"Burn her!" cried the crowd as the black carriage pulled up into the square. "Burn the witch!"
There was an eerie loom over the small New England village. They had just found that one of the most mysterious citizens was really a witch. She only arrived in the village, from England, eight years earlier. Since then, she had been quiet and to herself. The townspeople had always been suspicious of her. And their worst fears were confirmed when two girls, Rita Smith and Alice Prescott, caught Lela Hastings making witches brew. They were searching for their friend, Rachel Westford when they observed the heathenism. Shortly, thereafter, Lela was convicted of stealing the souls of the innocent and corruption of the devout.
By the light of the flickering torches, the butcher, masked as an executioner pulled Lela out by a long thick rope. The rope bound her wrists tying around her neck and waist, leaving tiny red scratches. She was dressed in only a white beggar's dress. It was so old the patches used for mending, covered almost all of the original cloth. Her face was calm as if she accepted her fate. She knew she was going to get caught and that she was going to die. She never admitted or denied being a witch. But by the orange glow of the fire, there was no doubt that she was a witch. Her once milky skin was washed away of all life. It was grey, like the color of death. The hue of her auburn curls shifted to a deep burgundy color, looking very similar to a glass of red wine. The emerald jewels of her eyes burned to pure onyx. Her thin lips were perfectly straight, not acknowledging the fear, disgust and hatred of her true nature.
She was pure evil; sent by the devil to tempt them from their faith. Everyone felt it in the air. It snaked through the mass ready to consume any that strayed. It was the darkness that everyone dreaded. It was the darkness haunted everyone's nightmares.
One quiet figure stood in the crowd. Clutched in green silk, was a baby boy, no older than a week. The woman brought him closer to her, almost smothering him in her bluish-grey dress. She wanted to protect him, not from the evil witch, but from the fear and hatred all around them. Her big brown eyes watched full of worry and sorrow as Lela was guided to a stake built just for the execution. Men piled straw around her feet. The woman mouthed, I promise. She knew she could do nothing more for Lela. She was already entrusted with Lela's greatest possession and she promised to keep it safe from the ruthless claws of the town leaders, Luciana and Bartholomew Hunter.
The Hunter family had been in the village almost since the beginning. Being English nobility, they ruled the town with no trouble. Luciana was the daughter of a Kensington Lord. Bartholomew was the son of the Duke of Buckingham. They were nothing like the native New England townspeople. Luciana was nosy. She knew all the gossip of the town. Most of the time, she went around spreading it. Luciana insisted on having a tea service promptly at three and dinner was to be at seven thirty. Bartholomew was the messiah of the town. He claimed to be in tune with God. He went around spreading His will. But like everyone, the Hunters were greedy. They knew without a doubt that Lela wasn't a witch. But she had something they wanted, badly.
"This is your last chance," Luciana said, approaching the stake. A thick black torch was gripped in her hands. Her chocolate hair was curled and set into a complicated bun with pearl pins. She wore a white turtleneck, long-sleeved dress, layered with a dark cloak. "Relinquish thy powers and set all the souls free. Let them rise into Heaven and be in peace."
Lela sneered. "I stole no souls. I am no witch. As for my powers, well, I will admit, I had them but not anymore."
"Lies, Witch!" Bartholomew spat. He was a large rotund man with a thick black beard. He was dressed in an ordinary colonial outfit. It consisted of a white linen shirt tucked into black breeches. On top of that was his black waistcoat. White stockings reached up under his breeches. The buckle shoes were not shaped for either the right or left foot. He powdered his Full Bottom Periwig. The cascade of curls symbolized the dignity of the house that wore them. "Thou stole the soul of dear Rachel Westford."
"That little brat is alive and well," Lela kept calm, a semi-amused smile curled on her lips. "She asked me to help her get to Canada."
"Liar! Murderess!" the crowd cried in agreement. "Enough of this mania. Burn her!"
Lela's gaze trailed past the town leaders and the crowd. In the doorway of one of the tiny wood houses was a silhouette. She stood firmly. Glinting tears rolled down her cheek. Lela watched as the figure closed the door and hushed the candles. The windows dimmed to black. There was a faint glow of white. It was a short quick burst.
"Silence!" Bartholomew bellowed. The crowd obeyed. "We do not want any unnecessary blood on our hands. But Lela Hastings, thou gives us no choice. Thou have been observed committing witchcraft. How does thou plead?"
"Witchcraft is the use of Black Magic. I do not use such dark magic," Lela admitted. "But since ye is so persistent. I was born in another dimension and am able to freely walk between the two. I along with Katrina Setello saved the second dimension from Black Magic. It was a bloody battle worse than this world will ever see. However this world has magic hidden. An orb of mystical power and a stone of immense Light, are hidden behind the Black and Brown Rose to be exact. But thou will need a key. It's made of silver and copper and a thousand leagues beneath the sea where even the merfolk will not go. A servant of Deshita, will take you if you smell the scent of sweet almonds."
The fire on the torch burned too close to the hand of the executioner. He dropped it, igniting the straw. The crowd watched in horror as Lela burned to death. All that was heard is the crackling of the golden straw and a baby's cry.
Veronica Summers bolted up in a cold sweat. Her flesh was covered in goose bumps. Every little hair on her body was standing straight up. The dream felt so vivid, so real. She swore she could feel the heat of the flames. The pupils of her hazel eyes were dilated, gathering in as much light as possible. Still, she barely saw the dark wood furniture in the room with her. But she couldn't have woken up early. In bright red letters, the clock read, 7:57AM. The thick ivory curtains were drawn making the bedroom look like it was the middle of the night. The only glow came from underneath the closed door.
"Roni," her husband called in a muffled voice. "Wake up. It's Victoria, she says she needs to talk to you."
Veronica didn't even hear the phone ring. She slid out of bed and meandered down the thin hall into the yellow tiled kitchen. Her feet skidded along the high gloss cherry wood floor. She looked like a teenager, in her blue plaid pajama pants and white tank top. She took the white cordless phone from her husband who was juggling scrambling eggs, making coffee and talking to Victoria Roth.
"Why'd you let me sleep so late?" Veronica whispered, pressing the phone against her shoulder.
"Because you looked too beautiful to wake up," he kissed her again. It was a short meaningless kiss that really served as a reminder that they loved each other.
"Hey Vikki. How's little Aurelia?" Veronica asked bringing the phone up to her ear. "How's your husband holding up with the new baby in the house?"
Victoria and Veronica were friends ever since they met at Arrowford College Preparatory School. They stayed in touch as Victoria went off to Oxford and Veronica stayed at Columbia. But Victoria was always a New York girl at heart. She brought Ben Roth home with her. Veronica was the Maid of Honor at Victoria's wedding and Victoria was at Veronica's.
"They're both fine. Um… Ben's still in England," Veronica could practically hear Victoria turn and look over her shoulder. It was a tone that Veronica came to notice as her lying tone. It was very rare for Victoria to lie to Veronica, since they were practically sisters. When she did, Victoria's voice went up in pitch and she hesitated. "Roni, um, you know that estate my father left me. Well with the new baby, we've decided to move there. I'm leaving America next week."
"Tori, you can't just drop this bomb on me," Veronica cried. "There must be more."
"No, Ben and I have been considering moving for quite some time and we think Aurelia would have a better place to grow up over there," Victoria sighed. Victoria's father left her the estate when he passed. It was a home that had been passed down in the Hastings' family for as long as anyone could remember. But Victoria was raised in New York, there was no way she would give it up for a newborn. "I'm sorry."
And the phone line went dead.
Victoria slowly put the antique phone back into its base slightly dinging. The baby's cry rang out. Victoria flinched. She tried to be quiet. Peeking through the doorway into the vast living room of her New York apartment, she saw Ben standing over one of the silk lined cradles. She watched as he picked her up and rocked her until she silenced. Ben worked so well with the new baby.
She strode into the room, looking over into the second crib. Gazing on the second baby, she gulped. There was no way she could protect this new child with her… peculiarities. The baby had grey skin, like there was no life flowing through her veins. On her soft head was a crown of burgundy fuzz. She looked up at Victoria with her big black eyes.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Ben asked gently laying the baby back into her cradle.
"We swore to protect her the moment we brought her into this world," Victoria told him reaching down and sliding her hand down the baby's soft cheek. "We have no other option."
As the words rolled off her tongue, miraculously, the baby's burgundy fuzz faded into the most beautiful shade of blonde. It was almost like sunbeams mixed with strands of pure gold. Her black eyes constricted into little onyx pupils of sapphire blue eyes and her veins started pumping life through her veins, turning her skin into a perfect tan.
"Good girl," Victoria smiled but hesitantly continued, "Aurelia."