Her skin had the lines and spots of a life spent in the sun.

Her hair was long and gray and tangled.

“I’m going to hurt you terribly,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t want to look at the wound again, but I knew I had no choice.

When I did, it took my breath away.

The maggots rolled and roiled as they feasted on the dead flesh around her wound.

I turned to fetch the hot chisel.

But that, right then, was when she woke.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“You didn’t knock,” she said. Her voice was dead-tree dry, but her eyes were so blue that for a moment I forgot she was old.

I gasped at them, at her, at the sound of her voice. It was weak and pale . . . but with a strong echo in it. Something that ignited a spark of memory.

“The door was open,” I said as the echo faded and the spark winked out. “Your dog invited me in.”

At which her eyebrows went up. “Him?” She looked around but stopped, wincing. It clearly hurt her to move.

I stepped aside so the dog could take my place.

“Ah,” she said. “There you are.” She reached out and laid her hand on his head. Closed her eyes. Sighed. And then grabbed the tick on his face and ripped it off with one quick jerk.

He yelped, pawed at his face for a moment, and then sat still again.

She held out the tick. “Put this in one of those jars over there. One of the empty ones. There, on the bottom shelf.”

I had no idea what to say to that. So I fetched a jar, opened the wire bail, took off the lid, and held it out so she could drop in the tick. It bounced like a blueberry.

I put the lid back on and was about to lock the bail when she said, “Leave it loose. Air enough and all that blood will keep her for some time.”

She hadn’t even asked me my name, nor I hers, yet we were talking about ticks.

“But why do you want to keep her?” It was the first time I’d called a tick her.

“I might need her.” She closed her eyes again.

I imagined her squeezing the blood from that tick. Making a potion with it.

Witch, I thought. She’s not a hag. She’s a witch. I took a step away from the bed.

“Don’t be a ninny,” she said, without opening her eyes.

As if she’d heard what I’d thought.

I put the jar on the shelf and then edged closer again, more curious than afraid. I had a hundred questions. Maybe more. I started with, “What’s your name?”

She paused, as if to think. As if no one had asked her that question for a long time. “Cate,” she said.

“Short for?”