Bartholomew was true to his word. He was still there the next morning when she came out to the pond to do her laundry.

She was in the middle of hanging her only other dress when six children ranging between the ages of nine and thirteen appeared from behind the trees and began pelting her with stones.

As she ran for cover, Bartholomew ran beside her acting as a shield. She went into the hut, but he doubled around and chased the children off with his shouting and charging at them. "Get out of here! Get!"

They scattered in different directions like light through a prism. He knocked to tell her it was all clear.

"What on earth?" he asked.

"I'm like the scary old lady all the children are convinced is really a witch, which means I'm fair game for their worst natures. It's almost a rite of passage for the children around here to face me down."

"It's disgusting is what it is. Their parents ought to be told. There's no justification for hurting an innocent person."

"That's just it. I'm not. And worse than just being an object of scorn, I'm also feared, but the children ain't really out to do permanent harm."

"But they could."

She picked up her basket after draping her wet dress back over the tree, seeing they weren't going to agree on the matter, and started into the woods. He was right at her side.

"I'm only going on a walk. You don't have to come with me."

"After that little incident? I don't think I'd be human if I let you go off alone."

He was sweet. Protective and willing to let her win the argument, at least for now. He was a proper gentleman for one so young. No man had treated her this kindly since her father had passed.

He wasn't much for talking though. She did all the talking on the walk. She might as well have been talking to her cat, but he was actually listening to her. That made for a nice change.

They came across a thatch of blackberries, which was why she'd brought the basket.

She squatted down and remarked, "This'll make some fine jam."

"It'll make a fine snack, too," he said, plucking off a fat purple berry and popping in into his mouth.

He helped her put some in the basket, but he did more snacking than gathering.

"You're not one for working, are you?" she teased.

"Not overly fond of it, no. You're not one for playing, are you?" he teased right back.

"Who's got time for it?" she asked a little more seriously.

"You do," he said, pressing one against her mouth.

She smiled and relented. It wasn't long before they were both laughing hard at the purple that was staining their fingers and lips. She almost would label the moment carefree. It was at least the closest she had come to it since she was a child.

"You have a little juice right here," he said with a tenderness foreign to her as he took his thumb and brushed the corner of her mouth.

It was a strange pull she felt with that little bit of human contact. She craved and needed more of it and she found herself pulling closer to him.

She tried to talk herself out of what she knew was coming by remembering he was younger, but the truth was he was only two or three years younger. Time would make that age gap seem less.

Their lips brushed in an innocent, first kiss that was brief from inexperience but still had the power to inflame deeper passions.

She pulled back at the overwhelming sensations, and he pushed back some strands of hair that were hanging in her face. "You're too good for them."

The magic was broken. They were people she cared about. What was she thinking to believe she could give into romance like she was a normal girl for even a moment? "We need to get back."

He heard the censure in her voice though it was herself she blamed, and he followed her back like a reprimanded child.

In front of her door, there was a jar of honey and a coin setting on top.

He looked puzzled by their appearance, but she wasn't. "People know I can't live only off the bread of the departed. There ain't enough deaths to keep me fed thankfully. And how would I dress? They do what they can when they can; they don't want to lose me."

"No, I don't suppose they would," he said with a tone that said he didn't think they were being generous at all.

sss

There were great, big pillars of flame and the sound of tortured voices crying out in pain, misery, and regret.

She was walking between the fiery columns looking at the faces of these poor souls in torment. What scared her more than knowing she was in hell was that she recognized the people.

They were the men and women whose sins she had atoned for. What were their souls doing here? She deserved to be here; she was the sin-eater, not them.

She looked for an answer in this place of darkness, and her eyes came to rest at last on a kindly face. A face she thought she should recognize but didn't. A light from within himself illuminated him, making him stand out from all the rest.

"Listen to my voice." It was all he said, but she knew somehow that if she did, she would have the answer she sought.

Then she woke up. She was drenched in sweat as if the fire of hell had been real.

"It was just a dream," she told herself. "It was just a dream."

But if it was just a dream, why did it feel so real?