At home, Anton rushed to warm up dinner, while I hauled the salve off to get washed. I also needed to examine her wounds and assess her overall condition. I was no physician, but within church walls and the Order of Cognimates, I'd picked up enough knowledge to treat simple wounds and ailments. Alas, I'd have to find a real healer. While the bruises might heal and herbal poultices could help with the scabs, the ulcer on her leg looked terrifying—I couldn't handle that alone. And I didn't like her cough.

  Dinner was silent once again. Anton picked gloomily at his plate, eyeing the woman from under his brow. She kept her eyes down but ate her portion ravenously.

  "What's your name? We must call you something," I broke the silence.

  "I don't care. Call me whatever you like."

  "Hmm. Then you shall be Shade. Anton, we'll have to fetch a healer tomorrow. I don't like the look of that ulcer on her leg, nor the cough. By the way, how long have you had that cough?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Brew her some chamomile and thyme. She should drink it before bed. Do you want to draw?"

  Shade flinched, raised her eyes, then dropped her gaze to her right hand, which had let the spoon fall limply.

  "Anton will show you to your room and give you paper and a pencil. Practice. Remember your skills. You may be needed very soon."

  Shade rose from the table, supported by Anton. I added as she left, "And please, draw your daughter for me."

  The slave's back jerked, her shoulders hunching defensively. She slowly turned back to me, shrugging off the boy's hand.

  "How... How do you know that...?" She was seized by another fit of that relentless cough.

  I smiled wearily. "I know many things, Shade. More than I'd like to, even. Good night."

  A full-blown storm was now raging outside, flashes of lightning illuminating the weary city. The stifling heat had finally broken; tomorrow would be a wonderfully cool day, full of tasks and chores. I fell asleep the instant my head touched the pillow.

  And I awoke not in my own bed. Bound.

  My head throbbed like an alarm bell. A weary Anton sat nearby, and in the corner of the room, Shade cowered, looking at me with frank horror and disgust.

  "A bout?" I rasped. My throat was scratchy; my vocal cords felt torn. A wild, paralyzing cold gripped me, as if I were back in the monastery cellars again.

  Anton nodded silently, untying me and handing me a mug of herbal infusion. I drank it greedily and tried to sit up. Everything swam before my eyes; a terrible weakness washed over me.

  "Just lie down," Anton tried to lay me back, but I stubbornly sat up on the bed, swaying slightly.

  "What time is it?"

  "Eight in the morning."

  I grimaced. Martin and his father were due at nine, followed by the solicitor. I still had to find a healer. And also... I remembered with a start. "Were you able to record or remember anything?"

  Anton's expression darkened. "Better. When it started, I woke Shade. She managed to sketch almost everything."

  "Let me see." I snatched the stack of drawings from him hungrily.

  A dead woman, crucified on stones, with a huge belly. I crumpled the drawing—Bitch, it's a pity you're already dead. A giant lynx, tripped mid-leap, tumbling headlong into an abyss, yet with a human face for some reason. I set that one aside. A painting of a forsaken cemetery; a church built of bones loomed in the distance. Symbolic, amusing, and even rather charming. A huge cauldron over a fire, with people floating inside. A giant figure in a robe stood beside it, stirring the brew. What did that mean? Set that aside too.

  Next, Anton handed me a large sheet of paper, and I flinched. The entire drawing was dominated by an enormous mushroom with a sprawling mycelium, cast like a net over the city. Within every fold of the fungus, human figures were discernible, their faces twisted in pain and fear. They stretched out their hands, pleading for help, desperate to escape their prison, but unable. The artist had masterfully captured their agony—stunning talent. I lifted my eyes to Shade.

  "You are simply marvelous. You have a true gift."

  The slave looked at me with a hunted gaze. Choked by a cough, she forced out the words: "Are you... a witch?"

  "What? Oh, I see. Anton, was I... unruly?"

  "Mhm," the boy mumbled, already retreating. "I'll go and make a breakfast."

  Shade and I were left alone.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "No, I am not a witch."

  "But last night..."

  "I had an episode. It happens sometimes."

  "You behaved like a madwoman. Rolling on the floor, scratching, cursing... Anton barely managed to restrain you and tie you down..."

  "I'm not denying it. I am mad."

  Shade's eyes widened in horror.

  "How many sorcerers have you met in your life?"

  "Not a single one," the woman shrank further into the corner. "Please, send me back."

  "You've never seen a single sorcerer. So how can you claim I am one?"

  "All sorcerers are mad! Even a child knows that."

  "Correct. All sorcerers are mad. But! Not all who are mad are sorcerers." I deliberately paused, giving her time to untangle that knot of logic.

  "I don't understand."

  "There are many, many mad people. But sorcerers are far fewer. See? Take you, for instance."

  "What about me?" Shade's head snapped up, bewildered.

  "You are mad too."

  "That's not true!"

  "You are. Though your madness is almost imperceptible. It manifests in your gift. What is madness, after all? Madness is when you differ from the accepted norms of behavior or ability. For example, Anton. He is perfectly normal. Let's take him as the standard. Can he draw what is hidden in a person's soul, like you? No, he cannot. Therefore, you can and do what others cannot. Therefore, you are different. And therefore, you are mad."

  "I... I just draw. Many people can draw."

  "True. And who says they aren't mad? So don't judge others. A sorcerer, though... A sorcerer is one who has crossed a certain line. Beyond it, there is nothing but destruction and malice, no emotion, no desire. A sorcerer is no longer human but a soulless creature, reveling in its power..."

  I fell silent for a long while, staring into the void. Shade remained silent with me.

  "Let's leave it at that. We have a great deal to do today."

  Shade shook her head, coughing in denial. She clearly didn't believe a word I'd said.

  "Do you know what I do?"

  The woman shook her head again.

  "Private investigations. I have a wealthy client at the moment. I must find her missing daughter, a seven-year-old girl. I believe she was taken by a witch. How old is your daughter now?"

  Shade remained silent, listening to me with deep mistrust, making no move to answer.

  "Do you know what's in your last drawing? That's what the witch is using to destroy people. Fungal witchcraft. Or something very similar. So you've confirmed my suspicions. Let's go have breakfast."

  Martin and his father arrived as we were eating. Anton invited them to the table, serving delicious cheese pancakes and brewing a curious foreign drink—coffee. The guests had brought delicate, fragrant raisin buns, which nearly restored me to my senses. After a bout, I was always ravenously hungry, so I demolished the food in moments. Shade didn't utter a word.

  Martin's father turned out to be a spry, cunning old man, utterly in love with his craft. He was, in fact, the only one who spoke during breakfast. He detailed his signature recipes, boasted about the seven types of dough starter he'd smuggled out of a besieged city, listed all the spices he planned to purchase soon, mused aloud at length about what to name the bakery, and didn't seem to notice that no one was really listening. Anton was gloomy and weary, I was stuffing myself indecorously, and Shade had withdrawn into herself. Only Martin pretended to listen, nodding along to his father.

  We waited for the solicitor and closed the deal with Martin. He was shocked to learn I'd bought a slave the day before, but upon hearing I intended to grant her freedom after she'd worked off her cost, he relaxed, finally convinced of my honesty and decency.

  "Lidia, you promised to visit the church. There's a Sunday service today at noon," Anton was resolute. "You can ask the priest where to find a healer."

  "I'm not going."

  "I asked about Father George. The neighbors speak well of him."

  I hated the church and everything connected with it. Honestly, I didn't know whom I despised more: churchmen or sorcerers.

  "Well, alright," Anton clearly wasn't about to back down. "But you still need to enlist the church's help. Matters of witchcraft should be handled by the inquisition, not a secular investigator."

  "I don't want to. I'll figure something out."

  "Madame is afraid to enter a church?" Shade looked at me with suspicion.

  What could I possibly say to that? How to explain? I sighed.

  "Fine. We'll all go to the Sunday service together. Let's have a look at this vaunted Father George."

  The church was modest and cozy enough; the service lulled me into a stupor, and I slept through it quite peacefully on Anton's shoulder. He shook me awake rather crossly when it was over, nodding toward the priest. Father George, white-haired and slight, approached and greeted us.

  "You must be my new parishioners? Recently purchased baron Galitsky's house?"

  "Yes," I studied the clergyman closely, searching for the familiar spark of madness in his eyes. Bitter experience had taught me that nearly all clerics were mad fanatics, best kept at arm's length. But in those clear eyes, the color of a spring sky, I found not a trace. It was strange, disconcerting. Though any exception, I suppose, only proves the rule.

  "I am pleased to welcome you to the church. I hope you will become devoted parishioners."

  "Have no doubt. Father George, could you direct us to a good healer?"

  "Has something happened?" The priest seemed genuinely concerned.

  "I purchased a slave yesterday. She is in poor condition, I fear..."

  "A slave?" Father George frowned and shook his head disapprovingly. "Slavery is degrading, unworthy of a true believer. The Church condemns both slave traders and those who abet them."

  "The Church condemns?" I could feel the vitriol rising. "And what, pray tell, has your Church done to eradicate slavery? Does the Church perhaps buy and free slaves? Or has the Holy Consistory excommunicated the voivodes on whose lands slavery thrives? What, exactly, does your Church do? What can it do, besides condemn?" Anton tugged at my sleeve, and I fell into an angry silence.

  Father George shook his head ruefully.

  "It is not within my power to answer for the whole Church or the decrees of the Holy Consistory. Each of us is answerable only for his own actions."

  "I bought a slave who was destined for the mines, though I doubt she'd have survived the voyage. Let us speak of it no further. Help me find a healer. Render what—" I paused pointedly, "—assistance you can."

  "Of course. I shall see to it. This afternoon, a healer from the church hospital will be here. She visits our orphanage every Sunday, tending to the poor orphans. You may leave your... ward here," the old man hesitated, "she seems to have difficulty walking. Meet with the healer this evening, and she will prescribe what is needed."

  "Thank you."

  "I hope you will also not turn away from the charitable work of caring for orphans. The church orphanage would gladly accept any assistance you can offer."

  "Naturally," I reached into my bag and produced my purse. "A donation of ten gold should suffice, I hope?"

  "Not everything is measured in coin," the old man's expression hardened. "I hope you will find the time to offer the orphanage more than just money—your attention, perhaps. Visit the children sometime. They long for guests and small gifts. You may keep your money."

  The old man turned and made to leave. How very righteous. As if I had nothing better to do than fuss over orphans. Found himself a little saint, he has.

  Anton tugged my sleeve again and whispered, "Ask about the Inquisition. Maybe there's a representative in the city."

  I drew a deep breath and called out to Father George with all the reverence I could muster.

  "I apologize for my rudeness. I meant no offense. Your Grace, I require assistance with another matter."

  The clergyman hesitated, then turned back to me. I had evidently made a poor impression.

  "Anyone can err. But only a true believer in the One can acknowledge his mistakes and repent of them. Repent sincerely," the old man emphasized the last phrase.

  "Tell me, where should I apply to report an instance of witchcraft?"

  The clergyman's brow furrowed unexpectedly. "Witchcraft? Are you certain? People very often confuse sorcerers with simple mad ones, when in truth they are merely poor, afflicted souls."

  "I assure you, I do not confuse them."

  "Sorcerers are nothing but the invention of ignorant laymen, an excuse for their own weakness, and—"

  "Enough, holy father!" I felt Shade's gaze fixed upon me. "Do you mean to say you do not believe in sorcerers?"

  "I believe only in the One," the old man replied sternly. "And I advise you not to forget it."

  "Very well. So you deny the existence of sorcerers? Have I understood you correctly? That, if I may say so, borders on heresy, Your Grace. The existence of sorcerers is officially recognized by the Holy Consistory. They are the concern of the Holy Inquisition and the ecclesiastical investigation. Or should I take this matter directly to the bishop?"

  "Very well. The One's will be done." The old man waved a hand and sighed heavily. "An inquisitor recently arrived in the city. He is my former pupil. I shall give you his address. And yet..." He hesitated, studying me intently. "Are you certain of your suspicions? These are grave accusations. They can ruin a person."

  "You have never encountered sorcerers, have you, holy father?" I was weary of his obstinacy.

  "No. But I have many times seen the unjustly accused..."

  "And I have seen the victims of a sorcerer. Many victims: men, women, children. Torn apart, mutilated, tortured to death. Tell their families that sorcerers do not exist. That they are merely an invention."

  The old man stepped back, stunned.