Hairs plucked under moonlight. I hear my mother’s voice recounting how witches wait till the full moon to pluck hairs for their blackest magic. As if hearing my thoughts, a guard suddenly calls, ‘Who’s there!’ One hand on his sword and the other holding a lantern, the guard trots towards the two figures.

The candle man doesn’t even startle. Instead, he and the hooded figure wait, calm as anything, for the guard to approach. The guard raises the lantern to the candle man’s face. It’s the Willow Tree.

Then the other man pulls off his hood. The guard starts back. Then hastily bows his head. It’s not a man. It’s the Queen.

She directs the guard to join her. He follows at her side like a dog, lighting the way to the scroll door that leads to her quarters. The Willow Tree watches them go, then pinches out his candle and shuffles across the stone courtyard with only moonlight to guide him.

My arms and legs get light like I might swoon. The witch finder is collecting hairs for witchcraft and the Queen is a part of his treachery. And I witnessed it. Had I returned home direct after the prisoner’s Recitation, I’d never have seen a thing.

Ruth. Mayhap this is why I was drawn to her cell. Mayhap it’s time to sort out this mess.

I hear Bessie’s voice, You’ve your mother’s blood in you. My mother never sat back waiting for something to happen. She was wary like a fox, but a hunter still.

But what can I do? I ask my Daffrey blood. There are guards all about the castle, and, worse still, Black Fingers.

Follow the Willow Tree, my blood says. Softly, nimbly, find out his game.

The Willow Tree’s shadowed figure is growing harder to see. My whole body’s alight with nerves as I begin to trail him.

I follow him across the courtyard, beyond the scroll door. He passes through an archway where the stones are crumbly beneath our feet. I get a sudden inkling where he’s headed. I’ve been here once before. He finally stops before two ancient, wooden doors. The Queen’s private Makerhall. Then he disappears inside.

And I follow.

I step as quiet as my new shoes allow into the Queen’s Makerhall. The Willow Tree’s vanished. Just then, there’s a small scrape up by the altar. I duck down behind a pew as the Willow Tree appears from the vestment room, holding a long beeswax candle. A woman I don’t know follows after, carrying a cloth bundle. The Willow Tree begins to chant softly.

He’s saying stranger words mixed with Anglish. It’s not a new faith prayer. It’s witchcraft, I know it.