Jenkins peered at the ugly scald as he pressed his lips together in concentration. The wound started midway up Ezekiel's neck and, once he had removed the younger man's coat, waistcoat and shirt, he discovered that it continued over the right shoulder and onto his thin chest. Badly bandaged with only a thin scrap of cloth, it was angry and inflamed, with a clearish liquid oozing from the entire area that had been burned, the skin blistered and peeling. Jenkins also discovered a chain of heavy silver links around the man's neck, half an inch wide with a small silver lock holding the ends of the chain together and dangling down in the front that kept interfering with Jenkins's examination. Frustrated, he finally took hold of the padlock and looked the servant in the eyes.
"Would you please remove this...this...ornament, so I can make a proper examination?" he demanded gruffly. Humans usually had a great fondness for bodily ornaments, but he had noticed that ornamentation was mostly lacking in this place. Cassandra had explained to him that, except for wedding rings, jewelry was frowned upon as being vain and wasteful.
"I cannot," Ezekiel answered flatly. Jenkins frowned.
"And why not?" the doctor asked impatiently. Suddenly Jenkins felt Cassandra's hand lightly touching his shoulder.
"It is not jewelry, Jenkins, it is a slave collar," Cassandra informed him, her quiet voice mournful. Jenkins turned and looked up at her, his brow furrowed.
"I do not know what that is," he said shortly. There was soft sigh from the redhead.
"Ezekiel is a slave, the collar marks him out so," she elaborated sadly, "It means that Magistrate DuLaque owns him. Only he can remove it."
Jenkins was stunned. He knew what slavery was, of course, and that it was a practice as old as humanity itself, but he had thought that by this point in time it would have faded from the earth. His astonishment quickly turned to anger. He turned back to his silent, statue-like patient.
"Then I shall remove it!"
"NO, Jenkins! You must not!" Cassandra grabbed his arm closest to her and held on, her eyes now filled with fear. "Only Magistrate DuLaque can legally remove it! If Ezekiel returns without it around his neck, he will be punished! Perhaps even killed!" Jenkins stared at her, dismayed at what he was hearing, but determination quickly returned to his face.
"Then we will make certain that he returns to DuLaque with the collar undamaged," he ground out, unhappy at the truth of her words.
"But how?" Cassandra cried, still clinging to his arm. Jenkins turned on his chair until he was looking her squarely in the face.
"We will find a way, Mistress Cillian," he said in a slow deliberate rumble, his dark eyes staring pointedly into hers. Then she understood what he was telling her: They were going to use magic to repair the collar! She let go of his arm and took a step back from him.
"Oh!" she let slip softly. Before he could be interrupted again, Jenkins spun back to Ezekiel and seized the chain with both hands. In the blink of an eye there was the sound of sharp, metallic snapping sound, and Jenkins was holding the collar up, the chain broken where the weakest link had given way. With a frown of disgust, Jenkins threw it across the room.
"Now, may I please continue with my examination?" he asked tartly. The shocked Ezekiel raised his hand and lightly touched his now-bare throat in disbelief.
"Do not touch your injury!" Jenkins scolded, swatting Ezekiel's hand away. "Your hands are not clean! You will give yourself an infection!"
Ezekiel was not about to argue with a man who strong enough to break a metal chain as though it was made of grass. He sat still and stoically as Jenkins gingerly removed the inadequate bandage from his chest and endured the examination, not making a sound or moving a muscle the entire time, though Jenkins knew that the pain must be considerable. At last the he sat upright and heaved a thoughtful sigh.
"How did this happen?"
"I...was not paying attention," Ezekiel answered stiffly. His body tensed and his eyes dropped to the floor. "I...I tripped...as I was carrying hot water for my master's bath. I…spilled it onto myself."
"Did you?" Jenkins asked blandly, clearly skeptical as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How long ago did this happen?"
"Four days," Ezekiel answered curtly in a flat voice, his eyes still staring at the stones flooring at their feet. Jenkins scowled, displeased.
"Four days?" he repeated coldly, "Why did you not come to see me right away?" There was absolutely no reaction to be seen on the young man's face, nor in his glassy eyes.
"My master did not think it worth spending money on." There was an outraged snort from the older man.
"Your master!" Jenkins spat in loathing, uttering the word 'master' as if it was a curse. He leaned forward slightly on his chair. "It is your master who has done this to you!" The startled, guilty flick of Ezekiel's black eyes to his only confirmed the Companion's conclusion, and as the young man opened his mouth Jenkins waved a dismissive hand before he could utter a single word.
"No, no—do not try to defend him! It is also your master's stinginess that has nearly gotten you killed!" He nodded sharply at the wound. "This injury is infected. If it is not treated, now, it will soon poison your blood and you will die. As it is, you will probably have a nasty scar for the rest of your life!" Ezekiel blinked, once, then immediately buried his emotions beneath a thick layer of indifference.
"There are worse fates than death, sir," he said calmly in reply to the tirade, but Jenkins and Cassandra could still hear his despair. Jenkins turned and gave the young woman standing next to him a troubled glance before turning back to his patient.
"Yes, well," Jenkins murmured somberly, "I expect that is true. Nevertheless, you need tending." He stood up and turned to Cassandra. "Mistress Cillian, would you be so kind as to bring me some hot water from the kitchen, please? And a good quantity of honey?" She shot an uncertain glance at Ezekiel, then looked up at Jenkins and nodded.
"Of course; I will be back as quickly as I can." She turned and hurried from the room. Jenkins sat down again and made himself comfortable. There was a short pause before he raised his head and looked directly at the man in front of him.
"Your master," he began quietly, gently, "He is...inappropriate with you, is he not?" Ezekiel didn't move, but Jenkins saw his jaw clench and detected the slight trembling in the younger man's body. "Did he do this to you as punishment for refusing him?"
"There is no refusing him!" the answer came with unexpected vitriol from the one who had, until now, been so quiet and calm. "He did it for no other reason than because he enjoys hurting others!" Jenkins was reminded of pus erupting from a boil or an abscess, something foul and poisonous that could no longer be contained but gushed forth at the slightest touch. Ezekiel looked up at gave the older man a searching look, his eyes flat and nearly dead.
"My master-he desires Mistress Cillian," Ezekiel said ominously, and nothing else. There was no need for him to. Jenkins understood perfectly what the man was telling him: If DuLaque ever got his hands on Cassandra, he would also hurt her for his enjoyment. The Companion's vision darkened momentarily as as a black rage fell over him, but with great effort he forced himself to shove the blood-boiling thought away; the sooner he and Cassandra were Bound, the better. He leaned forward, but took care not to touch the other man.
"I want you to know, Master Ezekiel, that I am here to render aid if you wish it," Jenkins said, his voice vehement but kind at the same time. "I know that it is likely difficult for you to trust any other than yourself, but you must make the choice to trust me if you wish my help. Only you can make that decision." Ezekiel's eyes flicked up, and Jenkins thought he could see just the faintest spark of hope in them. Before either could say anything more, however, Cassandra burst into the room from the kitchen, her hands laden with a basin of steaming water and a small copper pail of honey dangling from one arm. Jenkins stood up at once and took the pail from her.
"Please stay with him Mistress Cillian and finish cleaning his wound; I will go to the laboratory and mix a salve for him. It should take no more than a few minutes."
Cassandra nodded in acknowledgement as he took the honey from her, then dropped onto the chair the Companion had just vacated. Ezekiel looked up just long enough to exchange the briefest of glances with Jenkins, and then the doctor left the room, muttering to himself as to what ingredients he should use for the best results. The slave tilted his head, his mind replaying the words the doctor had just spoken to him, wondering at them and at Jenkins and what the older man's motivation could be, for in his experience there was always an ulterior motive. Meanwhile, Cassandra was looking closely at Ezekiel, examining every detail of his face. After a couple of minutes, he finally became aware of what she was doing and turned to glare at her.
"Why do you stare?" he demanded, irritated. Cassandra blushed in embarrassment as she looked away for a moment.
"Forgive me!" she said quickly, "I did not mean to. It is just...well... Are you from one of the neighboring tribes?" A look of confusion passed over the man's face.
"Tribes? What do you mean?" he asked, his pique momentarily forgotten.
"Tribes," she repeated, then, seeing that he didn't understand the word, "Do you belong to one of the native groups that live here? The Indians?" To her surprise, one corner of his mouth slid up into a rather frightening smirk.
"It is the people who live in India who are properly called 'Indians'!" he scoffed, then leaned forward slightly, his eyes wide and wild-looking. "Why? Are you afraid that I will come in the middle of the night, covered in paint and wearing feathers in my hair, to kill you in your bed? That I will steal everything you own and then set your house on fire?" Cassandra pulled back from him and gaped, too stunned to speak at first, but she quickly found her voice again.
"Certainly not!" she replied hotly, "Do not try to frighten me with these foolish lies, I know better than that!" Ezekiel gingerly leaned back on his chair and regarded her through appraising eyes.
"Do you?" he challenged.
"I do!" she snapped, "The Indians have never attacked us!" She paused a moment, cocked her head as she considered something. "They have attacked other villages over the years, though—but never Endor! They have no reason to do so!"
"And how is it that you know better than even my master? He lives in dread fear of the natives in this place." Cassandra blinked in surprise.
"Magistrate DuLaque is afraid of the Indians?" she echoed, then burst into giggles at the idea of DuLaque huddling in terror in a corner of his grand house. "That almost makes me wish that they would attack Endor!" Ezekiel had not expected this reaction. His expression softened a bit.
"So do I," he murmured. Then, realizing what he had just said, he hurried on. "But why do you think that I am an Indian?" Cassandra shrugged.
"You do not look like anyone else in the village," she began to explain, "You look most like an Indian, but even then you look different from the ones I've seen. I thought perhaps you come from a more distant tribe and that they look different from the Indians in the Province." There was a soft snort of amusement from the young man.
"You are more right than you know," he said. He laughed outright at the look of confusion on her face. "I am from a distant 'tribe'—but we are not Indians." A note of sadness suddenly colored his words and his face became sober.
"My homeland is far to the east," he went on quietly, "It is so far from England that it would take years to reach it, even on the swiftest horse." A wave of sympathy swept over Cassandra at the sadness in his voice.
"What is it called?" she asked, "Your homeland, I mean."
"It is called 'Joseon'," he replied, unable to hide his pride, "But I doubt that you have heard of it."
"I have not," Cassandra admitted with small shake of her head. Her expression turned to one of perplexity. "But if it is so far away, how is it that you are here in New England?"
"My family were merchants," he replied, not sure as to why he was even talking to this woman in the first place, let alone telling her this story about himself. "We grew rich from trade on the Silk Road—a trading major route. My father brought me with him on a trip when I was old enough, to teach me our trade so that I could one day assume the responsibility. But..." His voice caught in his throat and he lowered his head.
"Bandits fell upon our caravan, like starving wolves onto a flock of fat sheep. They killed all of the men. M-my father…" He paused for a moment as the unwelcome memories of that terrible long-ago day threatened to overwhelm him. He pretended to cough and forced his rising emotions down.
"The bandit leader took all of our goods, all of our animals," he continued stonily, "They took all of the women and children and sold us into slavery. I changed hands many times, until I found myself in a land called 'France'."
Cassandra saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he clamped his teeth together for a moment. "I was sold to a man who brought me to London. It was he who taught me your language and taught me how to serve English people. He then brought me with him to Boston and that is where Master DuLaque bought me, after my former master incurred a debt with Master DuLaque that he could not repay otherwise."
"I have only seen you in the market, and only with the magistrate," Cassandra said, "I have always wondered who you were."
"I am no one," he answered, bitterness clear in his words, "I was someone, once, but now I am only a slave. I do not even remember my own name, the one my father gave me. Now I am only Ezekiel."
Cassandra sat silently for several moments, pondering on what she had just learned. She then reached across the space between them and took both of Ezekiel's hands in hers, startling him, and gazed intently into his eyes.
"I am sorry for the fate that has befallen you, Ezekiel," she said quietly, her blue eyes beginning to water. "I wish with all my heart that there was something I could do for you to make your heart lighter!" Ezekiel's expression softened ever so slightly at that, and he gave her fingers a quick squeeze and met her gaze.
"Thank you." Before she could say anything more, they heard the heavy tread of Jenkins's feet approaching the room. Ezekiel quickly pulled his hands from Cassandra's and sat up straight on his chair, wincing in pain as his back stiffened and he again stared straight ahead of him. A moment later, Jenkins opened the door and strode through it, a small crockery pot in his hand.
"Here we are!" he announced, holding up the pot. "It is not the most pleasant-smelling remedy, but then most effective medicines are unpleasant in some fashion." Cassandra stood up from the chair and Jenkins reclaimed his seat. He waved a hand when she informed him that she hadn't gotten around to cleaning any of the young man's injuries. He simply took a clean cloth and dampened it before he began to dab it gently against the burned area to clean it, then he applied the sticky salve.
"Now, beginning tomorrow I want you to apply a thin coating of this on your wound at least four times a day!" he sternly instructed the wincing man as he worked. "Keep it covered at all times with a clean bandage—and I do mean clean, young man! And then I want you to come back in three days' time so I can see if there is any improvement—"
When he was finished with the salve and had bandaged the wound to his liking, Jenkins stood up and crossed the floor, picked up the discarded slave collar. Holding it in his hand as if it was a poisonous snake, he walked back to his patient.
"Master Ezekiel," he said grandly, "I want you to hold your head up and close your eyes. We will have this loathsome contraption reattached in no time." Ezekiel gave the man a plainly disbelieving look, but silently did as he was told. Jenkins slid the broken collar around the man's neck and turned to Cassandra.
"You must mend it now, Mistress," he whispered, barely audible. Cassandra replied with a look of panic. Jenkins leaned closer before she could say anything. "All you have to do is imagine the single broken link repairing itself, just as you did with the broken bowl," he whispered and gave her long, hard look. "You can do this, Mistress; I know that you are more than capable!"
Cassandra pressed her lips together and nodded. He was right; they had been practicing different kinds of simple magic since the night she produced the pearl, and she had surprised herself by how quickly she was learning how to control and even direct the magic she was now consciously beginning to feel flowing inside of her. This would be a good test of her abilities so far.
She stepped in front of Ezekiel and held her hands out to direct the magic, as Jenkins had taught her to do, her hands cupping either side of his neck but not actually touching him. She closed her eyes and began.
"Keep your hands in your lap and your eyes closed, Master Ezekiel," Jenkins said in a low cautioning tone as he stepped away from the pair. "This will only take a moment."
Cassandra pictured the broken link in her mind's eye and only the one link, not allowing herself to be distracted by the idea of an entire chain. Jenkins had taught her that, too: Focus only on what needs to be touched by magic; do not become distracted by unimportant things. She took a calming breath and began to focus her magic on the severed link, mentally examining each sharp jagged end where the link had broken when Jenkins pulled it apart. Layers of numbers and symbols immediately appeared next to the link, each layer a different color. Many ways to fix the link presented themselves to her, but she wanted only one, the quickest way. With faint gestures of one hand she peeled each layer off the top, one by one, until finally she came to a layer that began to glow a vibrant orange-red, like the fire of a blacksmith's forge. That was how she would fix the link: She would magically re-forge it.
Within microseconds, the air immediately surrounding the broken ends spun and reached the melting point of silver. The severed link on the chain around Ezekiel's neck began to glow a dull orange but left him unharmed, while in Cassandra's mind the link pooled and shimmered as numbers danced. She then recalled to memory the shape of the link when undamaged. The ends of molten silver quickly joined and formed the link into its original shape. The wildly spinning columns of numbers suddenly slammed into stillness and Cassandra gasped, wavered a bit on her feet, then regained her equilibrium before the hovering Jenkins could reach out to steady her.
New columns of numbers appeared, bright blue in color. They flowed and dissipated, then reformed again as they washed over the newly re-cast link. The yellow-hot metal instantly faded to a dull ash color, a faint hiss and thin wisps of steam. The blue figures evaporated and were replaced by hard-edged ones that bumped the link repeatedly until it shone and glinted. Numbers and glyphs disappeared and darkness returned behind the sorceress's eyelids.
Cassandra eyes fluttered open. Sure enough, the broken link of the collar was now whole, nearly indistinguishable from the others of the chain around Ezekiel's neck. She looked over at Jenkins and saw how pleased he was in his eyes. She started to speak, but a hot bolt of pain lanced through her brain, causing her to clutch her head between her hands as she doubled over and loudly cried out.
"Mistress!" Jenkins barked in alarm, forgetting Ezekiel's presence in the room. Jenkins was by her side in an instant, holding her as she fought back the nausea that was threatening to overwhelm her. Ezekiel opened his eyes, his hands going straight to his neck. He was both amazed and disappointed to find the collar had been repaired. He then saw Mistress Cillian leaning heavily against the doctor, panting and retching.
"I-is she all right?" he asked, jumping up from his stool in alarm.
"Yes!" Cassandra gasped harshly as she forced herself to stand upright on her own.
"No!" Jenkins immediately countered sternly, his worry clearly written on his face. He kept an arm around her shoulders in case she collapsed completely. He then seemed to suddenly remember Ezekiel, and he turned to give the younger man an apologetic look.
"She has been ill the last few days," he said, a lie that Ezekiel saw through like glass. Before he could say anything else, the door of the room flew open with a loud crash, causing all three people to jump and spin toward the source of the noise. Eve Baird, breathless, threw the bundle from her shoulder and rushed into the room, pausing only long enough to slam the door closed again. She whirled around and gave a look of worry to the startled doctor and his assistant.
"Cassandra! Jenkins! I am so sorry!" she gasped as she tried to catch her breath. "I have foolishly loosed the cat from the bag! DuLaque knows that you are to be joined soon, and he is not happy!"
Townspeople scattered at the sight of the scowling face of Magistrate DuLaque, hastily clearing the path before him as he stalked back toward his fine house on the outskirts of the village. Nearly everyone in town owed him money or a favor or worse, both. But he scarcely paid attention to the townsfolk today. His mind was occupied by the news he'd just heard from that wretched Goodwife Carsen: Cassandra—his Cassandra!—and that insufferable oaf of a doctor were betrothed!
DuLaque absentmindedly swung his ebony-wood walking stick at a mongrel that was too slow getting out of his way and landed a sharp blow on its hindquarters. The dog shrieked with pain and galloped away, its tail tucked firmly between its legs.
But Samuel Cillian was never indebted to DuLaque in any way, however, he thought bitterly as he stalked along the path. Neither was Flynn Carsen. Somehow those two had managed to drift just out of his controlling reach while Samuel was alive, and it irritated the magistrate. He'd wanted Cassandra for years, but Cillian refused him at every turn, and with no leverage over the man there had been no way to force the marriage. DuLaque was a man used to getting what he wanted, and he wanted Cassandra Cillian. Now, when he was so close to getting her—or more accurately speaking, her fortune—he was not going to be outmaneuvered by that loutish doctor!
DuLaque laughed quietly to himself. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and fingered the heavy gold ring—Samuel Cillian's seal. Samuel Cillian may have escaped DuLaque in life, but he had indebted himself beyond redemption in death! The letter he'd stolen and the will he'd read—treasures beyond measure!
And thank his lucky stars above he had followed his hunch and slipped off to Boston himself to speak personally with Cillian's solicitor! DuLaque learned a long time ago that every man had a price. The solicitor's price had been steep, indeed, but in the end even that upright fellow had not been able to put a price on betrayal so high that DuLaque couldn't meet it. It had been worth every penny, too, for DuLaque had learned that Cassandra Cillian was the heir to a huge fortune in England, and the land to go with it as well. And all of it would soon be his, though. He had more than enough leverage to use against her if she continued to refuse him.
Unless that meddling Flynn Carsen interferes again! DuLaque thought angrily as he marched on. Carsen had made that hasty trip to Boston earlier right after Samuel Cillian's death; perhaps he had prior knowledge of the contents of Cillian's will and, knowing that the girl was worth something after all, had gone in order to dupe some unsuspecting man into being a husband for her. Surely Carsen had also read the letter Cillian left for his daughter, informing her that she was a witch, from an entire family of witches. Was that the reason for Carsen's haste? To marry her off before anyone discovered her secret?
He shook his head, perplexed as he clomped along the frozen earthen path. None of this made any sense! Carsen was a man of the cloth; the first thing he should've done upon discovering a witch in the midst of the village was to turn her over to the Village Council for trial and execution. Perhaps, since she had no previous knowledge of her heritage, the minister did not see her as a danger? DuLaque snorted at that. Of course he wouldn't see her as a danger; Carsen was as soft-headed as he was soft-hearted.
But why had he gone all the way to Boston in search of a husband for this foolish woman only to settle on this unknown doctor. Had Carsen used his position as a minister—acting on the behalf of an orphaned woman of his congregation—gotten the details of Cassandra's true inheritance from the solicitor, too? That would make sense. And with the potential for a rich dowry the intellectuals and brahmins of Boston society would have fought tooth and nail for the chance to marry Cassandra. So how had this Jenkins villain beaten out every other rival? He was a distant kinsman, true enough, and that would give him a strong claim on her, but still… And how the devil had that man gotten into Endor unnoticed, come to that? The magistrate had spies everywhere; he would've been told at once of any strangers approaching the village. Yet he just appeared one day, as if by—
Magic…
DuLaque stopped in his tracks and cocked his head as a thought came to him. What if...?
His cold blue eyes widened as the answer unfolded suddenly, neatly before him.
What if...
What if Flynn Carsen had not gone to Boston at all? What if...he had gone somewhere else that only lay in the direction of Boston?
Something began tickling the back of the old man's mind, some long-forgotten scrap of information that he had learned years ago, when he first arrived in Endor, something that hadn't meant much at the time but was automatically stored in his witch-finder's memory for future reference. A place in the wilderness, located in the forest off of the road that led to Boston—a circle of stones that the savages of this land refused to go near because they said it was the haunt of evil spirits—and witches.
"DuLaque, you are fool!" he cursed himself aloud, then threw his head back and laughed. A circle of stones in the wilderness. A Summoning Circle!
Everything fell into place. Flynn Carsen and Samuel Cillian had been thick as thieves when Cillian was alive, which likely meant that Flynn Carsen was either a sympathizer or also a witch himself, otherwise Cillian would never have left such sensitive documents as his will and that letter with the minister! Carsen and Cillian both must've known about the stone circle and its purpose. Carsen had gone not to Boston after the funeral, but to the Summoning Circle!
DuLaque's mind now began to race. Carsen had read the letter telling Cassandra that she was a witch, and the one thing every witch needed was a Companion. But since Cassandra had been ignorant of her heritage for her entire life, it had to have been Flynn Carsen who had gone to the stone circle in her place and summoned a Companion on her behalf—irrefutable proof that Flynn Carsen himself was a witch—for only a witch could summon the Companion who now went by the name "Jenkins"!
DuLaque's delight at having at last puzzled it all out was suddenly tempered by a sobering thought. If this Doctor Jenkins was indeed a Companion, that would explain a great many things. It also meant that DuLaque needed to tread lightly from now on. Companions were dangerous creatures, fiercely loyal to their witches and easily offended. Fortunately, DuLaque had the advantage of knowing now who all of the characters were in this little drama. He smiled, satisfied. In his many years as a witch-finder, he had picked up several tricks for dealing with magical beings, and there were ways of dealing with Companions.
The thin man's thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the village's sheriff, Jacob Stone, hurrying towards him. Stone touched the brim of his hat in deference as he came to stand in front of the older man.
"Magistrate, good day!" he greeted in a curt tone, his anxious voice low and gravelly. DuLaque put aside the matter of the witches of Endor and their Companions and returned the greeting with a single slow nod of his head.
"You look worried, Sheriff," he commented blandly. Stone glanced around them to make sure no one could overhear what he had to say.
"I have just come from speaking with Thaddeus Grimstead," he said, referring to a local farmer who lived just outside of the village. Jacob leaned forward, his blue eyes filled with worry. "He says that all of his cows are dead!"
The magistrate almost allowed a harsh bark of laughter to escape him. He had forgotten all about Grimstead—and the debt he refused to repay to DuLaque. The magistrate had chosen to use...other means in order to balance the books. He gave Stone a deliberate look of distaste.
"In what way does that concern me?" he asked irritably, "The forest is full of wolves and bears—form a hunting party; track down the beast responsible and kill it!" He started to brush past the sheriff, but Stone grabbed his arm to stop him. DuLaque spun around and glared at him angrily.
"How dare you—!"
"'Twasn't wolves, and bears are in their dens this time of year, Magistrate," Stone shot back with uncharacteristic forcefulness, "Thaddeus said the cattle were all fine last night when he put them in the barn. But when he came out early this morning to milk the cows and turn them out, he found every single one was lying dead in its stall! Four healthy young cows and a bull!" He leaned in even more closely, his sharp eyes darting about them.
"There is not a mark to be found on any of them to tell how they died!" DuLaque narrowed his eyes and slightly raised his chin.
"If it wasn't animals, then it was some illness, no doubt," he countered dismissively, but Stone shook his head.
"Nay, Magistrate!" he went on quietly, his tone intense as he looked directly into the taller man's eyes. "All were hale—none were off their feed, all drank water as usual. Thaddeus says it looked as though they simply went to sleep and never woke up!" DuLaque gave the younger man long, dramatically thoughtful look.
"What do you think killed them, then, Sheriff?" the old man prodded. Stone looked around again before turning back to the magistrate.
"Five young healthy animals that die in the space of one night?" he said as he slowly shook his head, his eyes never leaving DuLaque's. "It can only be one thing, sir: Witchcraft!" Now it was DuLaque who looked around them dramatically to make sure no one had heard the sheriff utter the fearful word.
"Have you seen the animals yourself?" he demanded curtly, and Jacob shook his head again.
"Nay," he answered, "Thaddeus only now made it into the village to tell me of it." DuLaque grunted, a concerned look on his face.
"I want you to go out to Grimstead's farm and look for yourself," he instructed the younger man, "Mayhap Master Grimstead is overreacting. Examine each animal carefully. Look for any sign of illness or injury that might explain such a death. There is no sense in starting a panic in the village over witchcraft only to find out later that it was something as banal as an animal's attack or something of that nature."
"Aye, Magistrate." Stone touched his hat brim and turned to go, and it was then that DuLaque was struck by inspiration.
"Fetch Doctor Jenkins and take him with you," he further instructed, "Report directly to me what you discover—no one else!" A perplexed look came to Jacob's handsome face.
"Doctor Jenkins?" he repeated, "But he only treats people; he knows nothing about animals..."
"Nonetheless, he is a physician," DuLaque insisted, "Mayhap he will yet be able to discover what killed the beasts if the cause was a disease, and whether it may be one that can be spread to people."
Satisfied with the man's answer, Sheriff Stone nodded and hurried off toward the doctor's house. As he watched the man disappear around the corner of a building, DuLaque smiled, pleased. The happy "coincidence" of the Grimstead cows may have just delivered a method by which he could not only rid himself of his rival for Cassandra's hand in marriage, but also of Reverend Carsen and his wife, as well. But first he needed to get home and make some preparations. He was about to start out again when he heard running footsteps coming up behind him. He turned around just in time to see his slave, Ezekiel, come to a halt in front of him. The boy bowed in obeisance before speaking.
"I beg your forgiveness, Master," he said crisply, careful to keep his eyes on the ground. "Goodwife Carsen said that you wanted me, and so I have come." DuLaque spotted the white cloth bandage on the slave's neck. His sharp nose caught the earthy, medicinal scent of the herbs and honey in the salve Doctor Jenkins had used to treat the boy's injury. DuLaque frowned, displeased anew with the suspected Companion's interference in his affairs. DuLaque's eyes then swept slowly over his slave.
"Run ahead and prepare my bath," he brusquely ordered Ezekiel, "I want it waiting for me by the time I get there."
"Y-yes, Master," Ezekiel answered, his voice empty as his heart sank; he knew that tone of voice in his master well. DuLaque reached out and grabbed Ezekiel's chin, roughly pulled his head up as he leaned in close and hissed like a serpent.
"And I want you to be waiting for me as well."
"Yes, Master," came the shaking, whispered reply. The man shoved him back as he released his chin.
"Go! Now!" DuLaque snapped. He raised his walking stick and, with perverse glee, punctuated the last word by savagely jabbing its tip right into Ezekiel's burned shoulder. The younger man cried out loudly in pain, his left hand instinctively flying across his body to protect the painful area as he doubled over. DuLaque walked past the man gasping in agony without a look back.
"Stop groveling, boy, and do as you are told," DuLaque said in a weary tone, "Do not make me punish you…more than is necessary, that is!" The threat hung in the air between them as DuLaque continued home. He had preparations to make, yes—but they could be put off for an hour or so.
After Ezekiel had been sent on his way, Cassandra, Jenkins and Eve moved to the laboratory of the Physician's House. All three faces were grim as Eve told them about everything that had passed between her and DuLaque after their departure with Ezekiel. When she was finished, the sorceress and her would-be Companion exchanged worried glances.
"What shall we do?" Cassandra asked, turning back to Eve.
"I do not believe that we need to do anything, Mistress," Jenkins answered instead, his face turning thoughtful and he shrugged. "This creature, DuLaque, has no claim on you, has no say in who you associate with, whether as a friend or even as a spouse. Continue to refuse his offers of marriage. What can he do about it? Besides, we shall be Bound soon and then it will be out of his hands entirely. Imbolc is only a few days away." But the stony expression on Eve's face gave him pause.
"What are you thinking of, Eve?" he asked.
"I am thinking that perhaps we should not wait for Imbolc," she answered, her voice low and urgent. "I think you should perform the Ritual of Binding now, tonight." Jenkins and Cassandra again exchanged startled looks but for different reasons.
"You think that we are truly in danger," Cassandra said, and Eve nodded her blonde head.
"I do," she said, "I do not know what scheme DuLaque is plotting, but he is plotting something. He wants you, Cassandra, and he will stop at nothing to have you."
"But why?" the young woman cried, "Why me? There are any number of women in the village who would be glad to be given to him in marriage! Why must he have me?" Before Eve could answer, they heard the front door of the house open and slam closed again, then an unexpected voice called out loudly.
"Doctor Jenkins?"
The three people looked at each other—Cassandra with fear in her eyes, the two Companions with alarm in theirs.
"DOCTOR JENKINS?"
"The laboratory!" Jenkins called out. A few seconds later Sheriff Stone was poking his head into the room. As soon as he spotted Jenkins, he slipped in and joined the trio, touching the brim of his hat to the women as he spoke.
"Doctor Jenkins, I am sorry to disturb you, but I need your assistance," he said, his rough voice surprisingly quiet now. He suddenly remembered his hat was still on his head and he clumsily snatched it off. "I need you to come with me to a farm nearby."
"Is someone ill?" Jenkins asked, getting his feet. Stone's eyes darted nervously to the two women.
"I...would rather not take the time to say, sir," he replied cagily, "I think it best if you just come with me right now. I can explain on the way; I have a horse ready for you, sir." Jenkins narrowed his eyes as he looked questioningly at the sheriff for a moment. He then raised his head.
"Very well, then, Sheriff," he answered in a lofty tone, "Permit me a moment to collect my medicine bag first. I shall meet you outside." He went to the shelving behind him and began to select various boxes and bottles that he thought he might need and placing them into a black leather case.
"Aye, sir," Stone said and, replacing his hat, turned and left the room after nodding a farewell to the women. Eve waited until she heard the front door close before she got up from her chair and ran to Jenkins.
"You cannot go with him!" she hissed, "Stone is DuLaque's man, and this is some sort of trick or trap of DuLaque's—I know he is behind this!" Jenkins turned to give the Companion a reproving look.
"This man sets traps just to lure people to their doom? Is that what you are saying?" he asked sarcastically, then turned back to his medicines. "I hardly think so." But Eve grabbed his arm and forced him turn back to her.
"You do not know DuLaque as I do!" she persisted, "It is entirely within the realm of possibility that he has done something in order to draw you away from Cassandra's side!" At the mention of Cassandra's name, Jenkins's face darkened.
"You think he is luring me away so that he can kidnap her?" he posited. Eve shook her head and shrugged.
I do not know," she admitted, "But I do not like the coincidence of this sudden need for your help. Flynn has had no word of any illnesses on any of the farms hereabouts. And if it is only a simple injury of some kind, then why the secrecy?" Eve shook her head again and she laid her hand on the tall man's arm. "I tell you, Brother—I do not like this!" Jenkins's body relaxed at her use of the affectionate "brother".
Jenkins pondered the Companion's suspicions for a moment, then stood upright and squared his broad shoulders.
"Then I shall stay here and guard my mistress," he declared. Cassandra, listening intently to all of this talk, finally stepped forward and laid her hand on his resting on top of the medicine bag.
"No, you should go with Sheriff Stone," she said, her expression serious, "I shall go with you." Jenkins at once began to protest.
"No, Mistress! If Eve is right, it may be dangerous! You should stay here—"
"Yes, it might be dangerous—for you! And so I am not letting you out of my sight!" she countered stubbornly, planting her hands on her hips as she glared up at him defiantly. The Companion glared back, just as stubborn.
"It is my duty to protect you!" he reminded her sternly with a frown. "Besides that, Sheriff Stone has only two horses." Cassandra began shaking her head while he was speaking.
"Then you and I shall ride double!" she went on firmly. A look of horror came to the man's face.
"Absolutely not, Mistress!" he exclaimed loudly, as if she had just insulted him.
"And I say otherwise!" she snapped hotly, just as loudly, her blue eyes glittering. "Eve is right. It might be a trap, but we dare not raise Magistrate DuLaque's suspicions by not playing along. You can protect me there just as easily as you can here. And perhaps we will learn something of his plans if we go along with Sheriff Stone—who is now waiting for us outside and so we must go, now! No more arguing!"
Momentarily flummoxed by the conflict within between the young woman's orders and his desire to protect her at all costs, he realized he had no real choice in the matter. He was bound to obey his mistress's wishes in all things, and so Jenkins finally surrendered. He bowed his head in surrender.
"I obey, Mistress," he murmured submissively, but his tone was grudging. When he raised his head again, his eyes were filled with anxiety for her. Cassandra saw it and she felt a twinge of guilt for her bossiness of a moment ago, but she held firm. She went to Jenkins and looked up into his worried dark eyes.
"I will be all right; after all, I have you to protect me!" she assured him, her expression softening and her voice turning conciliatory. "If it makes you feel better, I shall stay with the horses when we arrive at the farm." Eve came forward to stand next to Cassandra.
"I will accompany you and help to protect her, Jenkins," she said. A startled look came to the older man's face.
"Flynn is your witch," he reminded her, "Your primary duty is to him!" An intense look came to Eve's blue eyes and she stepped even closer to him so that she could look directly into his eyes.
"You are a fellow Companion," she said, her voice low and forceful, "But more importantly, you are my friend, Jenkins. I will protect your witch for you if you wish it." He gasped softly at the offer, and then his entire demeanor changed. His muscles loosened and the anxiety in his dark eyes vanished.
"There is no need for that, though I thank you for the offer, Sister," he answered, and gave her a small nod. He picked up the bag of medicines and made a slight bow to Cassandra.
"Someone needs to remain behind, anyway, and inform Mr. Carsen of what has happened and protect him, if need be," he went on briskly, and then he turned to Cassandra. "Shall we go now, Mistress?"
"I will follow you in a moment," Cassandra answered, "I want to speak with Eve, first." Jenkins glanced between the two women, but he only nodded and hurried from the house without another word. Cassandra turned to Eve, and the Companion was surprised to see tears in the young woman's eyes.
"Was I too harsh towards him?" she asked in an urgent voice. Eve smiled at her and went to put her arm around Cassandra's shoulders.
"No, you were fine," she said, and gave Cassandra a squeeze. "You must be forceful sometimes with your Companion. We are very attached to our witches, you see, and we take our duties very seriously. Sometimes, in our zeal to protect, we forget that we are servants and not partners." Cassandra turned and gave Eve a stricken look.
"But I do not want him to be just a servant!" she said vehemently, "I do want Jenkins to be my partner! I want us to be equals!" Eve moved to stand directly in front of Cassandra.
"Listen to me, Cassandra," she said, "I understand what you are saying, but Companions can never be equal to their witches!"
"Why not?" Cassandra demanded to know.
"Because we are meant to be servants," Eve tried to explain as patiently as she could. She silently reprimanded Samuel yet again for not raising his daughter properly in her heritage. "There must be a leader in the relationship between a witch and their Companion, and the leader is always the witch. The witch gives the orders; the Companions obey. That is simply the way of it."
"Then witches are no better than the Village Council!" Cassandra cried and backed away from Eve. "One owns the other, one commands the other, because that is simply the way of it! Well, I do not want that way with Jenkins! I do not want to be with him as a master and her slave! I want to be with him as partners, each with an equal say! And if I cannot do that with Jenkins—then there will be no Ritual of Binding! I will not be a sorceress!"
Eve, flabbergasted by the younger woman's passion and defiance, could only stare at Cassandra for several seconds with her mouth hanging open. Never had she heard a witch speak so, nor had she ever heard in the Void of a magic-user who wanted witches and Companions to be on an equal footing. When she finally found her voice again, Eve took a step toward Cassandra.
"You are a strange woman, Cassandra Cillian," she said, her voice slightly wondering. "Strange, but wonderful at the same time I think." Her ire spent, Cassandra gave the Companion an apologetic look.
"Do you think me wonderful enough to still allow me to stay with you and Flynn tonight when we return from the farm?" she asked. Eve burst into laughter.
"Of course!" she assured her, and a relieved smile spread across Cassandra's face. Eve slung her arm around Cassandra's shoulders and leaned in as if about to share a secret.
"A member of the congregation has given us a bag of dried ginger for his tithes, and I happen to know that a certain white-haired Companion absolutely adores sweets! I will have a ginger bread waiting for you both when you return."
Cassandra grinned with delight at the thought of the huge, somber Jenkins delighting in a simple slice of ginger bread as Eve walked her out of the Physician's House to the two men waiting impatiently for her outside.
Eve had just slipped the ginger bread into the coals in the fireplace to bake when Flynn finally came home, his face flushed and worried. Eve stood up and walked towards him at once, wiping her fingers dry on her apron.
"Flynn, what is it?" she asked, her blue eyes filled with concern.
"I've just come from the market; something is going on with Magistrate DuLaque," he said tautly as he looked around for the others.
"We already know," Eve answered steadily, prematurely, as it turned out.
"You have heard the gossip in the market about the farmer, Grimstead?" Flynn asked, and when Eve, frowning in puzzlement, shook her head he went on. "All of his cows died last night for no discernible reason. Sheriff Stone was seen speaking with DuLaque, and then he was seen leading two saddled horses through the village, his face very grim."
"He came to the Physician's House and asked Jenkins to go with him to a farm," Eve informed her husband soberly as she quickly put the pieces together, "But he would give no details in front of Cassandra and me. She and Jenkins went with him, though." Flynn shook his head, his hands clasped tightly together, and began to pace nervously.
"I do not like this," he muttered as he walked. "DuLaque is up to something, I can feel it in my bones! Once a witch-finder, always a witch-finder!" Eve went to her witch and put her hand on his shoulder.
"I know it is dangerous, Flynn, but—perhaps this would be a time to use magic to find out what he is about?" she suggested tentatively.
"There is no need for that! He wants Cassandra; that is what he is about!" Flynn said harshly, "But why is he so insistent now? I mean, yes, he has always wanted to take Cassandra to wife, but ever since Samuel's death he has been even more persistent; why?" Flynn's jaw clenched as he blew a deep breath through his nose, trying to puzzle it all out. Finally he looked at Eve and heaved a heartfelt sigh of resignation.
"It will be dark soon," he finally said, "We will wait. They will likely return before sundown; perhaps she and Jenkins will have learned something at the farm that may shed some light on all of this…"