"Burn, burn, burn!"

The chant reverberated through the old market place like the throbbing of a dark heart. Smoke billowed, followed by a roar that slammed into the black and white walls of the surrounding houses. They could barely contain the densely-packed crowd whose hate mingled with the heated air that shimmered over the mass of coifs, hats and fists.

A greyish haze separated Rosy from the sweating horde, like ground fog rising on a winter's day. But this was the height of summer, and this mist travelled on the stinking fumes of the fire. It blocked the sight, but not the sound, and sent fingers of searing heat towards the heavens where swallows cavorted in the summer skies.

Their sapphire blue was mocking her. Not for her the freedom. Not for her the escape.

The hissing and spitting of the flames got louder, and the miasma of smoke was all around her now, choking a throat that was already parched.

Not much longer now, and it would be over. Thank the Woods for that!

She should leave, but her body was bound. By fear, by compassion, rather than by the ropes that trapped Enna, trussed to the stake like a chicken on a spit.

Enna, her childhood friend. Her fellow pupil in the lore. Enna, who had fallen in love with one of the Others.

Who had betrayed her when the witch-hunters came a-knocking, and now Enna was paying the price.

Ignoring all orders from the Keepers, Rosy had come to pay a last, sad tribute to her friend. So she wouldn't be alone. None of their folk had dared to join her. Instead, they were hiding back home, debating, fretting over the old scripts. If the constellations were right. If they could dare to risk it. As if there was an escape of from this hell, from a world gone mad!

The first flames licked at the stake, and Enna's scream shrilled from the swelling smoke, drawing a responding roar from the mob.

"Burn, witch, burn."

Oh sweet Green of the Woods, Enna hadn't foresworn on her beliefs. Not that Rosy had expected her to. How could she, when it was all she had? But did it matter in the end, when saying empty words and kissing a cross could spare you the pain? Could make it all—quicker?

Rosy wondered what she would do if—her moment came. She had no answer for that and pushed the thought aside as she watched oily smoke, fired by greedy flames

The Keepers should be here. They could end this. Right here and right now. But no, they were cowering with the others, hiding behind their precious treatises, reciting age-old wisdom.

Tears of rage trickled down her cheeks and dropped onto a kerchief that had been pristine white this morning. Grey now, it became a part of the haze, hiding her like a ghost.

Ash swirled through the marketplace, but the chanting had faded into the background. All Rosy noticed was the pyre—and the agony in her calves. But she didn't dare to move. The walls of the ruined stable she had climbed were broken, stones shifted under her feet if she twitched ever so slightly. Not a good place to be, yet it was the only place where she would look over the crowd and see Enna, without getting any closer to the inferno raging at the centre of the square.

Another scream, filled with high-pitched terror, echoed from the dark black clouds. Then another. And another.

The fire had her! Enna should have sworn off, the priest would have strangled her, saved her the pain.

The rabble shrieked and raged, their hate sweating from their bodies giving off an indescribable stench. Blown away by an unexpected breeze, the smoke parted, and Rosy saw Enna at the stake, the hems of her skirts on fire, red-rimmed eyes staring from a face contorted with pain, her wild stare crisscrossing the crowds.

Rosy raised her hands, drawing that tortured look towards her.

I'm here.

Rosy wanted her companion to live but willed her to die. The writhing body stilled. On that mask of soot and terror, a smile cracked. A smile!

Had Rosy's gift reached her friend?

As if in answer, the face slackened, the eyes closed and the body convulsed one final time, then slumped into the ropes, towards the greedy lancets of the fire that rose around her.

Mercifully, the smoke once more clouded the scene, frustrating the crowds who hooted and screamed at missing such an enticing part of the show.

Bile rose in Rosy's throat, it was over, she had to leave.

But she couldn't. Furies wailing in her ear, Rosy doubled over, while waves of nausea rolled over her body. When they stopped, they left her sweating in the fiendish heat. This would not do. She had to run, escape now, or she would be found out!

Rosy willed her limbs to move, forced them to take tiny steps over the loose rocks, until the movement came more natural and she reached the broken stairs she had climbed up on. Gingerly, she descended, one cracked tread after the other, until the soles of her slippers hit solid ground.

Next, she would have to get out of Marlborough, find the copse where she had tethered Molls and return—not home. That Avebury was no longer.

No place on Earth could ever be home for them. No place would ever be safe.

Rosy dared not move fast, lest she drew attention to herself. Still facing the tightly packed crowd, she crept backwards until she spotted the alleyway on her right. Two, three careful moves got her inside, where she whirled around, bunched up her apron and skirts and hurried along the narrow cobbled lane. On both sides, the cracked walls of the houses pressed against her, the mullioned panes glittering in disdain, watching her flight.

A roar in the distance. Oh saintly Woods, what had happened now? Had she been spotted? Were they coming after her? For a moment she stopped, straining into the hostile silence of the alley.

Nothing, only the sounds of that posse, ebbing and swelling like a hateful sea. But it did not come closer.

Once more, Rosy whirled around and raced on, her slippers slapping on the uneven surface, hopping over that stinking trickle running down the middle of the lane, dodging rotting vegetables and other refuse littering her path.

This time she noticed the doors rose on both sides of her path, narrow doors befitting small minds. Any minute one of them might open, somebody might point the finger at her, accuse her of being who she was. Though she wasn't what they called her people.

Not that the Others would ever care.

The Others.

Bill.

She had no tears left, was blinking rapidly, the lids scraping her eyes like the rough hide of bark.

Half-blind, Rosy stumbled through the maze of alleys. Mercifully, she was alone with the houses, the windows, the doors. Not even a single stray dog came in sight. No rats either, other than those back at the square. Perhaps, she could allow herself to slow down, lean against the wall of that corner building. With her breath still coming in ragged gasps, Rosy strained into the silence crowding the alley together with the heat. Was that the sound of voices, a heavy footfall somewhere behind her?

No time to find out. Once more, Rosy took off, the padding of her slippers and the rushing of her skirts like cannon shots in her ears. What felt like aeons later, she burst from the last alley into the street next to the city walls. Guards patrolled those ramparts and she would have to watch her steps even more.

One. Two. Three. Across the street, she dashed, into the blessed shadow thrown by the walls, before she hurried towards her goal—the private garden of John Ignatius, the esteemed Lord Mayor of Marlborough.

And the little gate in the wall that would lead her towards the orchard, her horse, and safety. Because for other people than hers, those were peaceful times. The city wall had been pierced in many places, the town spilling into the fields beyond. Nobody had grudged the mayor his private portal to the outside world. Its key was now in her pouch, banging heavily against her skirts as she strode on. Bill had been so perplexed when she told him it was over, he had forgotten to ask for it. The key had become a memento of her foolishness—no, that was the Keepers talking. And Bill's parents. And she might as well add her own to the pile.

That key was hers to keep, it was a memory of a love gone by. It also was a useful tool, without which she would never have dared to return to the town.

Only the sunlit space around the old well remained between her and the garden. That was when she heard it. Voices behind her, the shuffling of many boots on the cobbles.

They were coming.

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Music is from E.S Posthumus "Arise". This chapter is dedicated to Truevendetta, who has written a great action novel with "From the Ash".