They summoned me to Derrywine Girls Academy in the quiet country lands due north of the Great City. It was a school for children of the elite, where the status of the name meant considerably more than the quality of the education.
Strange things had begun to occur. Mutilated remains of birds, mostly pigeons, were found in the grass outside the girls’ dormitory. Unidentified bones were found amongst the ashes in the great hearth in the central building. All around the school’s perimeter, strange markings were discovered on the trees. There was some speculation that the writing material had been blood, but they hadn’t the means to verify this.
More troubling was the sickness. Students, teachers, and administrators alike had been struck by sudden illness. A virus, or even a plague, would have been assumed, had the symptoms not varied so greatly. Terrible vomiting for some. Pus-filled boils for others. A desperately swollen tongue. A foot that rotted away overnight with seemingly no cause.
So I was summoned.
My work is valued for its discretion. The last thing the school wanted was for any of their wealthy donors to know that there was a witch on the grounds.
I met the girls one by one in the chief administrator’s office. My test is very simple. I ask questions about the suspect’s family, beliefs, and activities. I then make the suspect read passages from the Holy Bible. Finally, I prick the skin extensively in search of the Witch’s Mark.
But truth be told, these tests are just for show. I know right away.
A girl named Jemina Hawthorne was the witch. She was small and dark in the eyes. She made little attempt to hide her hostility. Despite her anger, her answers were well considered and she showed no sign of struggling with the Good Word.
She only gave herself away at the very end. My pricking tool has a hollow wooden shaft where the needle may retract as pressure is applied. It gives the impression that the needle has been driven deep into the flesh, while the skin remains unpunctured. The Witch’s Mark cannot be pierced you see.
In the hands of another, this could be used to serve as false proof in a witch-hunt.
My needle did not pierce Jemina’s skin, but she bled all the same. A very clever witch, indeed.
“How many suspect you?” I asked. Jemina tensed. Still, she answered.
“More than I can name.”
I sighed. “I suppose it’s not your fault. No one ever taught you, did they?”
So I began my real work.
Ila Flowers, a washwoman, was named as the witch and burned alive. Two trouble-free months later, Derrywine Academy itself burned to the ground, taking nearly all of the students and staff with it. Jemina Hawthorne was pronounced dead.
The woman who used to be Jemina Hawthorne now serves as my apprentice. We “hunt” witches from shore to shore.
Someone has to teach her the value of discretion, after all.
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