“Easy, child. Don’t scream, now. It is I, Gretel.”

  Edda’s initial gasp had taken her breath with it and her lungs refused to fill again. A strangled gurgle escaped her lips before she clapped a hand to her open mouth, stifling any further sound. Her eyes were wide with alarm, flitting rapidly over the child and to either side of him. In the distance, the work of unloading the wagons proceeded uninterrupted, and to one side, the kitchens still clamored with activity. But here, in the shadow of the castle wall, she and the boy stood alone.

  “The boy is Peter. He lends himself to me, on occasion.”

  Witchery! True witchery was now before her, and Edda could only gawk at the sight, dumbfounded and somewhat frightened, too. It was Gretel, indeed—it had to be. The old woman’s aged, raspy voice emanated from Peter, his lips moving with her words, though his expression remained empty and unchanged.

  “You’re looking worse than I expected,” Gretel said through the boy, keeping her voice low. His dull eyes moved just barely to peruse Edda, settling upon her arms. “Far worse than I expected. Show me.” Peter made an awkward gesture toward Edda’s hands, holding one of his own chubby ones out. Still stunned, Edda hesitated, shrinking away. “Come now, Edda,” Gretel insisted, Peter’s grubby fingers twitching with impatience, “We haven’t long.”

  Part of her wished to flee, no doubt about it; she had certainly seen enough frightening things of late, and this strange child was no exception. But if it really was Gretel...“It is you, isn’t it?” Edda asked, cautiously.

  “Sure as the blood and smoke I smelled on you then,” Gretel replied briskly, “Sure as the blood and death I smell on you now. Let me see your hands, child.”

  A shiver ran through Edda at these words, a burst of raw fear as blood and smoke and death collided in her memory. Her mouth felt dry, her limbs weak. But she pushed it down and away, swallowed with her sandpaper throat and mustered with her strawman body. It was Gretel, and the woman was perhaps the only one who could truly help her. She extended her arms toward Peter, not quite close enough to touch him, pushing back the sleeves of her cloak.

  Peter’s eyes studied her swollen left wrist, before settling upon her slim, pale right arm. With a remarkably quick movement, he grabbed it, turning it over in a clumsy inspection. His grasp was firm, though. “You mustn’t allow the dead to touch you, child.”

  Almost reflexively, Edda yanked her hand back, drawing it to her body protectively. There was no bruise or mark upon her skin, but Peter’s grip, she realized, had overlapped with where the spirit had held her not long ago—where that icy hot touch had scalded her. She stammered over her words, “It just—I didn’t—”

  “You must not,” Gretel said firmly, her stern words uncanny from the expressionless child, “It must be avoided, Edda. The energy of the living must not pass to the dead.” Was that what had happened? There was a pause as Edda’s mind worked laboriously over Gretel’s words. She could only imagine that Gretel was thinking, too, for Peter’s face gave no indication, but it was his lips that moved first, “To see them is a dangerous thing, as well. For what you can see also sees you.”

  Of course. Of course, it would be so. Edda’s tongue was lead in her mouth. If she did not focus on it, she was certain it would slide back and choke her with terror. In her mind’s eye, she saw the thing in the corner of her bedroom, hunched over, head dangling, turning toward her with its horribly long fingers tense and expectant…She could hear, now, her own breaths come up short and pained, feel the tempo of her heartbeat increasing with the weight of her tongue. It had seen her, hadn’t it?

  “Do not dwell on it, Edda,” Gretel commanded from Peter’s mouth, her words remarkably gentle for all their authority, “Not now, when our time is short. But you must not look upon them again.” Peter’s eyes closed for a moment, then reopened one at a time, like some mockery of a human blink. Despite herself, Edda found herself leaning away, pressing herself tightly to the wall to maintain as much distance between herself and the child as she could. When Gretel spoke again, her voice was hard, “Nonetheless, I must know what you saw there.”

  The words did not come immediately, but when they did, they spilled from Edda’s mouth as a whisper, cracking and shattering like broken glass on her lips, “A girl with no memory of her name.” Edda’s hand drifted toward her neck, brushing the soft skin there; her eyes flitting uncomfortably to the sunlit courtyard, alive with activity as she recalled that grey mask of death. As she tried not to recall the way the girl’s head had fallen upon her shoulder, barely attached to her body. “She--she spoke of skinless ones and...of a witch.”

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  She said those last words so quietly that, for a moment, she was not sure Gretel had heard her. It felt as though minutes passed with Peter’s unsettling gaze upon her, the silence between them punctuated by chuckles, and hollers, and clangs, and thumps from the mundane bustle that was simultaneously beside them and so far beyond them. The brightness of the day seemed like a cruel taunt. The leaden thing in her mouth still threatened to strangle her.

  “Far worse than I expected,” Gretel murmured. Peter’s small fists shook at his sides, the barest expression of fright. Suddenly, as though waking up, his movements took on that artless, inelegant quality once again—he reached into his tunic and, with hands that swayed and floundered, produced a flat, parchment-wrapped package about the size of Edda’s palms put together. He thrust it toward Edda. “The blackthorn and sleeping powder. I am afraid it will not be enough to keep you safe, though.”

  Unthinking, Edda accepted the package. A breath passed before her dread abated enough for surprise to take its place. “How...?”

  Peter jerked a thumb clunkily toward Edda’s feet. She looked down at the cobblestone, identifying the puddle of grey nearby as Korom, before directing a puzzled stare back at Peter. “She lends her eyes to me when I ask,” Gretel explained perfunctorily, but just as Edda’s mouth opened in askance, Gretel continued, “Never mind it. It is not important now.” Peter took a deep, ragged breath, as though he had forgotten how to do so. “If there are skinless about, only salt can keep them at bay. And it has been trying even for me to acquire it this last year.”

  Edda licked lips that were parched and trembling. “I know of—of witches. I haven’t heard of the...” Skinless ones. The very name of them sent a thrill of fear through her.

  “You have; I am certain. Perhaps, by a different name,” Gretel said, “They are called skinless in these parts. In others, bloodbound. I have heard them named hollowborn. Their name matters not. They are those who have come under the thrall of a blood witch. They do its bidding. And neither sunlight nor blackthorn turn them away.”

  Edda’s fingers tightened on the package, crumpling the off-white parchment and pressing into the coveted, but useless branches within. There was no safety to be found even here, then. For all the hope she had placed upon these sticks of blackthorn, she felt not an ounce of relief at having them in her hands. Instead, there was only her tongue, heavy with fear, and a sense of hopeless despair.

  I could not outrun them, the dead girl had said to her. Would Edda even have the chance to run before she met that horrid fate? Would she have even the barest opportunity to scrabble for this life she had already lost once?

  “What am I to do?” she whined softly, and even she could hear the petulant, helpless child in her words. It was bizarre, indeed, to cower here in the light of day before this young boy who spoke to her with a crone’s voice. But the oddness of the situation only accentuated her wretchedness.

  Still, Peter’s face was unmoved. Another struggling breath, another asynchronized blink. “I cannot maintain this for much longer, child. I must return Peter’s body.” Peter shivered, his face drooping, then righting itself once more. Gretel carried on, sluggish and a touch distorted, “Keep some silver upon your person. A knife, too, or something of the sort. Something you can use. Your life may depend on it.” Her voice faded to barely audible, “I will return when next the wagons come.”

  “No,” Edda cried, but already a change seemed to come over the boy. Peter shuddered, fingers convulsing as though strumming an invisible lute. His eyes squeezed shut and his mouth peeled back in a grimace. Edda, who had reached out as though to hold Gretel in place, withdrew hastily, disturbed at the sight before her. “No!”

  Yet, it could not have taken more than two breaths for him to still, for his eyes to open on their whites before rolling back down, clear and blue. Alert for the first time since she had seen him. He stared at her for several seconds, uncomprehending, before ducking his head shyly. Without another word, Peter turned on his heel and ran back toward the wagons, disappearing amongst the servants and guards and drivers who toiled there.

  When Marta poked her head out of the kitchens sometime later, Edda had not moved from her place against the castle wall. She stared after Peter numbly, holding the package that would not save her close to her body, as though some protection might still be found there. Her knuckles were white and her wrist was throbbing, but somehow, she had schooled her expression into one that was merely tense, rather than utterly terrified.

  “I am well,” she assured Marta, dimly; she had said these words so many times recently that she was certain they held no meaning any longer. Edda accepted a mug of what smelt like herbed water, sipping it with absence. She nodded toward where she held Gretel’s package. “I’ve the blackthorn for you to sew into our garments. And more sleeping powder.” Not that either would help, if Gretel was to be believed.

  There was a wariness in the way Marta lingered beside her, a reluctance, perhaps. The shorter woman’s dark eyes scanned out across the busy courtyard, following Edda’s now aimless gaze. Marta inhaled deeply, seeming to brace herself with the breath. “Talk is, the wagon from Tice is not the one the girl left on.”

  Edda nodded, unsurprised. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned her head back against the rough, stone wall. She was so very tired, so very scared, and so, so very helpless. The more she learned, the more profound and evident that helplessness became. Still, as the day’s myriad sounds washed over her, as the spring’s fresh breeze rustled her cloak, she found her fingers toying with the small bottle of lemon balm she had tucked away in her skirts this whole time.

  A reminder that something had changed—whether for good or ill—and, perhaps, a quiet sign that more still could.