𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝟏𝟏. 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐢𝐧

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟔𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟔𝟔𝟔

You slipped easily through the tiny door and lowered yourself down the ladder with equal ease, using the candlestick to illuminate the room carved out of the soil that surrounded you. When you reached the very bottom, a sudden breeze tickled the back of your neck and the fragile flame was extinguished in your hand.

Just as well, because enough light filtered through from between the cracks in the floorboards that ran along your head. You made careful steps into the room, looking up and watching the footsteps trace shadows across your face.

"You are the fool, Thomas, not I," Solomon pronounced. "You are the one who walks the streets, conjuring images of demons in these people's minds. They have found their witch, and they have found it in (Y/N) O'Connor. There's nothing you can do about it now."

A discontent huff fell from Thomas's lips and you put a hand over your chest to feel your heartbeat.

"I...I promised," the boy choked, so faintly that you could have sworn you'd just imagined it if he hadn't said it again, louder this time. "I promised him. I promised William."

William O'Connor? Your uncle? What in the Lord's good name did Thomas have to promise your uncle?

Unless, of course—

No, that was absurd. You refused to imagine it. Especially now.

"I know you did, son," Solomon said. You could picture him with his arms outstretched in an attempt to reconcile. "But times have changed. She cares for you deeply, I have no doubt. But you cannot help her anymore."

A beat of silence passed in which you struggled to breathe without gasping for air. The space you were in smelt of dirt and something else. Something dead.

"She's here, isn't she?" Thomas croaked.

Solomon remained silent, not denying this accusation. Say something, you wanted to hiss. Don't give me away so easily, I beg of thee!

A heavy sigh filled the air, muffled through the floor. It took you a moment to realize who it belonged to. Thomas walked the length of the house and back toward the door, picking up his discarded lantern. If he had just looked down at his shoes, he would have seen you blinking right back up at him through the knot in the wood.

"I searched your homestead top to bottom," he said. "There was no sign of the witch. I will lead the others due east until sunrise. Whatever you intend on doing, do it quickly."

"Godspeed, Thomas."

Once he left the cottage, the shadows filtered out from the cracks and you were finally able to see a few inches in front of your face.

You found yourself in a small, earthy room. Shelves lined the walls and dark objects swayed back and forth from the beams nailed above your head. You nearly elbowed something in the dark and turned to catch it before realizing that it was a severed pig's head, spilling cold blood over the dirt floor. Sucking in a breath, you backed up without taking your eyes off of the wretched thing.

Why on God's green earth does Solomon Goode have a bleeding pig in his cellar?

The roar of the townspeople outside was loud enough that you heard it from your hiding place. You hoped Thomas's power over their opinion still rang true and that he would lead them away far enough to allow you to reunite with Sarah. And Hannah if she too wished to join you in exile.

A golden light flickered in the corner of your eye. You squinted and shook your head, trying to catch it again. Avoiding the pool of blood collecting underneath the pig, you approached what you previously thought was just a dark portion of the wall, but was now a thick cotton curtain. With steady hands, you pried the fabric apart to reveal a winding tunnel of earth and stone, leading deeper and deeper into the ground.