes, it's a hide and it's been freshly skinned, its damp underside a layer of blood vessels and fascia and fat. She lays the goat skin over the corpse until it covers it completely.

The single lightbulb shatters and she's plunged into darkness. Thomasin climbs atop of the small body by feeling alone. She perches there and leans down, mouth gaping wide. She reads her grimoire again despite her blindness, throat burning like it's swallowing liquid fire, her hands clenching so hard on the gurney's edges the palms are cut.

Oh. Oh.

Thomasin stops.

She hangs there for single moment of time, suspended on a cold weightlessness she hasn't felt in over a century. Unseen hands caress her neck, her collarbones, the undersides of her breasts. When they fade from her spine Thomasin finds she's crying. She sits up, face wet.

A warm body stirs beneath her.

Thomasin climbs off the gurney like an old woman, every motion slow and careful. Her bones are like anchors. She gropes in the dark and pulls the ratty cloth off the child. It falls to the ground in a dry whump. For a moment there's only the sound of two people breathing, one fast and light, the other slow and labored. There's a rustling of fabric as the girl sits upright. Thomasin holds out a candle and a flame leaps to life unbidden.

The girl flinches at the sudden burst, gasping softy. It's hard to tell what colour her eyes are in the candlelight. Her cheeks are glowing, almost ruddy.

"You mustn't fear me," Thomasin says. She feels every minute of her age and wonders if she's turned into an old, misshapen woman-thing.

"I won't," the girl—Ruby, yes, Ruby—says.

"Good. That's good." Thomasin closes her eyes. She's both hollowed out and too full, near fit to burst. She trembles, overwhelmed by the memory of the cold touch. She dries her face with the back of a hand.

"Was I—? I was," Ruby starts, stops. Her voice's so young in the dark. "It happened?"

"Yes. You were. It did." Thomasin re-opens her eyes and finds the girl peering at her. Alive. Thomasin takes in a shuddery breath. She's never brought anything back from the dead before, never like this.

"Will the Gray Man come back?" the girl asks, hugging herself.

"No. He'll leave you alone." Suddenly it becomes too much. Thomasin needs the sky overhead, not this dark stinking place. More importantly, she needs to get away from this child. Though it's been many years since she last harvested one for her spells or the flying ointment, one never forgets. Being around such brightness is painful.

"Would you like see your parents?" she asks. "They'll be happy to see you."

The girl nods. "Yes, please."

Thomasin reaches out with a hand and is surprised to see it isn't a withered crone's, but same one she's had for generations. Ruby clasps it, grip strong. Before she can hop down all the lights click on, flooding the mortuary with stark white brightness. Both the girl and Thomasin flinch, squinting. It's like nails being driven into the skull.

"What's this? What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here!" It's a man in a white coat, a doctor maybe. He's hurrying towards them, puffing. "This area is off-limits, you shouldn't . . ." the man trails off, eyes growing wide behind his spectacles as they rest on Ruby.

"Hi, Dr Resnick," the girl says, shyly.

"We were just leaving," Thomasin says, squeezing the girl's fingers. She tosses the candle away and uses both hands to help Ruby to the ground. She glances at the head of the gurney. The book's gone. So is the black cloak. There's no physical evidence of what took place beyond the living girl besides her.

The man watches, frozen like a rabbit. "She—what? What's going on? How—impossible. This is impossible," he says, but doesn't stop them as they head towards the doors. If anything, he seems to shrink away, colliding with a gurney when Thomasin passes close.

"You've made a mistake," Thomasin replies. She hurries through the door but they're not pursued. They're not bothered at all as they leave the lower floors. For some reason Thomasin keeps holding the girl's hand as they climb the stairs—or maybe the girl doesn't let go. Her skin's warm. Oh, the resurrection. Yes, yes of course it happened, and so did—

Thomasin quickens her pace, forcing the child to half-jog to keep up.

Finally Thomasin and girl are back in the lobby. Thomasin pushes the entrance door to find the Shelbys right where she'd left them, trapped on either side of an inconsolable grief. The woman's crouching on the ground weeping, the man's a crumbling statue. The rain has soaked him through.

Ruby pulls away from Thomasin. "Daddy?"

Mrs Shelby sees the girl and loses her balance with a soundless gasp. "Ruby?"

"My darling," Mr Shelby says, as if in a daze. His daughter runs to him and he collapses to his knees to embrace her.

Thomasin doesn't stay to watch. She skirts around the mother crumpled on the ground, but like before is utterly ignored. The rain dampens her shift and turns her hair into wet strings as she runs down the street.

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Thomasin follows her feet blindly. She's already lost but it doesn't matter, she just needed to get away. When her lungs hurt and legs burn she leans against a brick siding to catch her breath. The rain has soaked her clothes but it's a discomfort she prefers. The air smells of industry and wet cobblestones. Though Thomasin misses the mountains she makes herself appreciate the electric lampposts, the crowded apartments, the many glowing windows. At least the sky's above her.

Thou succeeded.

Thomasin jolts. The false bird stares at her from its wrought-iron fence perch, its feathers in clumps. It cocks its little head, its white eyes peering at her. Aye, she says. She touches the empty satchel at her side. I ne'er brought a child back before.

Our lord brought it back, not thee, the crow-thing hisses. Thou art naught but a vessel for his power. Thou art nothing without him.

Aye, Thomasin says, blinking. Aye, thou speak true. I am nothing. But—I— Thomasin raises her hands to her face. Her eyes sting. He wast there. I felt—I felt—oh, but to hath felt it for but a moment more, I tell thee, I wouldst raise all the dead for one more touch. Tears mix with the rain on her face. Already the memory of the cold—how clear it'd been!—was becoming muddled. Even now she wasn't sure if had lingered on her cheek, or was it along her throat? Worst still, what if she convinced herself it'd been only her imagination? She trembled at the thought it could be another century before she felt the like again.

The crow-thing croons low in its throat, hopping close. Thou art overwrought, it says, now gentle. Get thee to shelter. Then thou may feed me, mistress?

Thomasin wipes her eyes clear. She stretches out her arm and it lands on it. Aye. I hath neglected thee.

And beware, it says. Another follows us.

A witch? Thomasin asks. A coven, here? No, she shouldn't be surprised. Cities are the meccas of society, where it's easy to blend in and hunt. It's she who's the strange recluse. Is she close?

Aye.

Thomasin doesn't know how to feel. It's been years since she's last seen one of her kind, a proper Lucifer-chosen. It might be good to return to a coven and join a witch's sabbat. But as she considers this, a wave of exhaustion creeps over her. The girl's resurrection and her lord's presence has shaken her. All she wants is sleep.

Thomasin lets her feet lead again, taking her away from the main thoroughfare. She eventually stops at a lodging house squeezed between a pub and some kind of hall. The hotel seems to sag on its foundations, as if exhausted itself. It would do.

Find a room with a window and I come to thee, the false bird says before flying away.

Thomasin enters, a little bell ringing. The inside matches its outside, the décor a decade old and weathered. It smells musty and unloved. None of it matters: she goes to the woman at the desk and asks for a room with a functioning window to the street. The woman gives her price and Thomasin reaches into her satchel to pull out the ten shillings. Money's exchanged for a key. Thomasin sighs, eager for a bed.

"Are you passing through or staying?" a voice behind her says.

Thomasin turns and immediately recognizes the middle-aged woman for what she is. Her hair's dark and coiled, rain-dampened, her eyes lined with kohl. A black fox fur hangs off her shoulders. She might even be an old one like Thomasin, or at least, decades older than she appears. Behind her are four girl-women in debutant finery, giggling. They're barely witches, if at all. Has Black Philip made any of them sign his book, naked and overwhelmed? Thomasin can't picture it. Maybe witches these days were created differently, each recruiting one weaker than the last. She's suddenly filled with pity. She doubts they've ever felt his blessing or offered him true worship.

"I do hope you're staying," the other witch says. When she smiles, all Thomasin can see are wolf teeth. "That was some magic I sensed a little while ago. You'd business at the Shelby Sanatorium?"

Some of the girl-women titter again, but there's an undercurrent of hunger. They're all watching her like a nest of stoats.

"I finished my purpose there," Thomasin says, ignoring the witchlings. She only has eyes for the coven leader. "I'll be moving on soon."

"Surely we could convince you to stay awhile? The girls and I have been looking for a strong sixth to enrich our sabbaths."

Thomasin's smile is stiff. "I don't think so."

"I understand." Her dark gaze dips to the satchel. "Perhaps, then, just a glance at that spell you casted? We felt it nearly five kilometers away! Valencia here swore her bones vibrated."

Thomasin's too shocked to react. If her familiar were here it would've attempted skewering those kohl-lined eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't have it with me," she says.

The draped fox fur shivers as the other witch shrugs and digs into her clutch. She hands Thomasin a small business card. Constance Bancroft is written on the front in brown ink. There's a number on the back.

"If you change your mind. Ring us up," she says, smiling. The girl-women are quiet behind her, almost shrunk together.

Thomasin accepts the card but doesn't say goodnight, leaving the coven to take a creaking staircase to a creaking hallway to enter a creaking room. A writing desk leans in the corner next to a narrow bed. The bedsheets are thin and were once white. Thomasin goes to the window and has to force it open, the latch seized with rust. The cool, rainy breeze wafts in. So does her familiar.

The bed dips and squeaks as Thomasin sits. She unlaces her vest and opens her shift, revealing a breast. The false bird hops to her outstretched arm she braces herself as it begins to peck her nipple, its sharp beak tearing flesh apart until it creates a wound the size of a sixpence. It then drinks of her, supping on her blood from where milk should've flowed. When it's done her familiar leaps to the bed and wipes its beak clean on the quilt. Thomasin looks down at herself. The blood's gone, the skin unbroken, yet something inside her feels drained, less than there was before.

She strokes the crow-thing's head and sings, If thou fly the earth for me / I shalt burn in hell for thee.

.

.s.

.

The sun's mid-way through morning when Thomasin leaves the lodging house. The lobby's empty of patrons but she catches herself peering around for the coven, waiting for them to pop around a chair or table. Foolish, she chides herself. Still, she can't brush away all her disquiet. If Thomasin didn't know any better, it was as if the leader had sized her up like she were a wayward child who'd strayed beyond her parents' reach. Hunting. Testing. It's stupid to consider. Witches didn't hunt other witches; it was unheard of. They had enough enemies to worry about during the trials and inquisitions and hunts and burnings than to kill amongst themselves.

Still, these are odd days. Asking another witch to see her grimoire—Thomasin shakes her head, almost wanting to laugh at the brazenness of it. She hopes she never sees that one again.

Horses and cars fill the thoroughfare. Men shout at other men. Children dart between the slow-moving cars, who in turn honk their indignation. Thomasin tries to let her feet lead her back to the sanatorium but the unwavering surety is hard to capture with all the noise. After a few false starts, she says to the crow-thing flying above, Lead me there, thou thing!

It laughs but does as it's commanded, winging on gleaming feathers. It soon returns with a direction and she follows it, brushing past men in suits, women in dresses. Everyone ignores her, or at least, tries to avoid coming too close. She doesn't mind. The feeling's mutual.

Thomasin finally arrives at the sanatorium, wiping her sweaty brow. Mr Shelby's car's still parked in front, unattended. She studies it. The crow-thing lands on its cab and waddles to her, nails clicking.

Will thou take it? Return to the mountains?

Thomasin doesn't respond, taking the steps instead. How long ago it seems when she last climbed them. Objectively everything's the same, nothing's actually different—and yet, and yet—

She enters the building but hovers in the lobby, unsure where to go. The reverent hush of last night is gone: nurses pop in and out, bustling by or accompanying doctors. The low buzz of voices bounce off the stone walls. Somewhere, a child's coughing. Finally a nurse breaks off to attend Thomasin, hair wisping about her cap.

"Yes? Is there anything you need? If you need to schedule a consult—"

"I'm looking for Mr and Mrs Shelby," Thomasin says.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid they're quite busy with a private matter at the moment," the nurse replies. "Perhaps you can schedule another time—"

"If it's about their daughter, I know," Thomasin says. "I was there last night."

The nurse starts, eyes widening. "Oh—oh! Oh, you must be that—erm, yes! Yes, if you'd come with me, please. Right this way."

She hurries on, throwing glances over her shoulder as Thomasin follows. She leads Thomasin down a hallway and soon pauses in front of a closed door. She knocks once and opens it without waiting for a reply. The nurse nods to Thomasin and ushers her in.

The room's large and well-lit, the gauzy curtain over the window moving in slow exhales from the breeze. There are six people in a rough circle: Mr Shelby's sitting on a bed, the girl curled in his lap, her arms around his neck; the mother's sitting next to them, petting her daughter's back in uneasy strokes; two nurses are standing in the corner; and sitting in front of the Shelbys is a doctor, leaning forward in his chair. There's a tightening in the air as Thomasin enters. The door's snicked shut behind her.

"Gina? What're you doing here?"

Thomasin blinks. It's the mother, Mrs Shelby. Her cheeks are splotchy and eyes bloodshot, as if she'd been crying off and on for hours. It doesn't take away the fact she's beautiful, slender like a doe. Her pulse's visible in her neck.

"Lizzie, this is Nell," Mr Shelby says, shifting.

"Nell? What're you saying, Tommy? This is . . ." Mrs Shelby peers harder at Thomasin. She seems to realize the same differences her husband had and leans back, faint frown on her face.

"The mysterious woman." The doctor stands and turns. It's the same man from the mortuary. Dr Resnick. He seems braver in the bright light of day, stepping forward. "You ran out too quickly last night, Miss Nell. But now that you're here, we all have some questions for you."

Thomasin wishes it was just the two of them in the dark, just so she could watch him shrivel. "Questions."

"We'd like to know how you accomplished what science and medicine failed to," Dr Resnick says.

"The child's alive. The rest doesn't matter," Thomasin says, but the man's already shaking his head.

"That's not enough. That's not near enough," he says. "What happened last night is a medical miracle. A miracle from God!"

"God?" Thomasin's shocked into laughter. "Your god had nothing to do with it."

That pulls the doctor upright. He stares at her as if she's crawled out of the mud. "If not God, then how? Ignoring for a moment the indisputable fact Ruby Shelby died of tuberculosis at five seventeen yesterday evening, her left lung is no longer collapsed. On top of that, there's no trace of the disease anywhere in her body. Even a recovery that sudden has never been heard of in medical history."

"Perhaps it was your god, then," Thomasin says, regretting her outburst. She bites her cheek. "I've nothing else for you."

The doctor's brow furrows. He turns back to the girl and crouches down, voice made sweet. "Ruby? Can you tell us again what happened last night?"

Mrs Shelby bends close to her daughter and touches her back with her fingertips. Her eyes flick to Thomasin then away. "Please, love? Please try?"

"But I've already said everything," the girl says, yawning. She rubs an eye.

"One more time, eh, Ruby? One more time," Mr Shelby says, rocking her once. Thomasin's astonished this is the same man who promised to kill her if she lied to him. His hard hands are soft against his daughter. All Thomasin can think of is her own father, dragging her through the rotten corn by her hair.

The child relents, sighing. "I don't really remember anything. I woke up and it was all dark. She was there."

"Anything else, Ruby? Any other detail?" Dr Resnick says, pressing. Thomasin can sense his frustration. It sounds like a conversation they've had many times.

The girl's quiet, considering. She looks at Thomasin and Thomasin's once again struck by how young she is, how she resembles glass reflecting sunlight.

"She told me not to fear her," Ruby says. The child offers her a shy smile. "And I don't. She also said the Gray Man wouldn't bother me again."

Mr Shelby's gaze darts to Thomasin, but it's his wife who lets out a sob.

"Mum, it's okay," the girl says, but her mother pulls away.

"She was dead," Mrs Shelby says, voice choked.

Her husband reaches to touch her arm. "Lizzie—"

"No!" She flinches back as if struck, tears pooling. "She was gone, Tommy. I saw her die, felt her go! She was gone!"

"And now she's alive," Thomasin says. Suddenly all eyes are on her. She keeps her focus on the mother. "You could be choosing her burial shroud right now, but aren't. And one day, when you're the one withering and dying, she'll be there, ready to bury your bones in the dirt. Can you accept that, Mrs Shelby?" Thomasin leans in. "Because I would. I would relish this chance if I were you, rather than sitting there questioning what shouldn't be questioned."

Mrs Shelby has gone quiet, frozen. Thomasin abruptly moves to the window and pushes the curtain aside to look at the street below. The anger beats in her temples but she tries to push it down. She spies the crow-thing. It's across the way, sunning itself by a puddle. Idle thing, she thinks, softening.

There's a shift of cloth and creaking bedsprings. "Gather your things, Lizzie. We're going," Mr Shelby says.

"Please, Mr Shelby. If it's acceptable to you, we'd still want a few more days of observation," Dr Resnick says, cautiously, as if wary around a horse known to kick. "Despite some opinions in this room, we're no closer to explaining your daughter's recovery. While we all rejoice this miracle, tuberculosis is a tricky disease—it might return with a sudden onset."

It won't, Thomasin thinks, but this time keeps it to herself. She feels exposed as it is. If she ever resurrects someone again, she'll stay far away from the aftermath.

"My daughter's had enough tests." Mr Shelby's tone is becoming intractable.

"But they should keep watching her, if for a little while," his wife says. She sounds shaken but regaining strength. "What if it comes back?"

"Ruby has a greater chance of catching it here than at home, Lizzie," Mr Shelby replies, unyielding. Thomasin turns and sees he still hasn't let go of his daughter. She wonders if he can even feel the soreness in his arms. You can't hold onto that child forever, she thinks. Thomasin looks back out the window. Ah, well. Perhaps he's allowed this moment.

His wife doesn't give up. "Then why not let the doctor come, Tommy. To observe. In case anything happens."

"I concur," Dr Resnick says quickly, spying an opening. "Allow me and a nurse to stay at your house for a few days, Mr Shelby. That way we can be near to monitor if anything happens and leave if anything doesn't."

Before Mr Shelby can respond, Thomasin says, "I'll go as well. In case my services are further needed." What's a few more days? Something tells her she should follow this family, which makes her wonder. Some element made her lord appear, some essential change, if for a heartbeat. Was it the girl herself? The spell? Was this all part of some scheme Thomasin couldn't see? She can't tell. All she knows is her business isn't quite finished.

Mr. Shelby doesn't appear to have heard any of them as he carries his daughter towards the door, but says on the threshold, "Right. But we leave now."

.

.s.

.

They travel to the Shelbys' residence in separate cars. The Shelbys pile in theirs and Thomasin rides with Dr Resnick and a nurse in a bulky ambulance. She sits in the backseat and keeps pressed to the window, mind far away. The nurse and doctor converse between themselves upfront but the loud grumble of the engine makes it impossible to hear what they're saying. Thomasin's pleasantly surprised to realize they're driving away from the city and towards the countryside. Pastures and forests soon replace the grime and noise of Birmingham. The further they drive, the more Thomasin's inner sense of calm returns to her. It's clear the mountains and forests will forever be where she belongs, even if she lives for another three hundred years.

They drive for a little over an hour, the ambulance creaking and juddering where Mr Shelby's car had glided. The spaces between the houses become wider and wider apart, the buildings themselves getting larger and more stately. Eventually the other houses fall away and they're on a long private road. Thomasin peers out the front windshield as a grand manor appears before them. It rests elegantly at the end of the gravel driveway, but there's something cold and distant about it. Stiff. The edges are stark against the gray sky, chimneys jutting from the roof like graves. The grounds themselves are well-maintained, not a blade of grass out of place. There's a stone chapel maybe ninety meters away down a small slope, something Thomasin knows to avoid. Further out are lines of unruly woods.

There's a uniformed maid and a boy waiting outside for them. He looks to be about Caleb's age, maybe a touch younger. Something long dead stirs in Thomasin as she watches the boy run to the Shelby car when it parks, calling Ruby's name. Thomasin slowly disembarks from the ambulance, sore from the hard seat. She's glad when the ambulance's broad white flank blocks her view of the reuniting family. She instead watches the crow-thing land on the stone fountain, wistful in a way she hadn't been in decades.

Something dost not feel right, it says.

Thomasin frowns. What is't? She glances over her shoulder. The church?

Fie, the false bird says, feathers ruffling. It takes wing and says, Mayhaps. I will search and see.

Thomasin watches it go. She then walks around the ambulance to see more maids and a few footmen have spilled out of the entrance. A few are unpacking Mr Shelby's car, others are attending the doctor and nurse.

One young maid approaches Thomasin, smiling. "Miss? I can show you to your room. Do you have any luggage you'd like us to bring up?"

"No, thank you," Thomasin says. "Lead on."

Only Mr Shelby's left waiting for them, the rest of his family and the medical personnel already inside. He's wearing his flat cap again, expression hidden. Thomasin's almost to the stone entrance when a large brute of a dog comes barreling straight at her. The maid gasps. The dog stops three meters from Thomasin and starts barking and snarling like a mad thing, froth flying. Thomasin keeps walking and it retreats every step she takes, its pitch raising to almost a yelp. It cowers, teeth bared.

Get thee gone, she says to it. With a final bark-snarl the dog disappears into the house, tail tucked.

"Goodness, are you alright miss?" the maid asks, shooting her employer a quick glance. "Cyril's never done that before, he's usually as gentle as a lamb."

"Dogs don't like me," Thomasin says. She thinks of Fowler, the last dog who'd ever loved her. From what her first coven leader told her, they'd disemboweled him the night they seduced and cursed Caleb.

"That a fact," Mr Shelby says. He's peering at her from beneath his cap, hard to read. Thomasin expects him to make more of a comment than that but he only nods to the maid. "Susie, show Nell where she'll be staying."

Walking into the manor is like entering into another world. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the cool gray light, reflecting off the paneled wood. The hallway spills into a wider area with three separate doorways. Mr Shelby takes the leftmost path, shrugging out of his long overcoat as he does. Thomasin spies blue wallpaper and a large bookcase before the door's closed.

The maid leads Thomasin up a sweeping spiral staircase to the upper floor. There are displays of wealth everywhere, from the portraits and paintings covering the walls to the decadent furniture. As they take the staircase there's a large portrait that catches her eye: it's of a blonde woman, her features cool, almost accusatory. They then escape the portrait's judgement, taking well-lit passageways filled with bouquets and vases before arriving to her room. It's clean and airy, far better than the lodgings last night. Thomasin touches the goose down pillow and thinks of the straw bedding she has at her hovel.

"May I see the grounds?" Thomasin asks, eager to get out of the room.

"Of course, Miss Nell! I don't see why not," Susie replies.

Thomasin follows Susie back down the staircase and the blonde woman's portrait. They're passing through a dining room with a massive painting of Mr Shelby next to a gray horse when Thomasin hears behind her,

"Miss Nell!"

It's Ruby. She's peeled away from her brother and an older, worry-faced maid to run up to Thomasin, smiling. Her face's vibrant, the cheeks rosy. For a moment Thomasin's terrified the girl would hug her, but at the last second the child just settles for standing close. There's a necklace with a Black Madonna charm at her throat.

"Would you like to play with me and Charlie?" Ruby asks.

Thomasin notices Mrs Shelby's joined the maid and the boy. She's smoking, cigarette balanced between two top knuckles. "No," Thomasin says, but tries to do it gently. "Maybe another time. Go on, child."

Ruby studies her for a moment before complying, but not before looking over her shoulder at Thomasin. She goes to the maid and her brother, who herds the children out of the dining room. Mrs Shelby stays behind, watching her from behind cigarette smoke.

"Susie, would you mind helping Frances?" Mrs Shelby says, not looking away from Thomasin. The maid bobs and hurries away, leaving just the two of them. The woman moves closer but keeps to the other side of the table. "So, you're a witch. An actual, bonafide witch, then."

"Aye." It's ironic how years past Thomasin would've been hung for this. Now she's free to admit it, as she'd done with Esme. Fie, even advertise. She wonders if that's why most witches these days were in name only: without the threat of death, average women claimed they were witches to reap the mystic and potential financial benefit.

"Huh." Mrs Shelby laughs a little. "Here I thought Tommy had gone mad. But he did it. He actually did it." She goes quiet, sizing Thomasin. The wide table separates them. Mrs Shelby's taller than her, as stately and elegant as the manor. Her complexion's healthier than it had been in the sanatorium, not as bruised. "I'm sorry," she says. "It's just a little eerie how much you look like someone I know—you two could be the living spit of each other. The only thing different is your hair. And that she's American."

Thomasin nods. "Gina, yes? Your husband briefly thought I was her, too."

"You're nicer than her, that's for sure." Then something shifts and a worried frown gathers in the mother's face. "Are you sure my little girl's safe? That she's free from all this? I'm sorry for what I said before, I wasn't in my right mind. I—I know nothing of, of magic or witchcraft. It's all beyond me, really—"

"Please. No apologies necessary, Mrs Shelby," Thomasin says. She doesn't say her familiar felt something wrong, unsure if it's anything to mention yet. "She's free of consumption and will stay that way."

Mrs Shelby's shoulders sink as she sighs. "Then, I want to thank you for bringing our daughter back to us. I don't know what my husband promised you in payment, but if you need anything from me, please ask it."

Thomasin looks away. Her history's filled with destroyed families, profane worship, and an untold number of stolen children. She knows she doesn't deserve thanks, but death and hell. "I was just about to walk around the grounds," she says, nodding to a window.

"Oh, I can call Susie back—"

"No, that's alright. I . . . it's been some time since I've been around this many people. I'd like to catch some air alone."

"Well, alright. Let me show you the door, then," Mrs Shelby says, giving Thomasin a real smile.

Thomasin breathes in the fresh grass and wet air as she steps outsides. The sky's low and gray but it doesn't matter. She loops around the side of the manor away from the stables and chapel, towards the hedges and wood. She passes a section of the house where there's a manicured garden nestled within a protected alcove. Thomasin passes everything, heading to the back of the manor. After awhile she encounters a large stream. The manor's roof is still within eyeshot but trees cover most of the rest. It's quiet save for the flow of the water and the distant sounds of conversation. Thomasin can see the wooden wagons of a Gypsy camp, wives and husbands and children and horses and goats and dogs all milling about. She can even smell their campsmoke. She knows they've noticed her. Thomasin doesn't acknowledge them.

The men who pause to watch her don't approach and Thomasin goes no closer, choosing instead to settle in the crotch of a large horse chestnut tree. She's now partially hidden from view. She pulls out a small clay pipe from her skirt's pocket and, after lighting it with a match, spends some time smoking. A moist breeze rustle the leaves above. A dog barks. As Thomasin puffs, she can sense bodies have been burned nearby. Not too recently, she judges. Definitely within the decade. Death follows Mr Shelby everywhere, it seems.

Thomasin's still contemplating the dead bodies when she notices something strange floating on the water. It's caught in an eddy, swirling in the same spot. She slowly takes the pipe out of her mouth, unable to believe what she's seeing. When she realizes yes, it's real, Thomasin crouches on the stream bank and pulls up the mangled bits of besom and woundwart. The heddles are only slivers, useless. The curse that had destroyed it lingers enough to make the little left disintegrate to nothing. Thomasin stares at her empty palms, head blank.

Her hands then curl into fists.

Thomasin follows the stream's current with her head and sees it heading eastward, away from the manor, towards a dense copse of trees. How had she not sensed this? Had she encountered a witch more powerful than herself? But as she thinks this, Thomasin sinks to her haunches and clenches her eyes shut.

Not a witch—a coven.

That cunt.

By the time Thomasin re-opens her eyes it's gotten darker, the woods now dim and vague. The smell of cooking fires from the Gypsy camp have gotten stronger. The voices have too, now raised in laughter. There's a whistle, a horse neighs. Someone twangs a violin. Thomasin listens to the sound of life and decides then and there the path she'll take, the lives she'll destroy.

.

.s.

.

". . . children?"

Thomasin snaps to herself. She's sitting at the dinner table. In the dining room. In the manor. It's black outside but warmly lit within, lights everywhere. Mr Shelby's at the head of the table, smoking, not engaging in any conversation. Despite being within arms reach from his family he's aloof, stone-faced. His family pay him no mind, as if it's a regular occurrence. Mrs Shelby's at his right, Dr Resnick at his left, the nurse next over. The two children are also here, the boy sitting at his mother's right, Ruby—

Ruby's sitting next to her, beaming. Thomasin blinks at her, frozen.

"What?" she hears herself ask, unable to look away from the girl. All she can picture is the other witch destroying Ruby, mashing her into paste, mashing her into nothing—

Dr Resnick chuffs. "I said, do you have any children of your own, Miss Nell?"

Thomasin takes a bite of the cornish hen in front of her and regrets it. She swallows with difficulty and sips some water. "No."

"Ah. Of course, you're young yet—do you have a man back home?"

Again Thomasin sips water to dislodge the dust in her mouth. "No. I am—" with my familiar oh but it's dead it's dead, "—alone."

"Ah," the doctor says, trying to smile while frowning. "Well, give it time. Does your family live nearby?"

Thomasin doesn't reply, chewing slowly. Talk resumes when Dr Resnick finds more fertile conversation with Mrs Shelby. Thomasin drifts, understanding nothing, eating the bird in front of her in mechanical bites. She eats until the skeleton's revealed and she stares at the breastbone, the tiny vertebrae. The emptiness inside her aches.

There's a soft tug at her sleeve and Thomasin looks down to see Ruby leaning in. The girl whispers loudly, "Can you do the candle trick again? I told Charlie about it but he didn't believe me."

Talk around the table stalls and goes quiet. Before Thomasin can come up with a reply, Mr Shelby clears his throat. "Ruby, Charlie, say goodnight and then go wash up with your mother."

Mrs Shelby throws her husband a coded look but he ignores her, attention on Thomasin.

As Mrs Shelby and the children leave, Dr Resnick says, "Oh, good, I was meaning to have a moment with y—"

"I have business to attend to with Nell first, doctor," Mr Shelby says, standing. "If it isn't urgent, we can discuss it tomorrow morning."

It appears the doctor wants to argue, to say the matter's indeed urgent, but something about Mr Shelby's cool demeanor makes him rethink his position. "Tomorrow morning's fine," he says, deflating slightly.

Mr Shelby begins walking away. Though he doesn't say anything to Thomasin, it's clear he wants her to follow. She trails after him, passing through rooms where lamps light every surface. She's led into what appears to be both office and library, the room as grand as the rest of the manor. Books lines the walls in trim rows. A large desk's brooding by the far wall next to massive curtains. There's a fire in the grate. Thomasin stares into the flames and feels drawn to them. She strays closer and closer until she's almost standing in it, its warmth quickly becoming uncomfortable.

Thomasin turns and finds Mr Shelby watching her. She does the same. The soft man she witnessed at the sanatorium is gone—this is the one she met on the mountain, the same who promised to kill her if she failed. His face's a sheet of glass, nothing to hold onto. It's like trying to read a sphinx.

The fire at her back reminds her. "You've burned bodies in the woods," she says.

His chin lifts. "Talked with their spirits then, eh?"

Thomasin tries to smile but it grows wrong, turns into something else. She retreats from the fire, sweat prickling beneath her clothes. "No. I'd get no peace if I did."

A shadow of a frown falls across his features. Mr Shelby turns to keep facing her and instead of acknowledging that, he points at her and says, "There's no record of a woman named Nell in Keswick who keeps to the mountains." His eyes narrow. "But you don't seem surprised at that."

"Does it matter?"

"I'm not accustomed to dealing with people I don't know, let alone those with no apparent history. Even Esme can't tell me much about you."

"It won't be for much longer," Thomasin says. "When the business between us is done, you'll never see me again."

The man's quiet for a moment, mimicking a slow-blinking stone post. Then he's walking to the desk. He removes his jacket as he does, revealing a loaded shoulder holster. He hangs the jacket on a coat rack and goes around the desk to open a drawer. Thomasin follows, suddenly cold away from the fire. She's standing on the other side of the desk, admiring the scattered mess of papers, notes, newsprint, log books, ashtrays, and horse sculptures when Mr Shelby tosses a manila envelope down and gestures at it.

"Ten thousand pounds. As agreed," he says.

Thomasin stares at it. She's totally forgotten. She makes no move to open it and count the notes within.

Mr Shelby unfolds a box to select a cigarette and rubs its filter against his lower lip before lighting it. "You want more."

Thomasin shakes her head. "No. Keep it."

Though his expression doesn't change, she senses he's caught off guard. Ten thousand pounds is a literal fortune. "Then what do you want?" He takes a long pull of his cigarette, sharp gaze never leaving hers. "Gold?"

"What I want no mortal man can give." Thomasin sits in one of the chairs in front of his desk and looks up at him, bracing herself. "But that's not why I'm here. I've come to tell you your family's in danger."

Mr Shelby's now watching her like the crow-thing used to with injured mice, the cigarette going unsmoked between his fingers.

"The curse isn't broken?" he asks.

"That curse will never bother the child again. It left her when it'd fulfilled its original purpose." Thomasin lets out a breath and says it outright. "No, this is different. The resurrection spell I used that night has attracted a coven. They're already here, hiding in your woods."

Mr Shelby doesn't react beyond a deepening frown. "A coven."

"Witches. Witches like me." When Mr Shelby still doesn't appear to understand the gravity of her words, Thomasin leans forward in her chair. "My kind of witchcraft. The kind that can drive men mad and make mothers strangle daughters. The kind that targets children. Where our power doesn't come from God."

His face's blank, eyes locked on hers. "Why us?"

"They came for me but will stay for you," Thomasin says. She settles back in the chair. "When they'll target your family, it won't be only your daughter dead this time, but your son. Your wife. You. Maybe even the staff. Only consecrated ground's safe, but I doubt your family can live inside a church for the rest of their lives. Everyone would die, even the Gypsy camp I came across in the woods."

Mr Shelby stamps out his ashen cigarette. He then rests on his knuckles as he leans over his desk with quiet menace, the gun leering at her as he does. "What proof do you have of this? Eh? How can I take what you say as true?"

Thomasin studies the gun and wonders how it would feel to be shot in the head. Would death be instant? Or would something go wrong and she'd linger as this crippled thing, unable to fully die? She says, "Tomorrow, follow the river behind your manor and go into the eastern wood. Take any adult you want with you. Bring a horse, but don't ride it. Eventually a strange hare will cross your path. It won't startle as you approach, but your horse'll be stricken with terror and flee. If you try to shoot the creature your gun will misfire, or worse. If all I say comes to pass, you'll know what I say is true."

Thomasin knows this because this is exactly what she'd do if she were stalking the Shelby family. Has done, in fact, many times. She knows the dark-eyed cunt wouldn't be able to resist doing the same.

Mr Shelby's throat bobs. He pulls up another cigarette and no longer leans over his desk. This one he takes time lighting, running it over his lower lip longer than all the others before. He doesn't look at her as he does, gaze flitting without landing on anything.

"The Devil everywhere," he says quietly, as if to himself. Louder, "And if it is?"

She stands. "Then find me tomorrow and I'll tell you my solution. Goodnight, Mr Shelby," she says, and leaves.

.

.s.

.

The next morning Thomasin watches from her window as Mr Shelby takes a black mare with him to the woods. It's so early everything's deep blue, but she can tell it'll be another gray day. There's a man with him, perhaps from the Gypsy camp. They disappear beyond view and are gone. She almost wishes to have gone with them, to see that witch and confront her then and there, but she knew it would take time to lay out her plan. It'll be harder now that her familiar's destroyed. As much as she dislikes relying on anyone, Mr Shelby's cooperation would be crucial for it to work.

Thomasin doesn't eat with the family for breakfast, keeping to herself in her room and begging off when the maid asks if she wants to join them downstairs. When she judges the breakfast hour past she takes to wandering the manor to keep her mind busy. The children are somewhere deep in the house, perhaps playing in their rooms. She steers clear of that wing, not wanting to cross their paths. She also makes sure to avoid Dr Resnick but she's lucky and doesn't lay eyes on him once. He's probably with Ruby, administering tests or watching her with Mrs Shelby.

Eventually Thomasin lets her feet lead her towards the kitchens. It's busy in the main room as cooks and staff clean up from breakfast and transition to lunch, but the further she goes in, the quieter and and more empty it becomes. Finally she passes through a dark annex and enters a back room. The cool air tastes faintly metallic. The electricity's off but there's enough natural light from the windows to reveal the geese with broken necks and sliced bodies of pigs, of pheasants and hanging rabbits. There's a dressed stag in the corner, upside down. A butcher's table rests in the centre, striated and worn from countless knife cuts. She touches it. Though it's clean and dry she can sense the human blood that'd once soaked the wood.

For a moment Thomasin thinks to tell the crow-thing about it, but remembers she can't, that she'll never be able to.

There's another presence in the room.

"Someone was killed here," Thomasin says, fingertips brushing the surface. She looks to find Mr Shelby dressed in a dark overcoat and cap, hands gloved. In the quietness she can hear his breathing's louder than normal, as if he'd hurried all the way here. She can even smell the woods on him, brisk and damp. When he doesn't respond, she asks, "Did you try shooting the hare?"

Mr Shelby stares at her. For a moment Thomasin thinks he's going to start smoking again but instead he goes to turn on the light, shoes scratching against the rough floor. It flicks on, bright orange. It turns the upside down stag from beautiful to garish.

"You've a solution, eh?" he asks, wiping his mouth as he turns to her, jaw set.

"Sometimes you have to set a curse," Thomasin says, now laying her hand flat where the man died and bled, "to lay a deeper one. I propose I cast a spell that'd kill the witches and forever protect your family from my kind. However, death requires life. I ask four lives in exchange for this."

The hard planes of Mr Shelby's face are unreadable. "Four lives."

She nods. The spell would be a combination of several, one layered atop the other. This has never been done before—no witch has ever tried to kill another witch, let alone a whole coven. She doubts Black Philip would even condone such a spell solely for that purpose, and dares not ask it of him. Thomasin senses her own blood must be spilt for this to succeed. Maybe even all of it.

Thomasin dangles an offer she doubts he'll refuse. "Do you have enemies? I'm asking for lives you love not." When he still doesn't reply, she adds, "They won't die on your property, if that's what's troubling you. Their deaths will be delayed a day and seem strange, unexplainable."

"Why should I not go into the woods and kill them now? I've men and guns," Mr Shelby says. "I'll burn the whole forest down if I must."

"You can try, but it's risky. If you miss even one, they'll come back with more and end you. My way guarantees their death, protects your family from any future curse—Gypsy or otherwise—and destroys four of your enemies, all with little risk to yourself. This is the better offer."

His expression suddenly tightens. "Why?"

Thomasin blinks, thrown. For a moment she wonders if she's misjudged him, misjudged her whole plan.

He gestures at her, keeping the butchering table between them. "If you're like these witches, why choose to help us at all? It's clear you're not doing this for money or gold. Then why? What is it you want of me?"

"I'm doing this because I want to see your family live," Thomasin says, surprising herself as she says it. It's no lie, she does want to see them live, the girl especially. It feels strange to want to protect a child. "It'd be such a waste to return your daughter only for those—those others to take her away again."

Black Philip allowed her to bring the girl back, gave her the spell. That was hers. For another witch to upend her work? And kill her familiar? It's beyond insult.

Thomasin surprises herself again as she continues, "You've killed many people in your lifetime, Mr Shelby. As have I. There're no words for the things I've done, and helping your family won't change that. When this body fails, I'll rejoin my soul in hell—I accept this, maybe even welcome it. But, before I go, perhaps I can do a little good.

"As for what I want of you," Thomasin adds, "it's simple. Choose four people to die and bring them here to your house so I can set the first curse in motion. Will that be a problem?"

The man wipes his mouth again, as if suddenly disliking what it tastes. "Before I agree to this, what assurance can you give me this won't affect my family?"

"Do as I say and they'll be safe. Beyond that, you'll have to trust me."

"But I don't," Mr Shelby says. "Horses don't like you. Neither does the dog. I still can't explain why you look exactly like Gina Gray, an enemy of mine. I doubt Nell is even your name."

Thomasin half-smiles. "Don't trust me, then. But I've saved your daughter and have proven to be a creature of my word thus far, which is all I can offer. The choice's yours."

There's a moment of quiet at that. As she waits for his answer, Mr Shelby finally reaches for a cigarette from his overcoat pocket. She watches his little ritual, the slow, unhurried movements of it.

"As it so happens," he says, lighting the cigarette, "I was planning a small dinner party. Four guests, in fact. They'll do."

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

Thomasin nods—in two days it'd be the full moon, perfect for a witch's sabbat. Her heartbeat quickens in her wrists. "I'd also need two cups of your blood," she says.

Mr Shelby lifts his chin, guarded. "My blood?"

Thomasin suddenly notices two silver cups in the centre of the table, as if they'd been there the whole time. Mr Shelby realizes they're there as well and blinks slowly, taking them in. His throat works.

Thomasin reaches across and picks one up, suddenly struck by its resemblance to her mother's silver wine cup from centuries ago. She laughs. "Finally, a use for that doctor."

When she looks over, she sees Mr Shelby has composed himself, but the mask's brittle. She can hear his elevated breathing as he says, "My family doesn't get involved. You understand? My family's not fucking involved."

"My word," Thomasin says, and means it.

.

.s.

.

Thomasin floats outside herself, weightless. She's deeper in the manor, in an unused servant's area that seems part storage, part wine cellar. The air tastes musty-damp. There's no noise. She takes a moment to admire her body sitting cross-legged on a dirty rug, hands loose in her lap. The calling card that other witch gave her rests between her fingers. Her breathing's shallow. The overhead lamp paints her features in harsh shadows. The rude surroundings are no matter to her; like the kitchen, someone has been killed here. It's perfect.

Thomasin blinks and she's in the woods. It's mid-afternoon but no sunlight reaches her. Her bare feet curl in the cold mulch as wind moves the trees.

"You destroyed my familiar," Thomasin says, and turns.

Constance Bancroft greets her with a smile. That black fox fur's still over her shoulders. When she moves closer its flattened face seems alive, trapped in a snarl. "So you know we're serious about learning from you, my dear. Now you don't doubt my sincerity, or our own power." She shrugs and looks Thomasin down-up. "Besides, a witch as powerful as you can make a new one."

A new one wouldn't be the companion she'd had for centuries, but Thomasin doesn't say this. She says instead, "Yes. You're right, I'm listening now."

Bancroft claps her hands. "Excellent. I knew you'd come around. Ah! I want you to meet the girls properly. Girls, come join us."

The four witchlings appear from behind the trees and approach like wolves. They're in mink coats, hair short in the current fashion, jewels at their throats. They all have kohl around their eyes, like their coven leader. Bancroft rattles off their names—ValenciaPippaMaryBeatrice—Thomasin doesn't bother to remember who's who. She honestly can't even tell them apart.

"Well met," she says. She smiles at Bancroft. "I'm Nell."

"Good to finally meet you, Nell. Though, in all honesty, as we followed you I was surprised you stayed with the Shelby family. I thought you said you'd finished your business with them," Bancroft says.

"I changed my mind," Thomasin replies. "I'm hunting."

The other witch's eyes gleam. "As are we. I'm sure you're aware there're unbaptized babes in that Gypsy tribe. And those young Shelby children would feed us nicely. We really must thank you for showing us such a rich killing ground."

Thomasin blinks. "You know the flying spell?"

Bancroft purrs. "I'm older than I look, dear. As are you."

"Then I wouldst be honored to share my spellcraft with thee and thine, Sister," Thomasin says, curtsying low, "after I join thy sabbat at moonrise in two days time, if thou permits."

"Oh! I'm not as old as that," Bancroft says as the witchlings titter behind her. "But I accept your offer. Let's have our sabbath here, damn near under that Thomas Shelby's nose. What a fright that'd give them! I couldn't tell you how it pleased me to see him so spooked this morning; it makes me wonder why we hadn't done this sooner." Her eyes flash. "But let's have a proper sabbath. I'll make the flying paste a—"

"No," Thomasin says, heart skipping, "please. Let me provide the ointment. I have a special variation that our lord gave me. I'd be happy to show it to you, afterwards."

Bancroft throws her head back and laughs. "See? Why should it be taboo for us to share our grimoires? Look at what can be gained if we all share our knowledge. I accept your offer! Then, after our reveling, show us that spell you used at the sanatorium and let's hunt together as a coven."

"Yes," Thomasin says as the forest fades around her, "let's."

.

.s.

.

"Am I cursed?"

Thomasin looks up from where she's kneeling in the centre of a large inverted pentacle, midway done carving beneath the third chair's seat. Mr Shelby's leaning against the wall, safely beyond the circle. They're in the same servant's area—Thomasin had deemed it perfect to set the layers of spellwork. Mr Shelby had sent all the staff away from this section of the house and ordered them not to be disturbed. Not that it mattered; this place already felt abandoned. Despite her offer to work in privacy, he insisted to oversee. As long as he stayed out of the circle where Thomasin toiled, he'd be in no danger. For a long stretch of time he'd said nothing, scrutinizing her actions in condensed silence. Now he repositions himself.

"Am I the one who brings this upon everyone near me?" he says.

Thomasin peers hard at him. He's sharply dressed as always, starched collar tight at his throat. Two gold sleeve garters on his arms catch the light, matching the fob and watch chain on his waistcoat. The gun in his shoulder holster glints as well. Despite giving blood, he doesn't show any sign of discomfort—aside from a slight paleness to his skin, Thomasin never would've known otherwise.

After an additional moment of listening, she says, "No." She resumes carving the chair, making sure the engraving's deep. "You're haunted, not cursed."

There's a soft sound at that. "Esme would say otherwise."

"Then she'd be wrong," Thomasin says. She dips her index finger in one of the cups of blood and traces over the lines of the unicursal pentagram. "As for the situation we're in, it was bad luck a coven was nearby and the resurrection spell was so strong. You could even blame me for it and I'd not argue."

For a time there's a contemplative quiet, filled only with the sounds of a knife scratching wood. Thomasin finishes the third chair and, without leaving the circle, places it next to its kin. She pulls up the last one and settles in to finish.

"How would this work?" he asks.

Her hand's cramping and her arm aches but she doesn't stop. "You've experienced cursed objects before, haven't you?" She ignores the way his side of the room grows heavy. "So you know the principle of it. When I join the coven's sabbat they'll die, triggering the final killing spell."

"That's it?"

"Aye," Thomasin says, heartbeat in her ears. It has to be enough. It must. Oh, what she'd give to have her familiar's guidance now.

Mr Shelby's shoes scrape the ground as he walks her circle's boundary. He nods without looking at her, staring into space. "Can you bring others back?"

Thomasin pauses to consider. Despite what she'd told the crow-thing, she senses the resurrection spell has a small window. "Only if they're fresh-dead, like your daughter was. Otherwise, it's too late," she says. She glances at him. "You've others you'd like resurrected?"

"It's alright. They're not far," Mr Shelby says. His mouth stretches but it isn't a smile, not even remotely. "They still speak to me."

She feels a genuine pinch of empathy for him. She wouldn't know what to do if her dead haunted her. To change the subject, Thomasin asks, "What will you do, after? Now that your family's whole? I thought I overheard your wife talking about going to Canada."

Mr Shelby ignores her questions and counters, "Where's your own family, eh? You didn't answer the doctor last night."

Thomasin occupies herself with painting the fourth chair's underside with blood. "They're dead."

He doesn't offer any platitudes or condolences. "And where are you from? Your accent's English but I can't place where."

She knows what he's doing, but decides to answer anyway—how can he use it against her? "The village I was born in is long gone. It was by the coa—no." She blinks, surprised to have forgotten that, when she could still picture the glass window panes and Fowler lying in the sun beneath them. It's a precious, useless detail. "No, it was more inland. Maybe there's a road over it, now. Ah!"

Thomasin leans back on her haunches and admires her work. "There. They're done." She shakes her sore hand and tries to rub the cramps out of it, knowing it'll be cramping again very soon. "You may want to leave for the next part."

Mr Shelby doesn't move. "What will you do?"

"Just the next layer of spellwork. You're still safe, but it might be better if I'm alone. There'll be a lot of blood."

He scoffs quietly. "I'll stay, then," he says, settling against the wall.

Thomasin tells herself it doesn't matter and consults the open grimoire that's appeared at her feet. After several moments she begins to undress. But she hesitates a second later, fingers stalling on the laces of her vest, suddenly aware she hasn't casted like this in front of another soul in twenty, thirty years. If he senses her sudden misgivings, Mr Shelby shows no sign of caring and continues to watch in that dispassionate, steady way of his.

It's just another kind of curse-object, Thomasin tells herself, trying to shake off the nerves. Just like the chairs. She lets out a breath and resumes undressing, slowly at first, then with less care. When she's at last standing stark naked, mind empty. She sees nothing but the grimoire before her and its arcane script. Thomasin begins to mutter-growl-sing its words as she sits down in the centre of the circle, knife in hand. She carves into the underside of her right foot first, mimicking the inverted pentagram she's drawn on the chairs. She moves onto the left foot. Then the right calf, left calf, slowly moving upwards her body. The pain's like hearing screams from another room—she knows it hurts but it's elsewhere. When she's at her stomach she makes a large pentacle and writes the words from the book within it. She's careful not to stab too deeply, judging by feel alone.

Soon Thomasin's awash in blood, her grip on the knife slipping a few times. When the knife's edge becomes dull she switches for a new one and continues. She holds her breath when she gets to her neck, taking utmost care not to nick her jugulars. She cuts her cheeks and slices her forehead, all while growl-humming the spellwords. At last she's covered head-to-toe with all the carvings binding herself to the cursed chairs and turning her into a conduit. Her eyes sting as blood drips into them. She then takes the first cup of Mr Shelby's blood and pours it over herself, rubbing it into her wounds. The second cup she drinks, gulping it down as if it were spring water.

As one final step, she reaches into her satchel and pulls out an old cloak that smells of rot and decay. She kneels and throws it over herself, the darkness like an embrace. But it isn't the embrace she craves, not at all, and when the time's right she casts it off. Thomasin looks down at herself. It's as if the efforts of the past half hour never happened: her skin's whole, unmarred. Yet as she runs her fingers along an arm and ghosts her collarbones, Thomasin can sense the curse humming beneath. She knows now there'll be no surviving this. She smiles, admiring her good work.

Thomasin's halfway dressed when she remembers she isn't alone. She finds Mr Shelby no longer looking at her but focusing a point in the middle distance. His expression's untranslatable, the lines of his face like granite.

"When your guests leave tomorrow night," Thomasin says as she re-laces her vest, "keep the chairs on consecrated ground for two years, then burn them."

"Yep." Mr Shelby clears his throat. "What's next." He still doesn't look her way.

She closes her eyes. "Nothing for today." She's tired. Tired and cursed. When she reopens her eyes the pentacle she'd been standing in is gone, as is her book and the cloak. "Have that dinner party tomorrow, make them sit in those chairs. The rest I do alone."

"And my family?"

"When the sun goes down the following night, have them stay in the nearby chapel until morning. And anyone from that Gypsy clan, especially the children and babes." Thomasin rubs her face. She doesn't say what would happen if this doesn't succeed. She can't help but think of Ruby, the shine of her.

He nods once and turns to leave. He's nearly out the room when Thomasin says after him, "And Mr Shelby?"

He pauses but keeps facing away, a shape in the murk. She says, "When your dead speak to you, don't always listen. They often want what they can no longer have."

There's no reply as Mr Shelby leaves.

.

.s.

.

Thomasin sleeps. Sleeps and drifts, sleeps and drifts. She knows she ate supper with the family that night but doesn't remember anything from it, apart from Mr Shelby's absence. She thinks that doctor asked more questions but can't remember what or how she answered. Then she's back to sleeping, the curse purring like a cat on her chest.

At one point she jolts into consciousness, instantly aware the four sacrifices have sat on the chairs. The bedroom's filled with moonlight, smells of fresh linen. Thomasin shivers and rises to her elbows, straining to hear what was happening at that dinner party. It's impossible, of course, as she's in another wing of the manor. But her heart's beating fast and suddenly the last thing she wants to do is sleep.

She goes to her satchel and in both hands pulls up a familiar, grease-stained jar. It's the one from her hovel, the same one Black Philip gifted her years ago. Though she cradles it tenderly to her chest, her mind's empty and hollow as she does. Thomasin sets it down in a square of moonlight and opens its lid. She ignores the fatty, animal smell that wafts from it and positions a wrist over it. She cuts it deep with a knife and watches as the cursed blood streams into the dark mouth. After a moment she then presses down on the wound and soon it's gone, as if it never happened. Thomasin takes her fingers and stirs the blood-and-fat mixture until it's smooth and buttery, as the ointment should be. When it's done she reseals the lid and puts the jar back into her satchel, movements gentle as if it were an unspeakable Fabergé egg, priceless beyond imagine.

Thomasin then paces in her room until the sky outside her window turns pink. The ghost moon lingers. She stares at it, finding it more beautiful than any she'd ever noticed before.

As morning transitions into afternoon Thomasin's still in the room, now preparing a mask to wear for the sabbat. It's ugly and rough, made of wood, saplings, nightshade, and black moss. It's of a four-eyed nanny goat wearing a crown, complete with a muzzle, but there're no holes to see out of. On its inside she inscribes Black Philip's name in Enochian, to hide her curse from the coven until it was too late. She holds it up to her face and her breath bounces back. In the dimness she realizes there's nothing left for her to do but wait. This is it. She thinks of the Shelby family, of the boy-like-Caleb and the girl, and decides she'll have one last look.

Thomasin puts the mask next to the jar in her satchel and leaves her room. It's still too early but she goes anyway to give her feet something to do. She finds a maid and asks for some tea. When it's delivered she sips it slowly, gazing out the dining room window but seeing nothing. It's quiet inside her head. Even the curse, now primed, is nothing but a low buzz in her arteries.

The sun's dipping beneath the trees when Thomasin hears a commotion in the entrance way. She goes and sees the Shelby family and even the staff getting dressed to leave. Dr Resnick and his nurse are also there, but looking very confused. Thomasin watches Mrs Shelby make sure Ruby's coat's buttoned. Something within her grows tight. She won't do this again, she decides. She doesn't belong here—in society, with people, around children. The heavy jar at Thomasin's side proves she lost that opportunity.

Ruby spies her before everyone else. "Miss Nell!" she says, leaving her mother's side.

"Ruby," Thomasin says as the girl stops in front of her. She kneels so they're eye-level.

"Daddy's taking all of us to the chapel," the girl says. "Are you coming with us?"

"No," Thomasin replies. The child will grow into a beautiful woman, she thinks. Safe from her, from all witches. "I've leaving tonight and wanted to say goodbye. But, before I go, I've a gift for you."

"A gift?"

Thomasin pulls out a wax candle from her satchel and hands it to the girl. Ruby takes it. And then, in front of everyone, the candle lights itself. Ruby gasps and beams and throws her brother a smug See? I told you.

There's a shuffling of bodies—one of the maids makes the sign of the cross—and a low murmur, but Thomasin ignores it. "The wax will never run out, nor will this flame ever burn you," she says as she slowly runs her fingers through the flame. Instead of charring her skin it licks right past, harmless. Before anyone can react Thomasin takes one of the girl's hands and pushes it into the fire. There's a shocked sound of Ruby! but Thomasin doesn't take her eyes off the girl.

"It tickles," the girl says. She giggles, nose scrunching. Like Thomasin, the little flame does nothing to her, as docile as a puff of air.

"Keep it with you always and good luck will find you anywhere, Ruby Shelby," Thomasin says. She blows out the candle and stands.

"Yes, Miss Nell," Ruby says. She somber now, holding the magicked candle in both hands to her chest.

May we never meet again, Thomasin thinks, and knows that to be the far kinder gift. She glances over and smiles at Dr Resnick, showing her teeth. "Yes, that was witchcraft. If you want to know how I brought the girl back, that too was witchcraft. If you still don't believe me, ask your god yourself when you die."

Then Thomasin's hurrying out the door before anyone can stop her. She settles the crowned nanny goat mask over her face, the woody sticks catching and tangling in her hair. She lets her feet guide her, forcing herself to breathe evenly. The grass is cold and wet on her bare feet. The air tastes cold. The curse prickles across her skin like static, curdling should be excitement and hunger into queasy unease. The mask amplifies her jackrabbiting pulse in her ears.

It's dark by the time she arrives, the moon just rising. Thomasin sees without seeing the witchlings have collected a heaping pile of wood in the centre of the clearing. They dart like shadows, yipping like foxes as they chase one another. Thomasin swallows hard. Of all the ways to die, by fire is one of the worst. She hopes it won't take too long.

"I keep forgetting how truly Old you are," Bancroft says as Thomasin nears. Her fox fur's gone, replaced by a fetching black robe. "I haven't used a mask in ages, nor do I make the girls wear them. Have you the ointment?"

Thomasin carefully removes the jar from her satchel and holds it steady as they crowd around her. They dip their hands in the jar to pull up handfuls of the bloody salve and the witchlings are soon slathering their now-naked bodies with it. Bancroft drapes her robe on a tree branch first before following her coven. She does so slowly, as if relishing the greasy slide of it. When they're done Thomasin sets it down and joins in herself, disrobing. She feels far away, looking in. Thomasin watches herself rub the rest of the ointment all over her skin, as if she were a babe covered in birth blood. The mask bites into her cheekbones but she dares not remove it.

"Light the fire!" Bancroft says. "Hurry, girls! I can feel it starting."

Whether by magic or match, the wood pile's soon a roaring bonfire. Thomasin shivers from the blasts of heat it gives off, cold sweat beading her forehead. Bancroft's leading the witchlings in a convulsing dance, twisting and gyrating, nothing but silhouettes against the fire. Thomasin can feel the power of the coven as if it were a twin fire, the five becoming a single entity as the sabbat begins in earnest. She fights the pull, pretending to chant with them as she triggers her killing curse.

Within the darkness of her mask Thomasin can see the four people Mr Shelby chose to die—two women, two men. She hovers above them in her mind's eye. One seem to be a pair, attending a dinner in a luxurious restaurant. Thomasin makes the woman die first, her limbs contorting in unnatural shapes as she collapses to the ground. The man's staring at her when he suddenly vomits a waterfall of blood. Patrons are shrieking everywhere as blood keeps pouring out of him even after he goes still. The other man and woman are kilometers apart—the man's on a steamer, crossing the Atlantic—but they die at the same time. The woman dies from the sudden and inexplicable broken neck mid-speech. As for the man, during his autopsy they'll discover his throat's stuffed with rotting apples, like beads on a string.

Thomasin breathes in their deaths and exhales the sudden rush of strength, almost drunk with it.

The dancing has increased in tempo, the coven leaping and snarling and throwing their bodies down to writhe in the dirt. Thomasin struggles to hold onto herself as the sabbat's current grows stronger, and knows it must be now. She throws up her arms and Bancroft laughs as she begins levitating. The witchlings join in the raucous laughter as they too begin to float. Thomasin's feet leave the ground as she follows, her heart knocking hard against her sternum. In mid-air she now leads the dance, cavorting and whirling, the violence of the dead sacrifices filling her head. Sweat runs down her body.

When everyone's high above the bonfire, Thomasin curls her hands into claws and howls behind her mask. Then with a violent mental shove, she pitches herself into the fire, dragging the coven in with her.

At first the coven doesn't react. Thomasin herself can't feel the pain at first, astonished. It's like hell around them, the fire filling their eyes. Then one of the witchlings' laughter turns into screams and the sabbat's trance is broken. Thomasin can feel them trying to careen away but the cursed ointment keeps them tethered to her. When she can feel Bancroft try to break free using the force of the coven, Thomasin doubles down on her own borrowed power from the sacrifices. She forces them to stay even as the agony explodes across her skin, her own screams joining theirs. Thomasin then—

—realizes they're not alone.

There, in the flames with them, dances a large black goat. It kicks its hooves and frolics, the curved horns sweeping back and forth. Thomasin tries to match its movements the best she can with her failing body, throwing her masked head back and whirling around. Her eyes have popped and melted but the image of the prancing goat's seared in her mind. Her skin blisters apart and her fat bubbles up, cooking. Still she dances with the goat, her pain turning into ecstasy.

Then the presence envelopes her. It's so cold it burns, but Thomasin's burning anyway.

Thomasin, a voice says, and she falls into it and rejoices.

.

.s.

.

Thomasin stares at the dead bonfire. The night before it'd felt as vast as hell itself, but now in the morning it seems so small. She can pick out shapes of the charred bodies and wants to imagine the crow-thing pleased with the state of affairs. She should be dead—knows it, feels it—and maybe some part of her is. Maybe when other witches find out they'll try to get revenge, but she scoffs. Let them try, she thinks, remembering how her lord spared her, even if it was for his own amusement. What mattered was Black Philip still hasn't abandoned her, that he was out there, watching. It's hard to feel alone knowing that.

Thomasin breathes in the air that still smells slightly of meat and sighs. Maybe in time when she's grieved long enough, she'll conjure a new familiar. She strokes the fabric of Bancroft's robe. It's like wearing the skin of her enemy, and she finds peace with it.

After a time Thomasin she sees movement through the trees. People are approaching. It's Mr Shelby and several other men. All are armed—Mr Shelby with his pistol, the others with rifles. The others hang back while Mr Shelby crosses the distance. He doesn't seem disturbed by the smell, nodding to the pile of ash and the bodies there.

"It's done, then," Mr Shelby says.

Thomasin nods. "No witch or curse will bother you now. Your enemies are dead. Your family's safe." She makes a show of looking around. "The business between us is truly settled, Mr Shelby."

He nods, appearing neither pleased or displeased, face a mask. "I'll arrange for one of my men to drive you back to the mountains," he says, but Thomasin shakes her head.

"No need. I'll find my own way," Thomasin says, smiling. "My lord will provide."

A small wrinkle travels over his brow but Mr Shelby doesn't respond to that. He seems reluctant to meet her eye, glancing at the ash pile again.

"My real name's Thomasin. Not that'll help you find out who I was," she says. Goodbye, Thomasin thinks, because when he'll look up again she'll be gone, as if she was never there in the first place.

.

.

.

-fin-