"For six months, the devil of disease has probed my belly and filled it with hot coals," said Constant Sterry, as he swam half in fever. "But for six years, the devil of deceit has turned public sympathy toward those witches--until even the ministers and governors, who had been the first to urge the proceedings on, have all but condemned we who they asked to sit in judgment."
As Constant Sterry slipped exhausted from his saddle, the last he saw was that same figure approaching, outstretched hands sheathed in thin black gloves with lacework as fine as any to be found.
"No," Ela said. "Wait. Stop!" She’d not been idle in deception. She fumbled in the ragged pockets of her robe. Thread. Golden thread. To sew up a shirt. The pretty one he was never around to wear. How long have I hated you? she thought as he struck her. Is it because you aren’t here or because you are?
Ela nodded mechanically. The loom clicked: a new blanket for her bed. Feride had got the wool from Kismé and it was pink: the color of a swollen lip.
Podcast: Download (Duration: 30:21 — 20.84MB)
Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Android | Google Podcasts | | More
"Then leave this place forever!" Maugreth cried. "Forget this goblin in his caves. Leave the monsters to their own."
In a narrow cave of a hot green earth that circled a red sun, I faced off against a woman who would command the world.