I've decided to write the text normally with a few French phrases here and there. Sorry for the inconvenience.
If Thomas could find the best way to describe the sight before him, he would say the closest thing to it was the personification of a black cat.
La Sorcière had, predictably, thrown off the sack on her head and cut the jute string around her legs. Both were crumpled by her feet, the riding boots scuffed from being dragged across stone streets to her stone prison. Her nightgown was loose around her shoulders, and sure enough he could see the mounds of her breasts peeking through the tattered fabric. From her condition, Thomas could not find it within himself to be attracted at the sight of them – they looked drained like the rest of her. Skin once supple and firm was stretched tight over elbows, forearms and cheeks. Her wrists were bony, her sternum sharp in its protrusion. She looked as if she had skipped meals for days, maybe weeks, over time. Poissardes were larger and thicker in muscle than her, and they were none too picky about refuse from the fish they skinned.
Despite her deplorable state, Thomas would be lying if he did not say she was beautiful.
This was not Jeanne de Valois. But the trickster part was evident. She was young, likely fresh into her twenties, and tall. Thomas, who in his military service was required to be taller than 5'7 and no shorter than 5'6, was shorter than her. With heels, she'd be over six feet tall, and would make many in the French army gawk at her height.
The tendrils he saw peeking from under her former cloth restraints were part of a head full of long, waist-length black hair, an inky mass that set off the whiteness of her skin. This came from the scalp of an oval-shaped face, adorned with pink lips and full bottom lip. To complete the feline ensemble, a pair of shockingly green eyes eyed him with intelligence and caution from the middle of the room.
The woman would need more than a lice comb. Hair as long as hers would be a burden. She'd need to cut it, and smuggling scissors into the Bastille was seen as a violation. In the hands of a volatile creature as her, who wasn't afraid to bite off appendages and break noses, she could easily take out most of the guards in the prison. She could be sneaky enough. Though if she got to the lower levels and encountered the métis Autrichien and his teacher she'd be easily subdued.
That reminded Thomas: the young man – the youngest one in the prison – who'd been put there for the murder of a noble (to which he'd insisted he did not do, could he please see someone, this was a mistake, etc) had been drawn to her. If he had seen her as Thomas was seeing her, that could pose a very...intricate problem. Or maybe he didn't have to worry; the young man was always asking him about letters from an Élise. Crisis averted. The ones with sweethearts usually were compliant. They hardly ever thought about being with another woman, even when ones such as la Sorcière were dangled in front of them.
He approached her slowly, setting the sack down and taking the items out one by one. He showed her the metal canteen, swished it to let her know it was water. Her eyes examined it from afar, but she did not move towards him. She continued to watch him as he took out cushions, clean blankets, and even a few clean chemises. All of them were made from scraps of clothing, many 'burrowed' from the nobles who tossed them away after one use. The seamstress near Porte Saint-Antoine was eager to help Thomas once she heard the witch had been moved there. The story had excited her. As an extra reward, she packed a few scraps of warm bread, even – and Thomas was shocked to discover this – caramel candies.
He laid them all out in a row in an easy view for her. He did it to show he did not poison any of the offerings; that the water was not spoiled and was clear as it could be. The bread did not have mould, the cheese free from mites.
Still, the witch did not move. But her eyes did.
"You have my ring."
Thomas looked up at her, hearing the lyrical note to her French. She was not Parisian, that was clear. There was the slightest hint of an accent, but Thomas could not pinpoint it. The Wallonians and the Belgians spoke their French in a Germanic twang; the Creoles had the Caribbean in theirs. The French up and down the country all had their dialects, Thomas knowing most from his military service, but he could not pinpoint this one.
He examined her features closely for a clue to her origins. The lips were plump and expressive, the nose straight but not too prominent, the eyes deep set and cat-like. Features not too crisp like a Frenchwoman's, soft yet sharp around the edges of her jawline...Slavic, perhaps?
That would add to the mystery, wouldn't it? It was worth a try. "Tu es Russe? (You are Russian?)"
An eyebrow, plucked and defined, went up. "And how would you know that?"
"It was a guess." Thomas shrugged. "You don't have to answer."
"You're half right," the woman said.
"What am I half right on?" Thomas replied, smiling at his own joke.
"Oui. Je suis Russe. (Yes, I am Russian.) But only half," she stressed. "That's all you are getting."
"It's better than nothing."Thomas eyed the canteen, standing on the floor next to the blanket. He nodded towards it. "It's safe. I boiled it."
Thomas watched as she moved towards the canteen with all the grace and measured steps of a deer walking through brush. Her fingers, crusted with dirt and grime and blood under the nails, curled around the lid as she twisted it off. Her dried lips relished in the liquid, and he saw her cheeks puff out, swirling the liquid around before she swallowed. An eyebrow went up again.
"C'est vrai (It's true)...it is safe. But I'll know in a few hours, won't I?"
"I had two brothers die of the flux. I know the effects of bad water."
"Ah?" She frowned. The edges of her lips turned downward as she did so, almost giving the look of a pout. The other 'almost' was a look of disapproval. "Malheureux (Unfortunate). But I suppose that gives me more reason to trust you."
"It should,"Thomas said. "I don't want to make this experience any worse for you."
"I don't think that's possible," she suddenly spat. A thundercloud of emotion rolled across her face and eyes, intoxicating and destructive in its allure. Thomas hoped that whatever was thundering in her head would not be directed at him. Despite her stature and thin size there was an unkempt fury buried in her depths. He'd seen similar emotions buried before: in his brothers as they begged their superiors not to condemn them to death; in his father as he wished his mind would break and he'd forget all the misfortune that fell upon his sons while agonizing in his bed at the Hôtel des Invalides.
He had seen it on everyday Parisians, as the food stores closed and the grain began to wilt in the fields from the frost. How they were turned away, hour after hour, for rations that dried up days, weeks, months ago.
It was a fury from injustice. He saw it cross her face, but it was also a controlled, tamed fury, if the two words could be strung together. No doubt the fury had to do with the way her type was seen in France: a Russian, a barbarian and now an enemy of the state could be identified with the point of a finger and a keen eye.
Or perhaps there was another reason. She hadn't reacted as strongly as he thought she would to her being Russian (half, she'd stressed). It was a nonchalant, 'meh, who cares?' response. A better clue was in the way she reacted to her surroundings, how she observed the stone walls and the single barred window to the courtyard hundreds of feet below. How her nose twitched at the air that whistled from the roof, picking up the stench of Paris, of Versailles, and of France. How her reaction had gone from that of a fighting animal to one tranquilized from a hidden trauma; the phantom of fear and hopelessness passing quicker than the flash from a firework.
There was an uneasy silence. Thomas was careful. He had to make amends on the one hand, and ask questions the next. It would not be an easy interrogation. De Launay would want him to write a report and keep an eye on the prisoner because he was the sole volunteer. No one wanted to approach the witch but they were willing to appraise her like a freshly bought mare. Thomas was one who had to take the bullet and put truth to paper.
He fumbled into his pocket, producing the ring which had a door nearly knocked down for it. Her head snapped in its direction. She approached him with silent feet, waiting for him to toss it out the window and hear her scream of despair. When he placed it, gently, in her open palm, it took her a moment to process it.
She looked at him with confusion. "Why did you give it back? Your brothers-in-arms would have cheated you for it."
"You said it was your grandmother's bride price. Too many people sell heirlooms for less. It breaks their heart to do so. It's the least I could do."
She scrutinized him further with her emerald-like gaze as if the answer wasn't enough; as if his presence was a trap she had yet to spring."You are too kind for a prison guard,"she said evenly.
The question, 'What do I owe in return?' went unsaid, but Thomas knew she was going to ask it. When Jeanne de Valois was a prisoner in the Bastille, she would routinely bribe and swindle her way out of situations, and when debts had to be owed, they were owed. 2,000,000 livres for a diamond necklace that couldn't be paid back in coin had to be paid back in other ways. Jeanne was getting on in years. La Sorcière...again it came back to being the single female prisoner in a nearly empty prison, surrounded by male prisoners and guards.
What did she owe? A fire danced behind her eyes. Nothing, it said. Nothing.
Thomas felt a knot grow in his throat. He had not met a prisoner who evoked these reactions before, and he had seen terrible attributes in his fellow Frenchmen both on and off the front: how brothers-in-arms were starved and cheated for food because of a favourite superior; how a favourite superior would refuse to send his men to butchery and be butchered in return for his presumed cowardice. In peacetime, it was despicable seeing bloody grudges still. But he kept the feelings down, swallowed them like bad soup.
This? This had to be mitigated. Promptly. Thomas raised his hands, palms out. "I am not that kind of man. I am not going to abuse you in that way," he started. "I won't touch you, I swear. I'll make sure no one else - "
"Oh, you don't have to worry," the Russian said, cool and crisp like a hot blade in snow. "Because if any man ever tried to touch me, I would sooner tear the iron bars off this window and throw myself to the stones below."She pointed to her lone opening to the world as if it had been on her mind the entire time. There was daring in her eyes, in her voice. "Let them talk of me then, as they sweep my crippled body off the courtyard. Let the Parisians speak of me then! I'd rather die at my own choosing than die an old crone here."
Thomas frowned at her. His eyes were diverted to the ground. Mud doesn't stand a chance against green fire, he thought. The woman huffed, sat on the blanket he'd given her. Her knees went up to her chest, her chin resting atop them. The fury remained, but swirled along with the air in her cell, flirting with whatever thought she kept to herself.
Thomas sighed. It'd been a long day, and a longer afternoon. It'd be a longer night still.
The snowflake ring with its brilliant diamond cut was snug on her index finger, and were it not for the sword at his side, Thomas would've thought that it would have been the sharpest thing in the room.
He left her alone until evening. As the other prisoners began to settle down for sleep, she remained awake.
One day in and she was the lull of the Bastille and the plague wind that swept up the Porte Saint-Antoine.
Thomas waited.
When he returned to his shift early that evening as the light ebbed from the sky and the feudal towers swallowed the setting sun, he expected the whoosh one hears as someone falls from a great height.
He waited for the thump, the squelch as every bone known and unknown in the human body was broken; as organs burst from the impact and the remains slithered into a scarlet river from an open skull. He waited to see the impacted limbs, the open mouth capturing the last minute of pain before the body reached its final destination.
He walked, he looked up, he waited. No body fell. No shouts from surprised geôliers who could do nothing but stare, stricken, as a woman tore the iron bars from the window in her roughshod hands and flew to what she thought was Heaven. No de Launay screaming to the point where his eyes bulged demanding where, how, why it had all gone wrong; how, once again, he was responsible for a calamity within an inch of his control.
The fading June heat reigned. Quiet prevailed. Heads were alone with their tumultuous thoughts.
The courtyard and its tender gardens remained clear. The rose bushes swayed with the tickle of the breeze, the weeds overgrown and defiant in the fight with better, prettier flowers. The chains holding the drawbridge clinked with leftover tension. They were the only things vibrating with force and life in this place. Once night settled in, citoyens would see the massive husk of the feudal prison, immovable and dreadful, guarding the gates of Paris.
As far as prisons went, the Bastille's reputation as a feudal torture chamber was spun from rumour and legends dark as the shadows thrown on the towers when the moon disappeared for a night. The courtyard was a pleasant place to be, especially in the springtime, where visitors could chat with each other and even send alcohol and other gifts to prisoners without bribes. The escapades of Jean-Henri Latude and his escape from the Bastille had been an exciting and thrilling adventure to critiques of the prison, but to the people currently there in it was too fantastical and too tiring to try. Living in the Bastille was, for most, better than living slovenly existences in what was considered life in Paris. Food and drink were plentiful, and requests for books, clothes, perfumes and just about anything that could fit the bill of contraband was allowed.
Every night, Thomas was given a list for items the prisoners requested. Predictably, the Marquis de Sade had the most specific, intricate list, and would stress to Thomas to get things exactly as he dictated, or else it would spoil whatever faux-party he was trying to throw (clothed, Thomas hoped, as de Sade would strip naked in the later hours and cry out the bars about how terrible, terrible life was inside). Others were simpler, like finding letters from a redhead whose lover waxed complete poetic about her or 'water that didn't taste like piss, can't be that hard, can it?' A few of the legitimately mentally unwell prisoners only wanted clean blankets and something warm to snuggle into at night. Easily said, easily done.
It was to Thomas' consternation, then, when de Launay strode toward him in the courtyard, huffing from what looked like a jaunt from his usual comfortable lodgings deeper inside the prison. He had a note in his hand, a clean edge torn from a leftover newspaper. De Launay waved it at Thomas before putting it in his hands.
The script was neat, crisp and flowing. It was not the to-the-point jots of the few literate prisoners Thomas knew, or the euphemistic sexual poetry of de Sade. It flowed easily and with grace, feminine yet masculine in its directness. The ink still gleamed in the waning light. Thomas raised a brow as he read the note, glancing up at de Launay when he was finished.
"La Sorcière? She's already making requests?"
"Oui, je sais (Yes, I know). I suppose one night up in the calottes was enough to make her reconsider her position. I have decided to move her back to Bazinière Tower. She'll be away from the men, and, I sincerely hope, she does not pull a Latude on us. She's requested cloth for...whatever reason she says." De Launay wiped his brow with a kerchief, and embroidered one initialized at the bottom with M.A. A contraband item on its own, indeed.
Thomas examined the note again. The witch had requested clean cloth, some water, and – she had underlined these – any kind of cleaning material, be it soap or scented water. Both would otherwise be hard to come by, but again, Thomas had an endless supply with the Marquis. One more bottle of rosewater or jasmine or whatever scent caught the naked libertine's fancy would not be missed.
There was no specific requests for food or alcohol. La Sorcière had taken the plain soup and bread offered without complaint, as she was too thin and malnourished to eat anything rich. When Henri had noticed that the bowls kept coming back empty, he grunted in surprise. He didn't think she had it in her. The struggle from the previous morning had left her famished. There was little doubt that with food, it would return, and once she gained her strength she would prove to be more difficult than it was worth.
That was the theory. It probably would not end up that way, but it was good to prepare. De Launay had stressed since the days of Latude that predicting ridiculous outcomes was far better than watching them unfold before you. Thomas figured that with her diamond ring returned to her and with time alone to mull, the witch would be amicable and – he crossed himself – tolerant. He did not like the fury that burned within her, coiled and filled with venom like some African snake.
He loathed the man who would ever be caught in its bite. It would not be a mercy killing.
He sighed to himself as he prepared for his shift. "Of all the days I have to serve at this prison...," he left the rest unsaid.
The other prisoners had begun to settle down for the night. The geôliers milled about, muttering under their breaths or cursing about another day lost watching a grand total of seven prisoners (now eight) in a prison meant for thousands. What went unsaid was the female prisoner, the fresh arrival only Thomas and the other two guards had actually seen. Lazy-Eye and Snaggletooth (they had names, but Thomas never bothered with them) did not speak about her. It was odd and at the same time it wasn't. They had all expected a crone, or an old aristocratic woman someone wanted to throw away like a diseased piece of sweetmeat after they were dissatisfied with the taste.
What they got for their expectations was again limited to rumour. Thomas did not see either guard that night, and it was for the best. The witch would not enjoy them following her, replete with all the ideas and lewd thoughts she knew were directed at her. It would be left to Thomas once more to complete the task.
As Thomas moved past the lower cells with quiet and careful steps, a pair of blue eyes, mischievous and perverted watched him stroll by. A voice called out to him.
"My...is that a note from la Sorcière you're hiding? Do tell! I don't want to be kept in suspense over such a créature magnifique."
Thomas paused at the question. De Sade's voice was unnaturally soothing, always in a measured tone never raised in disgust, anger, or displeasure. It was disarming, and for Thomas, one of the few guards with a conscience and a desire to see the prisoners treated well, it left him exposed. He almost felt like dragging his boots the way a child does to a reprimanding mother he wishes to avoid. He peered at de Sade, leaning, of course naked, against the bars, an eyebrow raised in interest.
Here comes an interesting conversation. If a mental groan could be raised, this was the time.
"I don't think it's to your concern to know what la sorcière wants," Thomas said, avoiding that curious stare. One of the bars acted like a convenient censor against de Sade's genitalia along with a leg placed in front of the other. The Marquis did not much care for social rules around nakedness. He dressed as he pleased, when he pleased, and encouraged others to do the same.
Again came the soothing tone. "It should. There hasn't been something so exciting in ages...tell me. Is she at least under thirty?"
Thomas nearly bit the inside of his cheek. The Marquis noticed, and smirked in that devious way of his. I like to call it reminiscent of Dante, as I flirt with the gates of Hell, he'd say with a wink. He leaned closer, his pale cheeks brushing against the cool bars.
"You're hesitating a bit there, monsieur. Would it be fair to say she's...supple?"
"Like a twig in a hailstorm," Thomas found himself saying. It had been the wrong thing to say, for the Marquis' interest had piqued. For all his want of debauchery, the Marquis knew how to get people to speak with loose lips sans wine. A useful trait, and a deadly one.
The Marquis de Sade tittered. "Oh well...give it time, I'm sure. And give her a little note of congratulations from me. You don't see many women take the initiative in biting off a man's finger before he proposes to her."
Thomas chuckled without humour. "Be careful, de Sade. If a maréchaussé can scream as loud as that, that's the last thing a man needs in his bed."
A wry smile appeared on the Marquis' face. Thomas could see the shimmer of a white tooth. The smile of a man with ideas too filthy to discuss.
"You're giving me ideas, monsieur. Do you think she would mind being portrayed in a novel? I have the greatest idea of her in the middle of a Versailles costume party dressed like one of those spotted wildcats. She is all feisty and defiant, clawing off suitors one after the other, until a certain roguish man comes along and fits a quaint little leash around her neck..."
Thomas held out a hand. "Assez parlé (Enough said). Spare me the plot for later."
"I mean it, fossoyeur. She sounds like the type to enjoy domination and to be dominated...provided it's with a certain man – a very specific one, I might add. Not you, bien sûr. I'm thinking of someone else..."
Thomas walked away as de Sade started to mutter, head alight with provocative ideas. He was sure that the strange man would not sleep that night, writing furiously under the glow of a single candle and irritating the other prisoners with the scritch scritch of a quill on paper. There were times he would go days without sleep, engrossed in his plot lines and novels that were sure to make many blush in both maidenly shock and in furor.
The man who wrote Les 120 Journées de Sodome was aiming for another magnum opus...and for a stranger no less, and for Thomas to read no lesser.
He preferred the cold fury of the witch already.
"Do you know the Marquis de Sade?"
The question was asked simply enough, even though the subject wasn't appropriate for gentle conversations. So when the witch raise one of her groomed eyebrows, bread crumbs falling from her lips and her water tin swishing in her hands, Thomas could be comfortable in that she was not easily offended when it came to subjects involving sex.
She swallowed her food in a slow, plotted motion. A tongue ran across her lips. "He's a prisoner here, isn't he?"
"Oui. I hope you don't know him – ah – personally?"
She huffed. The air in the calottes was breezy and warm, tickling the strands of hair stuck to her face. She had pleated her hair and it hung casually over one shoulder. "I do not. Should I be thankful?"
"I think you know the answer to that."
She laughed. It was dry, without true laughter behind it, but the noise caught Thomas off guard. Contrasted to the entangling aristocratic lull of the Marquis, it was rough and straightforward. Almost as if the question amused her without actually amusing her.
"The man of 120 Days of Sodom. Fame and controversy, très amusant (very amusing)."
Thomas tilted his head at that tidbit. "You've read the manuscript?"
She had been toying with her hair off-handed, staring out the window when her attention was re-directed to him. A thought, unspoken and unbidden, crossed her face before it melted into a neutral mask. She did not flirt with fury today, but it looked like she was flirting with some other equally compromising thought.
When she next spoke, it was with care. "...it was contraband. My employer had a copy. She had no intention of reading it, so I did." Her lips twisted downwards in a grimace, a memory of a past conversation gone awry coming back to her. "All that drama for nothing," she muttered.
"Ah," Thomas said, noting the lull. "Who do you work for? If you don't mind me asking?"
She nestled her chin on her knees in a casual position. Here and there, her eyes would flick from him to the window, as if no single location or object could hold her interest for long. To be frank, Thomas preferred it when her direct attention was not on him. Already, he had dealt with three prisoners: the métis Autrichien, his teacher, and naturally the Marquis de Sade, who all had that smidgen of intellect that would cleave its way through deception. It was visible in their stares, their stances, their very existence. Thomas was not good at holding his own to people like that.
"There's a chateau outside of Paris in the countryside that has a few heads of cattle and sheep," the witch said, almost to herself. "Farmlands, too, decent soil. They managed to pull in crops when the others failed. It's not wealthy but it's sufficient. I work for the owner of the properties."
"Are there any names I know?" Thomas asked.. "Landed gentry, perhaps?"
"Do you know a Citoyenne Madame d'Arracourt?"
Thomas searched through his memories. He'd briefly heard of the name, but it was so small as to be nonexistent. It was located near Lorraine, close to Belgium. It had been annexed by France in 1766, breaking it from its history of sovereignty. The surname of the witch's employer was French, not German as Thomas expected it to be.
"Can't say I have," Thomas said after a while. "Is she important to the court?"
"Not to the court, no. She works for the Assembly. She knows a few of the politicians there and completes military contracts. Her cattle is the reason why French soldiers are fed well – or decently, I should say. Hardly anyone is eating well here."
"All from a woman?" Thomas was impressed. "You'd think there would be more mention of her."
"Family connections," the witch replied. "That's the only reason why no one is dismissing her. Her father and uncles were quite wealthy and gave much to this country. The male heirs died young or were incompetent. They chose her because she was the only one who could manage their money."
"Strange."
"What is?" The witch noticed his abrupt silence, examined his face as it was drawn in thought. She squinted at him. Had it been a mistake to speak so freely to a stranger? To her geôlier?
Thomas was not paying attention to her. He rubbed his chin, coarse stubble brushing against his calloused thumbs. The witch stood up, a fresh nightgown billowing around her frame as she sauntered towards him.
"You speak rather fondly of her. So why did she send you here?" When Thomas looked up, he jerked when he saw how close she was. Close and cutting as a glacier, she tore through that red line he considered his personal space as easily as if she were brushing away a moth.
She was still, yet ever so animated. They were about a foot away from each other."She didn't send me here. I was arrested. For -
"A crime you didn't commit?" Thomas interrupted. "Forgive me, madamoiselle, but that excuse gets thrown around more than the Holy Bible. You don't seem the type to use it -"
" - For a man who looked at me as if I was some sort of demon," the witch shot back. "I didn't immolate him. He did. Obviously, no amount of testifying is going to clear my case. No one witnessed the damn thing, so how could they help me? How could you?" She glared at him. Her lips were in a tight line, but it had only emphasized their plumpness.
Poor Thomas, biting the bullet for the third time. He sighed, slowly, palms out again. His sabre hung at his side, even though he had had no reason to use it. He didn't think the witch would be frightened by it; on the contrary, she had eyed it as if it were an annoying tree branch thumping against her window. An epaulette had fallen askew on one shoulder, and the kerchief around his neck began to itch from nervous sweat.
"Easy," Thomas said. "Someone had vouched for you, and it was good that they did. La Grand Force isn't as fantastic – the witch had raised an eyebrow again - "but at least in the Bastille you would not be molested. I am trying to be polite with you. I would appreciate it if you'd extend the same to me, especially since I have given you everything you have asked for."
"Except my freedom," the witch said. It was meant to be a bitter barb, but it died in her throat as her eyes moved downward. She exhaled through her nose. The fight was extinguished. "You're right. Je suis vraimont désolée (I am very sorry). I'm not – I just didn't expect...this." She gestured at her surroundings: at the little mountain of pillow she'd set up as a bed, at the looking glass she'd cleaned to a decent shine, at the table where she set her food. Disappointment set in.
She was about to sit down on her blanket when Thomas motioned for her to remain standing. "I came here tonight to tell you you're being moved."
"Where?" A gentle light sparkled in her eyes.
"To Bazinière Tower. It will be far more comfortable than here. You'll have better lodgings, maybe a decent cot that isn't nestled next to a rooftop?" Thomas smiled. "What do you say?"
"Je n'ai pas le choix (I don't have a choice). Do as you will."
Thomas extended an arm, and the witch took it. He lead her down from the calottes, their steps in tune with one another. Her hands kept a firm grip on his arm, feeling the tightness of his muscles there. They walked as if they were going to see the fireworks launched at the Palace of Versailles. They did not act as if they were jailer and prisoner, but two people eager to see excitement in a dull world greyed by misery.
If Thomas had ever taken la sorcière to such a gala, there was little doubt she'd be the shining jewel of the event. By his side she felt like some kind of lithe spotted wildcat, the exact description de Sade had used when mentioning her.
Maybe she was surprised he did not chain her hands behind her back or tie ropes around her ankles to prevent her from escaping. Maybe she felt that this modicum of trust was of little use. Regardless of what she thought at the moment, Thomas was an anchor for her, though he didn't know it yet. The witch had no reason to flee because she felt strangely at ease with this man, her jailer, whom she'd only known for a day.
If only Thomas had known where she had come from, what she had done to get here...well. Maybe he'd immolate himself too.
As they walked side by side, arms looped in one another's and no words exchanged between them, Thomas heard a voice call up to them.
"Oh, monsieur, do come down and tell me what you think of this manuscript! I think you'll find it delicious."
Thomas bit the inside of his cheek, deep and hard, and let the taste of copper distract him from what he just heard.