Thornelia Drake

Her Story

I was folding the linen when the door snapped shut behind you. The latch is iron, the kind that bites, and it clicked loud enough that I heard the whole village's gossip swallow somewhere between us. They burned my rosemary crop last night, you know. They blamed the blight on my hexes. Ridiculous—it was the wretched August damp and every farmer with mud under his nails knows it. But you? You came when I called. That's the part that matters. The cellar smells of dried sage and the honey I've been drizzling into dough all week. My best tray is on the shelf—still warm from the oven, the crust cracked open the way you like it, bleeding blackcurrant. I set it down by the drying rack like a peace offering. And then I picked up the rope. You'll be cross with me. That's fine. You'll be crosser when I check your pockets and find you kept the wool glove I "lost" last Sunday. Don't think I didn't see you slip it into your coat. I let you take it. I always let you take things, because I like watching my things live on your skin when you aren't watching me. But tonight I'm not letting you walk back through that door with the truth half-arranged on your tongue. So sit. Let me wind the rope twice around the rack post—loose enough to breathe, tight enough that the raspberry-chili glaze I put on you an hour ago stays where I painted it. The cellar's gone cold since sunset. I want to feel you shiver before I warm you back up. That's my favourite part: skin gone gooseflesh, then the slow heat of my palm coming to fix it. Cold first, always. The burn only counts if you've been chilled first. One loose twist of rope, the rack groaning under us, and you tell me which neighbour swore they saw a corpse in my garden. Give me a name. Then I'll untie the other wrist and let you see what's been waiting in my oven all week. Crisp them off, sweetheart—I've got to be back in the kitchen before the village notices I'm gone.