I hugged my knees to my chest, listening to the relentless drip-drip-drip of water against the cave’s stone floor. As the searing wind tore through me, rattling my bones, I once again wished that I had made a fire. Then again, I wasn’t sure if I could bear to see flames ever again. Each time I closed my eyes I saw flashes of orange, illuminating toothy sneers and the gleam of pitchforks. Not even the storm raging outside was enough to drown out the shouts and jeers from the crowd that played over and over in my head like a curse. Ironic. 

My eyes settled on the horizon and I  wondered bleakly how bodies burned. By the time the fire had stopped, would they still be able to make out my mother’s face? Or would she be nothing more than a pile of ashes? The thought made my eyes sting. My mother, my poor, poor mother… Could she ever forgive me? I was the one who deserved to be trussed up and burned alive, yet I was running free, and she was likely already dead. A sob bubbled up in my throat. 

Just last week, we were safe. Blissfully unaware of the black tar leaking into the heart of our village. People we talked to every day had eagerly joined in once the accusations started flowing: the butcher, the blacksmith, the weavers. Last week Janet Horne had been a sweet old lady, now she was a nothing more than a hushed whisper, a fable to scare children into going home before nightfall. If all it took was a few rumours to make them turn, then they all deserved to be thrown on the blaze. 

Just you wait, Mum, I thought. I’ll show them just how wicked the Hornes can be.