Page 65 of Night of the Witch
“It’s not morning yet,” I insist.
She lifts her hand, a stray sunbeam cutting across her wrist.
“It is,” she says. And then she slips from the bed, leaving nothing but cold empty space behind her.
I sit up and stretch, hiding the smirk that wants to erupt from my lips when I see her eyes dart down to the place where the hem of my tunic lifts as I raise my arms over my head. It’s nice to know she looks at me the same way I look at her. I catch her eyes, and furious crimson stains her cheeks. I can tell the exact moment she remembers last night, how close we were. I feel an echoing flush; how does it feel so awkward? We didn’tdoanything.
But we wanted…
But then she says, “I suppose today’s as good as any to be arrested and thrown in prison, no?”
No.The word boils like acid inside me, but I swallow it down.
Automatically, she starts rattling off the paths she’s memorized, the ones she’ll be informing the prisoners of. “From the hypocaust, there are two directions. Half go left, half go right. The left split up at the second fork—one group left again, the other takes the middle path…” She continues on, rehashing the routes perfectly as she pulls out a heel of bread and a jar of preserves from the cabinet, dividing the food for the two of us to break fast together.
I chew as slowly as possible, but soon enough, it’s time. I stand and drape the black cloak over my shoulders. The enameled badge glints in the early morning light as I open the shutters. I hear her stand up, adjust her clothing, gather her clinking glass vials.
When I turn around, we are no longer Fritzi and Otto.
We are witch and hunter.
And it is time.
“I’ll go first,” I tell her, one foot already past the frame, touching the crate that works as a ladder to the second floor. “Make sure no one can see you.” She nods. We cannot give away the ruse so soon. It would be simpler, of course, to use the aqueducts. But I also don’t want to draw too much attention to them, not now, not when we’re so close to needing them.
It’s early yet, and the streets are empty. Fritzi descends the crates with ease, hopping down lightly beside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her as I pull the iron manacles out. Her skin isn’t yet fully healed from the first time I shackled her, pink and raw from where the bandages I’d made had protected the new skin. She must have taken them off before descending. Silently, she holds her hands out to me, and I clamp the iron over her slender wrists.
The house fort is about half a kilometer to the basilica where the prisoners are held. I don’t have to cut through the Hauptmarkt, but I do. I twitch my black hood over my face and walk a pace ahead of Fritzi, careful not to tug too hard against the chains holding her. Iron clinks behind me, drowning out her soft footsteps.
The market in the morning is far less cheerful. The Christkindlmarkt stalls are shuttered; the morning is for necessities. Cloth merchants dominate the area closest to me, the sellers using measuring sticks to cut out equal portions of wool. On the other side, the area where farmers sell produce after harvest, there are meager offerings—bundles of wood for home hearths; a few late vegetables like onions, cabbages, and parsnips; and a salt merchant hawking his wares. There are no cheerful songs, bright beers, merry dancing. Not in the morning. The morning is for work, even during advent.
Even for a hexenjäger.
Everyone who sees us averts their eyes, crossing themselves as we march resolutely past the ancient Roman cross in the center of the market square, then veer to the basilica-turned-prison. My black cloak makes me a shadow of death that all who see try to avoid.
Rebel,I think to myself.See me, and rebel. Seeher, see what I’m doing, and for God’s sake, rebel.
No one does.
Not yet.
I walk quicker, careful to make sure Fritzi can match my pace as we make our way down the street. The buildings here are richer, with none but servants to witness us. As we approach the basilica, the street opens up to a courtyard paved with stones, filled with the sounds of the heavy boots of hexenjägers reporting for duty.
I take a deep breath. “Make way!” I bellow.
Black cloaks part before me. The hexenjägers peer curiously, snapping to attention when they see my resolute face.
I march up to the door near the curving asp of the basilica. A hexenjäger guard on duty salutes me, then moves to take Fritzi’s manacles from me.
“I have the prisoner,” I say, unwilling to relinquish her just yet. Then I cut the guard a second glance. “Bertram?”
It’s not been long since I last saw Bertram, trapped in the tiny cell in Kommandant Kirch’s office, but already the man has a haggard look about his face. He nods at me. “The kommandant shortened my punishment,” he says. “Thank God. All are needed to help with the solstice burning.”
“You had a spot of good luck, then,” I say, but from the haunted look in Bertram’s eyes, I’m not so sure of that.
“Unlike this witch, caught the day before the fires are to be lit.” Bertram tries to peer past Fritzi’s hood. His eyes widen. “It’sthewitch!”
