Neither of them were shocked. But they both seethed. In their own ways they were witnesses to the whole affair, from start to finish, powerless to stop the lives of others. She covered herself as best she could, her back to him, as she dressed. He did the same. Not a word was said. They clung to the shred of dignity in that silence. She closed the door without so much as glance back.

He sat on the end of the bed and tried to remember the last time he’d woken beside a woman. And harder still, when he’d last fallen asleep beside one.

*

He spent the majority of the evening looking for something. It was difficult to determine just exactly what that something was. He wouldn’t think on it for long. Was he trying to hide it from me? Such a thing was possible, I supposed, by his guarding of his thoughts – wilfully making it harder for me to recall them. I hadn’t been aware of Christophor ever doing so before, but then I wouldn’t if he’d been successful. Of course, a simpler explanation could be that whatever he was avoiding was too difficult to countenance, even for a hardened, pig-headed Special Inspector.

He was cold as he combed the streets. The sky was starlit and winter-clear. He should have found his witch by now and discharged his duty. He was outstaying his welcome.

That was how it felt as he passed men and women about their business on streets such as… I couldn’t tell exactly where in Drekenford he was; the night still had its shadows and he didn’t pause to look at signs. But wherever he went people saw him and then pursed their lips and shook their heads.

Christophor had more than enough experience of the animosity of a local populace. But typically that came after arrests, accusations, trials, and the like. It was a quick shift in the wind: people who were more than willing to help bring a witch to justice would, hours later, be keen to see the back of him. Drekenford had decided against the first part of the bargain. It made him wonder how badly things might go before the end. So far he could still walk the streets unimpeded. That was something.

He went to the river, looking up and down the deserted banks. He followed it as far as he was able towards the stone bridge, before a property’s rear wall forced him back into the warren of streets. He found the bridge similarly empty of whatever he sought, which evidently wasn’t short tempered cart-drivers or their longsuffering draft horses.

Christophor was almost back at the inn when he stumbled across the very thing he’d been searching for. It, or more accurately they, were standing in the covered entrance of one of Drekenford’s larger smithies. Their attention was total. The hot light from the forge gave them a devilish hue and their eagerness positively cackled in the air about them. Victor and Julia Eder, two children singular in purpose.