AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You’re lying,” another woman says, pointing her swollen finger and wagging it under my nose. “Liar.”
Shock is like cold water in the face. The vehemence of the woman is surprising. They’ve never been so hateful, not directly.
“I’m not—”
“Ya are,” Agnes agrees. “Ya may or may nae be a witch. I do nae know, but I do think you’re a spy for the Colquhouns.”
“What? No! They tried to rape me. I’d never help them. Why are you all being like this? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“If’n you’re nae a spy, then you’re a witch. Fae touched, or I’m nae a follower of the Christ,” a different woman says.
Agnes' eyes narrow with suspicion. She purses her mouth. She’s thinking hard. Too hard. If she would only intervene on my behalf, they’d all stop. She’s the one they all follow.
“I’m not a witch or a spy,” I say.
“Aye, well then what do ya think a spy would say? They tried to rape you? Right, it was probably all arranged to capture the attention of our men folk.”
“Right enough it was a setup. Look at the way she’s captured Duncan’s attention,” another woman says.
“Agnes, please,” I beg her to make this stop.
Agnes shakes her head.
“I don’t know if you’re a spy,” Agnes says and the crowd falls silent, “but I do nae trust ya. If’n you saw what you say you did…”
She trails off, shaking her head.
“I don’t even know what it was or what it’s supposed to mean.”
“It’s a Bean Nighe. And if’n you’re nae lying,” Agnes says, “it means death is coming to the clan.”
“Death is coming?” I shake my head as the pressure inside my chest turns to a cold front that makes me shiver.
Numbness fills my head and spreads across my limbs. It reaches my tongue, and I lose the power of speech.
“Aye,” Agnes says. “So you’re a liar or a witch. Either way, blood is going to be spilled. Only question is whose.”
The way she looks at me, I’m not sure she’s not considering sacrificing mine, right here and right now.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alesoun and I break our fast in uncomfortable silence. She has barely spoken to me since Agnes accused me, again, of being a witch. Or a spy, because that’s oh-so-much better. I barely touch my gruel. My stomach is a tight knot that refuses even the idea of food. Instead of eating, I push the white mush around with my wooden spoon.
Alesoun eats, smacking her lips with each mouthful. The scraping of her spoon on the bottom of the bowl grates on my nerves. The muscles of my shoulders tighten until I’m hunched over the table and glaring at the taunting food.
“You’re nae eating,” Alesoun says, rising from the table.
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
She grabs my bowl without a word and returns my portion to the pot by the fire. My back and shoulders are locked so I sit, staring at the empty table. The wood is stained dark and smooth from use. The swirls of the grain almost make pictures. Like staring into the flames of a campfire. I can almost see designs and shapes that feel like they have some meaning if only I can somehow open my mind enough to understand.
Alesoun busies herself around the house in relative silence. She gets pottery jars out and places them and other items on the table until at last she sets the partial basket of berries I gathered yesterday down in front of me.
“Enough your moping,” Alesoun says. “We’ve work to do.”
“Right.” I force myself onto my feet with what feels like the most extreme effort of will I’ve ever had to put out.
What choice do I have? I’m here. Lost. Alone. This icy cold blackness that lies over my thoughts and spirit? It’s fear. Pure, unadulterated, cold fear that pushes me towards inactivity. As if, maybe, I don’t move, don’t act, if I lie absolutely still, all this will go away. Like I might wake up back in my own time, at home, and all of this was some drug induced dream. Or maybe something happened and I’m in a coma and this has all been some weird product of my unconsciousness.
