I’ve been subtle, figuring out the ebb and flow of my Gift’s demands. Magic is like breathing, and no one can hold their breath forever. Or so my uncle says, which is nearly the same as official church doctrine. Without fire, witchery sweeps from one feeble female to another, like a plague. Not for a trial of the most grievous offense.įire stops a witch’s magic from spreading. Today’s trial won’t end in a pelting of rotten vegetables. A pair of stocks usually flank it, but they’ve been removed.
The stone pillory stands stark in the center. Bundles of kindling lean against firewood lining one whole side of the knee-high stonework. We file past the raised stone platform in the middle of the square. Some voyants aren’t as skilled as others, but I’ll not stake my life on such a chance. One glance, and they’ll notice the resulting Otherlight glow. I must hold it tight, else the magic will dribble into my embroidery, my clothing, or any other cloth I brush against.
Sometimes the magic swells like this, filling me like heavy thunderclouds fast approaching the Valon Mountains. That cannot happen.Ĭlutching my embroidery hoop with sweaty, twisted fingers, I follow Isabeau and the others in our orderly procession. My thumbs prick with temptation, the yearning to thread my magic into the muslin cloth almost irresistible.
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