Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Raff smirked faintly. “I think I can manage.”
“Good, we need all the hands we can get,” Latham said, looking pleased. “We start tomorrow at first light.” He gestured toward a small cottage on the edge of the village. “That’ll be yours while you’re here. Not much, but it’s warm and dry.”
“Welcome to the village, Raff,” Ingrid said with a smile and turned and joined two women busy chattering not far from her cottage.
Raff didn’t want her to go. There was something about her that he was drawn to. He couldn’t say what it was, couldn’t even explain to himself. He just felt different being in her presence.
He walked alongside Latham as they headed toward the cottage.
Latham glanced around as if ensuring no one else could hear before lowering his voice. “You should know that there’s talk.”
Some things never changed. Gossip was the mainstay of any village, proving this one was no different. He only hoped it wasn’t about him. “Talk about what?”
He looked hesitant to speak but anxious as well. He finally managed to say, “Some believe a witch lives in the area. She may even be here among us.”
Raff arched a brow, not expecting that. “A witch?”
“Aye.” Latham glanced around before continuing. “Some believe she’s the reason our harvests are so bountiful, why our wool is so fine and soft. Laird Chafton doesn’t like things he can’t explain. It won’t be long before he goes hunting for her.”
Raff frowned. “And what proof does he have of a witch?”
Latham shook his head. “None. Not yet. But men like Chafton don’t need proof. If they can’t find a witch, they’ll accuse an innocent.”
Raff had heard of such accusations before, used as weapons against those who could not fight back. It was an easy way to control the fearful and eliminate the problem.
“And when he does?”
Latham’s expression turned grim. “She’ll burn.”
CHAPTER 3
Raff lay on the narrow bed, the ceiling of the cottage feeling as if it pressed down on him as he stared into the darkness. Latham’s parting words echoed in his mind. She’ll burn.
A witch.
There was a witch in the village.
His fingers tightened around the soft blanket, his pulse quickening. He had long suspected that a witch had granted his and his friends’ wishes, cursing them in the process. If that were true, then it stood to reason that a witch could undo it.
Could she? Could a witch banish another witch’s spell? And more importantly, what would she demand in return?
Raff shook his head at his own foolishness. Freedom had been his wish, and he had been granted exactly that, an existence unfettered by duty, by battle, by bonds of kin or love. He had reveled in it briefly, but now? Now, he saw the bars of his own cage.
His thoughts turned to Laird Chafton. If the man suspected there was a witch here, she was in danger. She’ll burn. The words slithered back again, making his stomach clench.
He had to find her first.
But if she was truly a witch, what price would she extract? Magic was never freely given. He knew that now, far too late. The thought unsettled him. He had nothing worth trading, no land, no wealth, no sword-arm for hire. Only himself. Would that be enough? And if it was, what would she take?
Raff threw off the blanket and sat up. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, the faintest trace of herbs lingering beneath it. He pressed his palms against his thighs, anxiously.
Come morning, he would start his search. Before Chafton did. Before it was too late.
Before she burned.
Morning brought a crisp breeze, the kind that hinted at the turn of the seasons. Raff stood in the field just beyond the village, hands wrapped around the handle of a wooden hoe. He worked the soil with strong, measured movements, using the task as an excuse to observe.
If a witch walked among them, how would he recognize her? Would she bear the mark of her craft upon her skin? Would her eyes flash with unnatural knowing? Or would she be just another face in the crowd, no different from the rest?
He watched as villagers went about their tasks, men working alongside him, women tending to baskets of wool and food. A few children darted about, laughing, oblivious to the weight of the world their elders carried.
His gaze went from one person to the next, searching for something—anything—that might give the witch away. But all he saw was ordinary folk, bound by toil and duty. If a witch hid among them, she concealed herself well.
The sun faded along with the morning, and the work slowed as the villagers paused for a respite. Ingrid approached with a woven basket, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, wisps of her dark hair having slipped out from the braid she wore, the autumn breeze grabbing hold of them to brush across her face.