One thing is clear: I would sooner die, than live in disgrace.

  It was early morning when Josephine arrived back at Carcassonne. She returned to her human form in an alley beside the cabaret, and promptly collapsed to her knees on the cold gravel. Her stomach rolled and she resisted the urge to vomit. The effect was as if she had spun around a hundred times. A dozen or so white feathers still protruded along her arm, so she plucked them out one by one, gritting her teeth from the sharp stings.

  The city was eerie at this hour, and a thin fog hung in the air. Once she was able to walk again, Josephine slowly entered the cabaret via a side entrance and encountered Bella, who was sitting down at one of the tables with a smoke and a drink.

  Bella looked up when Josephine arrived, and immediately stood. “Oh, you poor thing, let me get you something.” She removed her amber shawl, which glittered with small crystals, and wrapped it around Josephine. Bella made Josephine tea while she sat, covered in the shimmering fabrics. Then, while Josephine drank by herself, Bella went backstage to find some clothes for her to change into.

  Josephine noticed how she held the teacup in a vice-like grip, and how the discomfort in her stomach remained even as the nausea faded. By the time Bella returned with a new change of clothes, Josephine admitted to herself that she was feeling rather anxious.

  “Thank you, Bella,” she said.

  Bella waved this away, sitting back down where she had been, picking up her cigarette and taking a healthy drag. Josephine could not help but notice how her beautiful ginger hair fell in extraordinary waterfalls over her shoulders and down her back, even as the older witch did not seem to acknowledge Josephine’s presence at the table.

  It was not until Josephine had finished drinking her tea that Bella did make conversation. “I take it you have not been in Carcassonne for a few days. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yeah,” Josephine said in a hushed tone.

  “You probably don’t know what has happened since your departure, then.”

  Josephine shook her head.

  “There was a shooting the other day. Two witches were killed in broad daylight by the Baron’s men. Yet they’re making more arrests. I’m afraid, if somebody knows that you’ve been here, you might be arrested too. Just a friendly warning.”

  Josephine frowned. “What? What happened?” She could not believe that Alfred would do something so reckless. “It’s not related to...Selika and the others, is it?”

  “I don’t know about Selika, but I’m afraid you’d be correct. They came here first. Emptied out the place.” She raised her arms to enforce the sight of the empty, silent cabaret. “Not that I blame the Baron, really, if the rumours of what they found are true.”

  “What did they find?” Josephine asked.

  “They were trying to leave the city with...” She cleared her throat. “A homunculus.”

  “Not...Edgar?”

  Bella leaned back, holding her cigarette aloft. “Only rumours, though.”

  “Damn it,” Josephine cursed. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  “Those women have dug their own grave, Josephine. They are criminals now. Being a witch does not exempt you from that.” She smoked, sending trails of silver mist into the air between them. Josephine thought for a moment.

  “Is Maria telling the truth?” Josephine asked. “Do they really hate witches so much here?”

  “There’s usually a reason when witches are hated like so,” Bella said. “To be honest, I cannot be sympathetic towards those who commit crimes.”

  “I’ll...try to be careful, then,” Josephine said.

  “Feel free to keep the clothes. They belonged to me many years ago but I’m afraid I’ve outgrown them. And, plus, they suit you.” She did not smile nor display any inflection in her voice. Rather, she seemed colder and more stone-like than last time.

  On her way back to the inn where they were staying, Josephine passed a street sign signalling Rue Dénesse, and she stopped. She recalled that this was the street Alfred had mentioned to her in regards to Doctor Georges de La Quin, who might be able to help her regarding her unique situation. She looked around. The traffic was minimal, and nobody seemed to pay any attention to what she was doing. Despite this, as she decided to venture down Rue Dénesse, she did so with a sense of urgency and fear of getting spotted.

  Illuminated by a gas lamp, she saw a sign reading PRACTICE OF DOCTOR DE LA QUIN next to the doorway of a small brick building. There were a few trash bins outside; and on the other walls, posters advertising upcoming shows at the cabaret. She remained a distance from the door, for she was afraid that somebody might recognise that she was a witch, or spot her at such a place.

  It was Maria who took the fore of her mind in this moment. Did Maria already know of Josephine’s condition? Would she take kindly to it?

  Why is this so difficult? she thought.

  And what did she—Josephine—want? She had always known that witches in the Black Dime Cabaret were not allowed to have children. This was no secret. And, truthfully, Josephine had not thought about it. So what was it that made it so hard? If she didn’t want to keep the child, she would be able to walk into that building and make it happen.

  But she could not do it. Drawing in a deep breath, she took a step backwards and turned away from it. Bella was right that first time they had met over a game of cards, that if Maria had chosen Josephine to accompany her here, that meant something. Certainly, a lot of people had a lot of things to say about Maria. However, Josephine was not sure if it was the delirium from her long flight talking, or if she really felt, right then, that she could talk to Maria about this, and that Maria would understand.

  There was just something inside her that suggested there was something different between them now, an understanding, a camaraderie from their long journey.

  She propped up the fabrics of her shawl, lowered her head, and ventured back through the streets of Carcassonne without anybody noticing.

  #

  Maria delayed her return to Carcassonne, opting to ride the carriage with Marco. The journey back, though wet and miserable, at least featured a distinct lack of noise from the Italian, which Maria appreciated. It allowed her to sit and be quiet.

  She did not think much about what occurred in Bonpoi. She thought of not much at all, either watching the passing mudbanks and damp trees, or resting with her eyes closed. The rains had reduced to a light drizzle; travel was permitted. In her lap, she carried her brother’s ledger, and occasionally she flipped through its pages.

  It was a distinctly hollow feeling which burdened Maria. A dizzying sensation, accentuated by deep lethargy and bodily pains. She had not felt such physical languor before. The very thought of having to stand up and walk again was dreadful.

  Perhaps Alfred was right, Maria thought. Maybe some time away is what I need.

  Upon returning to Carcassonne, Maria made the final payment to Marco and departed the stables where he was tying off the horses. He seemed afraid to say anything around her, in the little French that he knew, and certainly wouldn’t test his Italian against her. Maria had only just registered to re-enter the city when she was handed a letter from one by the name of Gertrude. Maria took it cautiously. She read the letter on a bench within the city’s walls.

  Clearly, Gertrude was just her brother. He had not been subtle with the hints. She read it inconspicuously, and when she was finished, she gave a loud sigh and threw it out.

  Maria did not immediately go to her brother. She started off her day by sitting down at a small bread shop and ordering a strawberry-iced cake. She ate this by herself, while watching people wander past. The dinging of bicycle bells and scratching of feet on cobblestones was a welcome difference to the sounds she had grown accustomed to over the past few days.

  After she had been here for a while, a young woman joined her with a large illustration journal clutched against her chest. Her rosy cheeks curved into a smile as she neared Maria.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” said the woman in a kind voice. Maria raised an eyebrow as she stuffed the last spoonful of cake in her mouth, and set aside the crumby plate. “You struck me so intensely as you sat down here. I could not stop myself from illustrating you.” The woman tore from her drawing journal a piece of paper and offered it to Maria.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Maria took this, and frowned at the miserly old woman reflected back at her. She looked from the drawing to the woman, and said, “A mirror for a hag. That will do it.”

  “Hm?”

  “Leave me be,” Maria said.

  “I mean no offense. You are most certainly not a— Not that horrible word you used to refer yourself. Rather, I would say majestic! Even beautiful,” the woman said. She propped up the glasses which had fallen to the tip of her nose. “Anyway. Good day to you.”

  Maria blinked, feeling her cheeks burn. Before she could say anything, the woman had turned around with her red skirts dancing behind her. Maria forced her eyes to the illustration. She would never have thought it was her. The subject was, in a way, beautiful, but Maria had never thought of herself as being this. Not in many decades, and even then, hardly. She didn’t have to be beautiful, was what she had always thought.

  All it made her do was laugh.

  #

  There was more work happening at the town hall, Maria being forced to tap dance around it as she ventured to Alfred’s office. Workers with large measuring tools went about the halls, taking notes and marking on the concrete. Occasionally, she was required to dodge a large furniture item or building crate, sometimes earning a nudge or two on the way.

  “Not another project of yours?” Maria said to her brother when she arrived. Alfred did not return her jibe. She had hardly stepped two feet into his office when he got up from his chair, crossed the room and closed the door behind her, before shutting the curtains.

  Maria stood in the middle of the room as it went dark.

  “Alfred, you could only make it more suspicious by placing a sign out the front reading ‘no crimes to see here.’ Or should I say Gertrude? Surely you can come up with better names than that.”

  “Just keep your voice down!” Alfred said, peering through a crack in the curtain and then letting it fall shut again. He quickly crossed to his desk and did not sit.

  “What is it?” His paranoia was beginning to stress her out.

  “Does something supernatural haunt this family?” Alfred said.

  Maria pursed her lips. The silence was heavy. In a way, she knew exactly what Alfred meant when he said this. Every day since Edgar had died, she had felt it. It was almost as if the universe were correcting itself—or trying to. Maybe it was more than just Edgar. Had it started before that, with their father? All those terrible years in the farmhouse. Was it the universe correcting itself for the terrible deeds that had occurred there?

  And now the leaks, the finishing blow. She did not even have to respond to Alfred because they were blood, they were both Lucien, they both knew what haunted this family.

  Alfred grabbed his large jaw and said, “How could I be walking on the streets of Carcassonne and have a wagon crash in front of me—me, of all people, and of all the places in this city? That it should present before me? And within it, Edgar himself!”

  Chills ripped through Maria.

  Alfred walked forward and, from his coat, pulled out a small leatherbound book, proffering it to Maria. She took it and flipped through quickly, shutting it tightly once she reached the end. Her hands were immediately sweaty against the covers.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “It was with him.”

  Maria nodded. “There are other journals, Alfred. All of them.”

  There was something suddenly about her older brother’s eyes that caught Maria off-guard, drunken-almost. He looked very nearly as if he were a child again. That look of something very serious, so serious the consequences were beyond comprehension. For a man like Alfred now to wear that look caused Maria to lose her breath.

  “I told Clara who I am,” he said. “About our family.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Alfred scoffed. “I don’t know! I just—” He lifted his arms like a man who was suffering from immense agony, the veins in his forehead bursting from his skin. He faced his desk and slammed his fist into it so hard the wood cracked.

  “Do you think she would tell?” Maria asked.

  “I don’t know,” he sighed, as blood trickled from his hand. “I hate that I have worked so hard to distance myself from this, and yet it finds me still. I don’t want to hurt her, Maria. She is so kind. She doesn’t deserve it. But if she is able to connect me to what is in the journals, my career will be ruined!” He shut his mouth with his hand, as the shout echoed through the room. “It was like when we were children. The way he was in that wagon...”

  “Shut up, Alfred,” she croaked, squeezing the words out through her constricting throat.

  “The police are serious about this now,” Alfred said. “They want all the evidence. They’re already collecting it. They shot—shot—two witches right before me. That’s how serious they are. I’m just warning you, they are going to find the things you have done. We are all Lucien. Nothing else matters. Cursed by association!”

  “No, we can contain this,” Maria mumbled.

  “You can’t!” Alfred shouted.

  Maria turned to him, and saw him like a madman, his arm outstretched and the fingers on the end contorted into a wicked pointed finger, curved at the end like a scythe. Maria choked, a tear coming down the left side of her face. She immediately wiped it away.

  “I fear that whatever haunts this family, it has come at last.”

  Suddenly something flipped inside Maria. Some animal urge that turned her blood cold, and tightened every fibre of matter inside her. Her vision reoriented itself. She could breathe again. She strode up to Alfred and pointed back at him.

  “You listen to me very carefully, Alfred,” Maria said. “The first thing is, we must prevent a hearing from going forth. Prevent this from becoming some witch hunt. You must deal with your assistant. She cannot be allowed near this. Furthermore, convince them it is fruitless. Have them believe that we have it all under control. That will buy us time in Carcassonne.”

  “No, no, no, I don’t like that at all,” Alfred said. “It will be perceived as a clear cover-up. No, when I say that this is now out of our hands, you cannot make it otherwise. If they’re already shooting witches and making arrests on anybody remotely connected...” He shook his head, raising his hands in plain surrender. “This is not my problem anymore.”

  “Oh, you have no guts, Alfred!” Maria snapped.

  “And you know what? You’re as crazy as our brother!”

  Before she could control herself, Maria had lashed out with her arm, slapping him across the face. Alfred staggered away from her, clutching at his bruised cheek. He shouted and threw himself at her, shoving her into his desk. Maria grabbed him by the arms and they wrestled in the middle of the room. Alfred overpowered her easily, taking her in a headlock. “Stop! It is done, Maria!” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Why have you been sending payments to Vincenzo Molteni!”

  Alfred twitched, continuing to grapple her. “How do you know that?”

  “I have the ledgers.” She was fighting against his grapple.

  “Edgar ran his mouth to them!”

  “Are you serious? They don’t even have any of the journals? He just told them?”

  “Hell, I don’t know! Maybe they have journals too. They know what we did as kids!”

  Maria shrugged at him, but Alfred was impossible to move, like the very statue he had in the gardens outside. “Oh, get off me, you mongrel!” Maria gasped. She shoved him off, slipping out of his headlock. She smoothed out her hair, which was now going off in every direction. Breathing heavily, she asked, “What are you talking about, what we did as kids?”

  “You know,” Alfred said, catching his breath. He removed his hand from his face and checked it for signs of blood. “The bodies. What we did in the basement.”

  Maria squeezed shut her eyes, pinching her forehead.

  “Just let it be,” Alfred said. “Perhaps it is for the better, you know, that things come back around? Maybe it’s what we deserve after everything we did.”

  “Don’t you forget, I can bring you down,” Maria cursed.

  “I’ll say it’s just the ramblings of a madwoman,” Alfred slurred.

  He was right. Alfred had supreme power in Carcassonne; he could do anything. And anyway, nobody but his assistant knew of Alfred’s connection to Count Lucien, nor of their witchcraft. She alone could not drag him down with her. Yet, Alfred could stop this. He could prevent a hearing from going ahead. He could stop them collecting evidence.

  Why wouldn’t he?

  Maria opened her mouth to speak but Alfred spoke over her: “I always knew this day would come, when it all comes out. That’s why I told you to leave those witches behind. Maria, I’ve tried so hard to help you. All my life, I’ve warned you that there will be consequences, and one day you would face them. But you would never listen.”

  “It’s not that easy for me!” Maria said.

  “Oh yeah? You claim to love those witches so much, but all I’m hearing is how you can come out of this unscathed. You know what, I’m done. I’m not protecting you anymore.”

  “I hate you, you conniving rat!”

  Alfred smiled. “Great.”

  Maria stormed out of the office, shaking. The door slammed behind her. She wanted to throw up. To storm. Blood pumped in her ears. Rage burned.

  Her mind turned to the cabaret. She thought about Josephine, and all things that would collapse without her being there. And the if...

  If given the chance, how many of them would gladly take advantage of such an opportunity to expose Maria, how many would betray her without a second thought?

  This is all because of that idiot Ardouin. Maria desired to close her hands around the scribe’s throat and curse him for all eternity for what he had done, spreading her brother’s work. Could he have not just let it all burn in the fire, along with everything else? How dare Alfred insinuate that this was her crime. It was not a crime for Principles of Witchcraft to exist, nor that there were ever witches at all. It was Ardouin who caused this, not her.

  Maria returned to the inn and checked to see if Otto had sent anything her way. She was surprised to find that nothing was there. No correspondence at all.

  She closed the bedroom door, locked it, and slumped against a chair inside, feeling the weight of the silence buckle her knees.

  #

  Alfred arrived at the news station right before it closed. Entering through its small doors, and then ascending the tight staircase, he went straight through the bustling halls and renovated news rooms, to the offices of Barnabé Brocot.

  “Alfred!” Mr Brocot greeted him.

  Alfred gently closed the door and met Mr Brocot, who was sitting behind his desk with a pile of papers. Barnabé Brocot was a lanky man with neatly-combed hair and a brown moustache that looked like you could hang things from it. His neck appeared out of his frazzled shirt like a turtle from its shell. And his face did rather resemble one.

  “Evening, Mr Brocot,” Alfred said. “There is something I would like you to print in tomorrow’s paper.” He crossed the room, revealing a note, which he handed to Mr Brocot. The man took it with interest, putting on his reading glasses and proceeding to scan it. Alfred watched his expression twist and turn with the rhythm of his words.

  Intrigue, followed by anticipation, then shock, and engrossment. “Where did you hear of such things? I mean, these are quite the allegations, Alfred. It would no doubt ruin her political career”—he put down the note and met Alfred’s eyes—“even if she is just your assistant.”

  Alfred remained stoic. “Yes. Well, I had always thought there was something about her. There is always something about those who aspire towards high places but fall short.”

  Mr Brocot raised a brow. “A witch, though?”

  “Can’t trust anybody these days.”

  For some reason, Mr Brocot continued to stare at Alfred. It came to the point that Alfred no longer could keep a steady eye on him, feeling as if he were being judged. Mr Brocot was a cunning man. You could not help but become one when you were head of the news.

  “Can you print it tomorrow?” Alfred asked.

  “If the Baron desires.”

  Alfred nodded, pleased. His assistant would be gone long before any hearing began, or any rumours from the leaked journals became public information. Stripped of power. Reduced to drivel, with the other witches of the cabaret. But she was not even a witch, so she would not even be welcomed there.

  No doubt, Clara would be gone from Carcassonne by the following Monday. And although this was all his doing, Alfred felt sick through every second of it.

  “Thank you,” said Alfred with finality.

  “Before you go, let me offer you some advice,” said Mr Brocot, as he picked a peanut from the bowl on his desk, crunching it between his teeth. “Be mindful of who you speak around. When there is a lack of things to do, people enjoy to gossip.”

  Alfred felt a pang of panic, but he did not wait to ask what Mr Brocot meant by this; the insinuation was enough. “Good evening,” he said, and quickly left the office.