This is just a drabble I wrote. It's Mrs. Wentworth, Charles's witch, and what she was thinking as she ran away.

Disclaimer: It belongs to Diana Wynne Jones, not me!

They're coming.

Eliza Wentworth can hear them. She can hear the shouting, the anger- stupid inquisitors. Why can't they just let her be?

They're getting closer. She was young, but not athletic, and wearing a long dress. They were a mob. All sorts of people all bent on catching her.

She couldn't make it.

Her mind desperately flashed to her goal. Old Gate House. Safety. It made a pleasant mantra. If only she'd be able to make it.

Poor Brian. He'd grow up without a mother, what ever she did. But she couldn't let him see his own mother burnt at the stake.

Burnt.

She ran faster. Their voices were getting louder and louder by the minute. She wouldn't make it.

A child. Two little boys, the oldest around Brian's age. He stared at her.

Hope.

Eliza bent down, gasping for breath. Please, let me through your house. If I survive (pant), you'll have good luck. Please. A kiss on his forehead, and she was through.

The mob was confused. They wondered where she had gone. She heard the muttering about witchcraft; somehow she'd used it to get away. She slowed her pace and took deep breaths. She let herself calm down. The pursuers were gone, too far behind to do any harm. She'd get to the Old Gate House. She'd be safe.

Eliza Wentworth hoped the little boy would be, too.