Page 11 of The Witch

I open my mouth in surprise. Hitty has a concoction to help with nearly every malady, but I have not dreamed she would be able to help with this. She rustles around in the cart next to her table, and presently, she comes up with a jar filled with what looks like twigs.

“This,” she says, “is a mix of sage and black cohosh.” Her eyes are pinned on my face. “Steep this with tea and drink it daily.”

“This…this will work?”

“Sage and black cohosh are how I got my son,” she says, although neither of us mentions that Hitty’s son perished many years ago, having drowned in the river. Other boys in town taunted him and pushed him in. She arrived far too late to revive him. “I wanted you to have it sooner, but the black cohosh was not growing until now.”

I bow my head, allowing myself to feel a twinge of hope. “I give you my humble thanks.”

I take it from her and retrieve a handful of shillings from within my satchel—more than the herbs are worth, but I pay no mind to that. I would give her everything I have if she could make this dream come true for me and Archie.

Hitty looks down at the coins in my hands. “That is too much, Caroline!”

But I force it upon her until she relents. After all, Archie and I have plenty—far more than our share. Hitty is painfully thin and so are the walls of her house—when I visited, I feared a strong wind could blow it right over. I worry about her making it through winter, when her garden cannot grow crops and there are rarely customers at the market. These paltry coins may be enough to help her survive. Hitty must know it, because she closes her hand around them and stuffs them into her bonnet.

“Use the herbs wisely, my dear heart,” Hitty tells me, grasping my hand in hers.

Hitty’s hand is an old lady hand. It is wrinkled, covered in strange-looking irregular spots, and thin enough that I can feel every bone. And it is cold, even though the winter chill has not yet set in. As she squeezes my hand, her face creases in a look of concern.

“Dear Caroline, I must tell you…” Hitty appears to measure her words as she speaks. “I fear,” she says, “that you may be in peril.”

My husband expressed a similar sentiment before he left our home this morning. “Fear not, dear Hitty. I am always careful.”

She is quiet for a moment, her shriveled lips working together. Hitty has lost most of her teeth, and the ones that remain are black. “The Night Reaper has claimed three lives. All maidens not far younger than yourself.”

“I will be safe. I promise. I shan’t leave my home after nightfall.”

And then she says something that I did not know, something that unsettles me even more. “All the maidens were found with… He…” She winces, as if it brings her great pain to think of the man’s handiwork. “He did dreadful deeds unto them, Caroline. You know what I speak of.”

I shiver and pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders. I did not know this, but Hitty has her ear on the town gossip, as she attends the market every morning. If she says the maidens were compromised, then it is so.

“I shall tread with care,” I promise again.

Hitty still has that strange look on her face, as if she has seen something that I cannot, but she does not utter another word.

7

My next and final stop at the market is at the table of Elias Fenn. Elias, a stout hunter of considerable girth, clad ever in sturdy leather, possesses a generous supply of game meat for trade. He is generally poor tempered—he doesn’t say much, and what he does say is usually quite unpleasant. But the meat he sells is always fresh and at a good price.

I purchase a serving of venison, which I will boil tonight for dinner. As I count out the coins for Elias, he gives me a hard look.

“You had best stay away from her,” he grunts.

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Hitty Atkins.” Unlike Hitty, he speaks loud enough that it is clear he doesn’t care who hears him. “If you spend too much time with her, folk may draw misguided conclusions.”

“Pray tell, what conclusions do you mean?”

“Hitty,” he says solemnly, “is a witch.”

That proclamation is enough to make my eyes roll heavenward. “Hitty is not a witch! There is no such thing!”

“There is such a thing.” Elias’s voice is grave. “I used to set up my table closer to hers, and all my meat would turn rotten. She laid a curse on my wares.”

“That is preposterous.”

“Pray, accept my word,” he says. “Hitty is a witch, and should you tarry too long in her company, folk will reckon you a witch too.” He arches a bushy eyebrow. “You do not wish to be hanged, do you, Mistress Eldridge?”