The bundles of cloth covering the woman were not large or thick enough to protect her from the chill. Carrying the orange-blaze in her wax-like hands, she trod on. If only the girl had not be tipped off by the mayor’s son, then they would have caught her.
The woman remembered the first time she saw the girl. Her bloodshot hair covering her snowflake face. Her eyes screeched with the murkiness of the night.
Her husband was in front of her. Instead of a flame, his hand bore a hunting axe, ready to do the unnecessary at any order. She shook her head.
It will all be over soon.
Once they find the girl.
A flashback brought the woman to the last day she saw the girl.
She was caught muttering strange curses in a foreign tongue. The dark-haired boy, Clein? Clef? had tear-pricks running down his cheeks as the girl was sentenced to sway at the end of some twisted rope. He tried to run to her, she to him, but his father kept holding him back, making him fail every time
No verdicts rocked in the woman’s mind, but one.
Where did she learn this mystical art?
The woman was intrigued.
Rambling through the brittle grass, the crisp air nearly choking her, the woman wondered how long that had been. Two, maybe three moons ago? The woman wasn’t sure.
The enflamed hair of the girl never left the woman’s visions. It jaded into her brain, and entered her blackness. Never had she seen such colour, such crimson.
Never had she seen such beauty.
The mother was the same, wearing a mane of cerise. The first tell-tale sign.
The woman knew back then what she knew when she first saw the girl
Yes, the woman thought, this girl was a sorcerer’s child, the work of the devil.
This girl was an enchantress.
This girl was a witch