Wren wanted to call out to them, to stop the magic coursing swiftly toward its prey, but of course there was nothing she could do. Even if she did reveal herself as a source and tell the couple what she saw, it would be useless trying to convince them of a danger they could not see for themselves. They might think her a witch.
And so she stayed still and looked on in horror as the dark magic wrapped itself around the man’s ankle and pulled him roughly to the ground. He hit the cobblestones with a dull thud, his head bouncing limply once before coming to rest. The woman fell to her knees beside him, shaking his shoulder insistently.
“Henry,” the woman cried. “Someone help my husband.”
A ring of wary onlookers gathered but kept their distance. Wren shivered, her arms covered with goose bumps as she watched the dark magic creep across the length of the man’s body like a horde of spiders. When the magic reached his mouth, it hesitated. Then the darkness disappeared up his nose. The man’s entire being shuddered, and then he gasped, his eyes shooting open. Even from where Wren stood, she could see the wildness within.
“Henry.” The man’s wife flung herself on him, tears still falling from her face. But instead of returning her embrace, the man pawed at his wife, pushing her off and away until he could scramble backward.
“What are you doing?” The man’s teeth chattered wildly. “What do you want?”
The woman stopped mid-sob. “Henry, please, it’s me.” She flung herself forward, grabbing her husband by the arm. He shook her off roughly, his fear palpable.
“Don’t touch me,” the man said. “Please, leave me alone.”
The crowd of onlookers began to disperse. Signs of the plague were evident in the man’s actions. No one wanted to risk contamination. Wren, however, could not seem to pull her eyes away as the man got shakily to his feet. The woman flung herself at his ankle. “Your name is Henry. I am your wife. We have three sons.”
The man’s expression was haunting. The woman’s words meant nothing to him, were so impossible he could not even fathom their meaning. He bent down, trying to extract the woman from his limb.
“Please, Henry.” The woman had returned to sobbing. “You know me. You love me.” Her voice broke, her desperation tangible. It sent a shiver up Wren’s spine.
All the while, the man remained unchanged, methodically trying to remove the woman from his person. The wife held on tight, but in the end the man triumphed.
“I know not who you are or what you want,” the man said, his voice booming in the empty square, “but, woman, leave me be.” With that he turned and fled, leaving his wife crying and crumpled on the cobblestones.
As he ran, a black curtain of magic trailed behind him like a shroud.
Wren’s heart ached for the woman. Her instinct was to offer comfort, but in the end, fear won, as it often did. She hoisted her nearly empty basket over her shoulder and made her way quickly down the path toward her cottage. Now that she knew what to look for, she began to notice dark magic clinging to the homes of the afflicted like a shadow. Now, with just a glance at the smoke emanating from the chimneys of her neighbors, she could identify who the plague’s next victim would be.
It was too much. Her stomach churned with unease as she inhaled the sulfurous stink of the dark magic. The sickness was spreading. It was only a matter of time before it came for her father. She was surprised it hadn’t already struck.
Wren shivered as she maneuvered her way around a patch of weeds with razor-sharp thorns. She stumbled, sinking into a puddle of bubbling mud and walking straight into a tree branch stuck sideways from its fallen trunk. It tore into her shoulder, catching her sleeve and slicing open her skin.
Wren swore, struggling to extract herself from the clutches of the sharp stick. She was so used to branches bending away from her that she had forgotten to pay attention to her surroundings. Three tiny drops of blood soaked through the thin, flax-colored linen of her shirt. Wren rolled her eyes to the sky, cursing her clumsiness, when her attention caught on a newly unfurled ribbon of black. Her jaw clenched with dread before her eyes had even finished tracing the streak of magic to the worn, thatched roof of her own cottage.
She ran home so quickly she had trouble coming to a stop. Her shaking hands struggled with the latch on the front gate long enough that she finally decided to vault over it. She moved awkwardly, ungracefully. Too much momentum barreled her forward into the door. She didn’t have time to consider her actions, didn’t think what was next; she just fell into the front room of the cottage, her father’s name on her lips.
“Papa.” Wren’s voice fell flat. The door to her father’s room was ajar, sunlight spilling into the usually darkened space. There was no sound, not the shifting of sheets nor any murmurs of pain.
Only silence.
“Papa.” Wren spoke more forcefully this time, one hand on the door to his room, the other pulling on the end of her braid so hard it made her head ache. She needed to check on him, and yet she couldn’t bear to.
There was a metallic tang on her tongue. A low, rumbling moan came from the back room. A draft blew through the room, despite the fact that the front door was closed and the windows were sealed. Wren swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to know.
She pushed her way into
