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starved rather than give them up, starved. And it's a painful way to go, right painful it is, sir. So she cursed them, cursed them all, the members of the town, saying they'd damned well—pardon me, sirs, it's what she said. If they wouldn't give her meat nor drink when alive, they'd damned well give it to her when she was dead, or they'd suffer her agonies many fold. Manyfold, indeed."
    "I'd have felt like cursing them myself," Rob said, twirling his half-empty mug between his hands. "There probably was no coven. No names to give that would have saved her."
    "Oh, no sir! No sir, there were names. They were seen, seen by the priest of the village himself, led to the glade by a young girl they'd failed to convert. Failed to convert and she turned on them. Brought the priest to the glade by the standing stone, and they watched the white bodies dance widdershins around the May Eve fire.
    Beltane, in the old ways, and naked, they were. When they knew they were discovered, they fled into the woods, fled into the woods and the priest caught the ankle of just one witch. One witch, and that was Mistress Ann."
    Dean shuddered. "Poor old lady."
    "Old?" Mr. Wickett looked surprised. "I never said she was old, oh, she wasn't old, sir. Flower of her maidenhood—well, let's say flower of her youth, if it's true what they say about witches. She was young, sir, young as a spring morning and just as beautiful." His mouth trembled with what looked like grief.
    Rob laid a hand on the man's arm. "It was over four hundred years ago."
    "But people don't change, do they? They don't change."
    "She was beautiful, then," Dean mused. "I suppose I picture the Anne Boleyn type for a young witch. Utterly fascinating, with jet black hair and eyes like sloes." It occurred to him that there was a masculine version of the species sitting just opposite, and Dean, flushing, was careful not to look at him.
    "Oh, they said Anne Boleyn was a witch, too, bewitched the king, didn't she?
    Beautiful as she was, Queen Anne was nothing like our Mistress Ann. Nothing like, sir. Mistress Ann had hair as yellow as the narcissus by the river, eyes as blue as robin's eggs.

    Lips like the blush of dawn, and when they curved into a smile there was a half-moon dimple appeared in her left cheek. Right here," he said, indicating the spot, "here in her left cheek." A tear spilled out of one eye, rolling unashamed down his broad face.
    The description jarred a memory, and Dean realized it wasn't Mistress Ann that the landlord was grieving for. "Patsy. She sounds exactly like Patsy, who used to serve here."
    Mr. Wickett wiped his face with his towel. "Aye. Patsy's gone now, isn't she? The witch is still here, though, still here, you can mark my words upon it. Those who don't want bad luck offer her a drop of ale or a bite of victuals now and again, now and again. Townspeople, of course, she'd have no ill-will to traveling men like yourselves, sirs. Oh, no ill-will toward you."
    "But still..." Dean remembered the ritual, although the flirtatious Patsy had never told them the tale behind it. He lifted his mug and poured the dregs onto the floor, then scattered the remaining crumbs of cheese from his plate on top of it. Rob was quick to follow his example, and the publican looked pathetically pleased.
    "Right kind of you gentlemen, right kind. And may Mistress Ann bless you with good fortune for your kindness."
    Mr. Wickett excused himself, going back to his kitchen to prepare for the evening customers who would never come. "Is it a good thing or a bad thing," Rob wondered when he was gone, "to be blessed by a witch?"
    "I'll take whatever luck I can get," Dean said, rising. "I wish I could ask what became of Patsy."
    Rob remained seated at the table, straightening his dishes uselessly. '"People don't change,' Wickett said. Perhaps the townspeople..."
    "Killed her for practicing the dark arts?" Dean shook his head. "Hardly possible in this day and age."
    "No," Rob agreed. He rose to