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She didn’t do it.

No. No. No no no no no no no.

No!

She hadn’t done anything wrong. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest, drowning out her frantic thoughts, her erratic breathing, the water droplets rhythmically slipping from her fingertips into the tub. It wasn’t her fault. It couldn’t be. The boy had...

Thrashing. Water sprayed across the bare wooden floorboards. Her strong hands tried to steady the flailing limbs. Blood, through his teeth. His tongue had been bitten. Then, the frothing. It sputtered from his trembling lips. His small body clenching and shuddering, fighting off whatever demons had seized him. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t save him from their ghastly hold. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t. She struggled to fend off the vivid recollections.

Her wide eyes met the large honey ones below. The thick, tawny hair gently waving across the pale forehead. Her nails brushed the blue lips, parted slightly, as if trapped in disbelief. The discolorations circling his upper arm, her hand forever imprinted on his now cool skin.

The water was tepid, no longer fitting for a bath. She’d no idea how long she kneeled there beside the clawfoot tub. Her muscles ached, still taught, still stuck in the memory. She could feel her chest tightening, her breaths coming shallow now, her vision clouding, as if she, not he, were the one beneath the water’s surface. Her face was wet. From tears or from the water, she did not know.

She began shivering violently. The sodden boards beneath the old woven bathmat shook, threatening to snap and toss her to the level below. She almost wished they would. The boy had been the last of them. She had loved him fervently, so much that he might’ve sprung forth from her own loins. She had held him fiercely to her breast, knowing that she would die before letting death steal him away. She would have never let him follow in the footsteps of the lost ones. She would silently swear, watching over him after she had lain him in his bed, not yet daring to return to her own, that she would protect him from the shadows lying in wait.

But it was his fate. She should’ve known better than to think she could fend off an ancient power. The nearby townsfolk had known. They had warned her master that if he did not dispose of her, his last surviving heir would too perish. That she was cursed. A witch, in league with the devil. Murderer of innocents. The master refused to listen.

She couldn’t deny it, that death haunted her steps. The master’s wife had borne him four sons. The two elder and the youngest had been taken by bodily sickness, one after another. She had been with child once more after recovering from her debilitating sorrow. But her frail body had been too weak for the unusual birth; the babe, her golden locks already grown thick, had been turned around. Neither of them had been ready.

By rumor’s account, she had poisoned the boys with her dark spells and cursed the madam and her unborn daughter. They whispered that her master had bedded her, that she was jealous and wanted him for her own. The tales stretched back many years. The master had taken in a poor refugee and her young daughter fifteen years ago. The mother had grown ill, and was no longer able to tend the family’s needs. Her daughter, then old enough, had taken over the servantly duties. The mother passed not long after, and darkness swept over the daughter’s heart, grief and rage corrupting her soul. Turning her over to the evil ways. Seducing her master with vicious intent.

But she knew the truth. She was too little to understand her mother’s circumstances then, but she had listened to her stories. Of the voyage across the sea, of life beyond the island, of a homeland far away. Of people like her, with golden skin and dark hair and spiritual ties akin to no other, who were not bound to lives of servitude but instead of free will. Whose lives among the towering trees were as simple as they were magical.

They were merely stories, she knew, to lull her to sleep and nurture fantastical dreams in the small bed they shared. She knew her mother lay awake while she rested, writing in a diminutive, black leather-bound journal, her only belonging aside from the clothes she wore. She had opened it, years after her passing, only to find one page scrawled upon. She hadn’t understood it then, all those nights of scratching of ink-dipped pen to paper, how these could be the only words she wrote, where the others could’ve gone. But, now...

She focused again on the boy, his lifeless form lying silently beneath the water, taking up so little space in the expansive tub. She let out a quiet sob, breaking the still air around her. She had not imagined this path, but it seemed as if it had already been destined. She questioned if her mother had known of the casualties that would line her way.

Her lips moved softly, her sentiments drifting through the empty house and echoing in her mind. And, with sudden haste, she lifted herself off her knees, her wet hand slipping against the side of the tub. Her head spun, the room tilting sickeningly. Her stomach roiled. She knew what she had to do. The master would return by evening. Upon entering the scene, he would have no choice but to act. He would have no choice but to hand her over to them.

She turned from the boy and fled the room, her feet thundering down the hallway. She needed a covering, something with substance and value, something that would shelter her from wandering eyes and loose tongues. The master’s wife had many a fine cloak still hanging in his wardrobe. As she neared the end of the hallway, she stiffened her body and lowered her right shoulder. The master never left his door unlocked. But it was an old house, the wood shifting and groaning with every footstep. The metal was weak, creaking and begging to be retired.

Her shoulder collided with the door painfully, releasing under her assault. Her body flew forward, slamming into the rug lain before the foot of the large bed. Something splintered sharply and she gasped, rolling to the side and gripping her shoulder, her blouse now bloodied. She felt it tenderly and found it to be unbroken, though the scratches inflicted during her attack ran deep. But there was no time. She brought herself to her feet again, more slowly this time, and shuffled towards the wardrobe, throwing one door aside. The master’s coats, and beside them, a russet woolen shawl. Dark enough to hide the blood, light enough to not weigh her down in her escape.

Upon donning it, she turned to the hallway once more, but was halted by the sight of the rug. It no longer laid flat, but was instead sunken into the floor, as if slipping into a hole. The sound of her fall came back to her, through her hazy determination, and curiosity motioned her to slide the rug aside. Beneath it was indeed a hole, but it did not lead to the ground level. Instead, a black sack sat nestled upon a stack of papers, unassuming and yet beckoning her hand.

She lifted the bag, its weight taking her by surprise. The objects inside clanked against one another heavily. Her heart seized as her fingers tugged at the golden drawstring; pouring the contents on the ground, she found herself gazing upon more wealth than her lifetime would’ve shown. Gold coins rolled over each other invitingly, as if each were pleading to be touched. But, these riches.. how? She fanned out the papers in their nest, glimpsing words she knew, like “proof of purchase” and “death certificate,” but others were unknown, long and complex, foreign to her. She scanned several receipts before realizing what she had stumbled upon.

Handwritten instructions. Dosages. Estimated times.

Her stomach cemented, and then heaved violently. She turned away, retching and wheezing for minutes that passed so excruciatingly slowly. Hardly processing what she was doing, she swiveled back and frantically shoved the coins back into the sack, tightening the drawstring and securing it round her waistband. She stumbled into the wall, not yet finding her bearing, and used the structure of the house to make her way down the narrow steps, to the back of the house. Her room, indiscriminate, tucked away from visitors’ sights. She tore into the old mattress, the shivering and chills hindering her. After several handfuls of stuffing, she found her mother’s black notebook, worn and soft to the touch. The feel of it comforted her, but upon opening it, her stomach again emptied its remaining contents.

It was so cold now. The dead woman’s cloak round her shoulders felt so heavy, as though weighted with stones. Her throat burned with every shuddering breath.

She opened the book once more, eyes running down the length of the page quickly, and again, more meticulously. Her mother knew something was going to happen, something to cause her to impulsively flee. It was set here, in this paper, her future dictated by words long since gone.

Once her satchel was packed with her scant possessions and necessary provisions, she fled out the back entrance. Her feet precariously carried her over the rolling hills, to the cliffs, and eventually down to the docks. Few boats remained after the bartering charters left, selling their goods and restocking with the island’s bounty. They would return in the months to come, as they always did. For now, the townsfolk had reclaimed the shore, festivities gone and fishing vessels set out once more.

Her mother’s words did not help her find the man, but instead, something inside her pulled her towards a certain ship with one torch lit at the corner of the dock. She calmed her racing heart as she padded towards it quietly. Despite its odd familiarity, its homely appearance and discreet yet elegant carvings along its bow, she was unsettled. The single torch cast just enough light to illuminate the front of the ship and the dock where it gently bobbed, but it was not enough to combat the heavy black that swallowed the cabin. She slowed her pace as she drew nearer.

“Kanna.”

He exited the shadows, coming towards her. The images suddenly flooded her mind. The master returning. The darkened grimace at the sight of his last remaining young son, floating in the water. The enraged howl when he came upon the destruction in his quarters. The call to arms, the people thirsting for her blood, blindly following.

She heard it, clear in her mind, engulfing her entirely. She felt their burning hatred hounding her.

“Your fare,” the man’s voice said, straightforward, deep.

Not of her own volition, she untied the coin sack from her waistband and extended it towards him. He lifted it from her stiff fingers and placed a hand on her back, guiding her onto the ship, and sat her upon the bed in the cabin. Some time later, she felt the boat sway, her gut knotting.

To the docks you’ll go. The ferryman you will recognize, the payment you will have. Back home, he will take you. The time, you will know. With my love, home you will go. Kanna, my dearest daughter, do not fret and do not waste, for in my place, you will return once more.