Chapter Text
Dana wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders and looked up at the green underbelly of the canopy. The oak leaves were still, but something stirred just above her head—a fluttering movement too deliberate to be the wind.
She reminded herself that feathered things flew in daylight, that she was safe. But deep down, she knew the truth: other things, darker things, flew at night. A swallow of unease tightened in her throat, and she quickened her pace. The sunlight, after all, was dying.
There was an old crofter’s cottage near the edge of the wood, just beyond the remnants of a Roman road. If she could reach it, she could rest. The roof would surely leak, and the place would be damp as a toad’s foot, but it was better than sleeping beneath open sky. Not with that creature still following her. Not with the shouts of witch still ringing in her ears.
She glanced back. The path was empty. But she felt it—the presence in the undergrowth, biding its time. Stalking her with patience.
It had followed her for three days now, slipping through the edges of her vision. Too fast to be human. It had been with her ever since she was run out of the village—ever since Alexander had whispered conjurer to the men bundling sheaves and to the women combing wool. It followed her like a shadow. Like the rumor that had driven her away.
She spit into the duff. Alexander.
He had been her friend once. He had proposed marriage—more than once—but she’d refused him. She hadn’t explained why. That she wanted more from life than to be some villein’s broodmare, bound to a landlord’s field. But he’d figured it out quickly enough. And the affection in his eyes had soured into hate.
A branch snapped behind her.
Her hand flew to the shortsword at her belt, cursing her wandering thoughts. The blade—old as the stone walls that surrounded her village—thrummed faintly at her touch. She had named it Bite. Like a predator’s teeth, it never needed sharpening.
The creature was growing bold now. No longer satisfied with lingering in shadows. Dana stopped, spun on her heel, cloak flaring around her legs like smoke. The old game trail was quiet, but she caught a flash of amber in the dying light.
“Out, then!” she shouted. “Show yourself and let us have it out! I have a shadow already—I’ve no need for a new one!”
Only a low owl-call answered her.
She sniffed the air. Nothing. With a wary glance over her shoulder, she continued on, knowing she had little choice but to press forward.
She had no idea where she was going—only that it had to be far. Far from Westridge, the village where she’d come of age.
Left as a babe on a peasant doorstep, wrapped in high-quality wool with Bite tucked in the bottom of the creel. The basket had been woven with river grasses that didn’t grow anywhere in the whole of the country.
The name witch would cling to her now, like stink to a pig’s hide.
She had always stood out—red-haired in a village of mud-colored pelts. Maybe in one of the larger cities, she could disappear. Though how she’d feed, clothe, or shelter herself was another matter. She had only the few coins she’d sewn into the lining of her cloak last autumn.
Ahead, the trees broke. A field of barley stretched out, golden in the last rays of sunlight. Dusk was coming on fast, the sky streaked with grey and rose.
If she could reach the crofter’s cottage unseen, she might sleep—rest her aching feet, leave behind the feeling of being shunned. Of being hunted.
She crossed into the barley. A low stone wall marked the property line between one landowner and the next. The stalks were still green, their plaited bead-heads brushing against her arms with long whiskers—like a lover’s caress.
Or what she imagined a lover’s caress might feel like, if she had ever let one touch her.
Alexander hadn’t been the only man in the village to stare too long. Her adopted mother had warned her early: men’s eyes meant danger. Especially when the milites came through, collecting taxes in coin or wool. Those were the ones to avoid.
“Any man touches you without invitation,” Old Mildred would bellow, “you wait until he sleeps and slice off his cock!”
Dana almost smiled at the memory. Mildred had found her as a babe and raised her without help—no husband, just goats and chickens and a wicked aim with a ladle. She had died not five months ago, and since then, Dana’s world had unraveled.
Over a hill and through a rye field she walked, ducking under a stile. The sky pinked. The first stars blinked into being.
There—at the bottom of the dale—stood the cottage, framed on two sides by thick old elms.
She picked up her pace, letting the slope carry her downward. The feeling of being watched pressed in. The urge to draw Bite was nearly overpowering.
Almost there.
She was only feet from the door when she stumbled over a root hidden beneath the tall grass. She landed hard, jarring her shoulder and bruising her hip.
Padded footsteps. A branch cracked.
Dana’s breath caught as she raised her eyes.
A large fox—with a pelt the same red as her own hair—darted behind one of the elms just as the sun dropped below the horizon, blinding her.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
When her vision cleared, the fox was gone—and a man stood in its place.
Scrambling upright, she drew Bite in one smooth motion, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. The blade gleamed, deadly and steady.
The man didn’t move. He was young—the same age as her, or perhaps a year or two older. With the sunset still glowing behind him, his hair looked golden, like the fox’s. But as the light faded, she saw it was brown. His chin was strong, his nose long and slightly crooked—enough to lend his face character. He was tall. Nearly as tall as the sheriff’s gelding back home.
“Hullo,” he said. His voice was light.
Dana said nothing. She flicked her wrist, making the blade glint. Let him see she knew how to use it.
“You’re the one the villagers call Dana,” he said, his tone low and pleasant.
But Dana knew pleasant tongues could hide sharp teeth.
“I’m the one they call witch,” she hissed, hoping to scare him off.
He didn’t retreat. He grinned.
She waited for him to step forward, to strike. Instead, he leaned against the elm with the air of someone who had all the time in the world.
“You’ve been following me,” she said at last. She kept Bite raised.
He shrugged. She bristled.
“You don’t deny it?”
Another shrug. “Following you is more an act of self-preservation than pursuit.”
Her fear was starting to turn. Curdling from fright to suspicious irritation.
The fox she had feared was a man. Or perhaps something in between. She had been confused, and confusion made her angry.
You are too intelligent, Mildred used to laugh. Stupid people are happier. Smart people are always vexed.
“You are Dana, then?” he asked.
“Do you plan to turn me in to the witch-slayers?”
His expression darkened. “I plan nothing of the kind.”
She studied him. His easy posture. The long fingers. The dark hair on his forearms. She didn’t lower her blade yet, but the edge of her panic dulled.
“Then I am Dana,” she said. A beat passed. She sheathed Bite.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he replied, clearly relieved.
“You now know my name,” she said. “Tell me yours.”
Now that the light had faded, she could see him more clearly. His eyes were kind. His clothing—a flaxen tunic dyed the color of winter leaves—was simple, well-made.
“I only know what they called me in the village,” he said, voice laced with something like longing.
“And what’s that?”
“Fox,” he said, sheepishly.
Gooseflesh bloomed along her arms.
“You have no memory?” she asked.
“I have knowledge,” he said carefully. “But no past that I can name.”
“You sound like me,” she murmured.
His gaze sharpened. “You have no past?”
“I have a story with no beginning,” she said. “And lately, I’m called only witch.”
“The villagers don’t know what a witch is,” he said. “You’re not what they think.”
“I’m not,” she agreed, lifting her chin.
“But a witch you are,” he said, stepping closer. “And I? I am your familiar.”