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dangerous to mention the name Blind Mary to strangers.’ He rested his axe on his shoulder and reeled away towards the forest.
    Hazel remained where she was, unsure whether to follow him or run away. The stranger’s voice floated back through the darkness. ‘Come with me, young sapling . . .’
    ‘I don’t like this at all,’ Bramley said. ‘Let’s just go.’
    ‘No,’ Hazel whispered back, plucking him from her curls and hiding him in her cloak pocket. ‘We need to hear what he knows about Mary. I’m worried about her.’ She
followed the man to the door of a wooden cabin on the edge of the clearing.
    ‘Come in,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ve no reason to be afraid of me.’
    After a moment’s hesitation, Hazel entered a candlelit kitchen, neatly furnished with a stove, table, and a chest of drawers carved with trees and woodland animals. A ladder led up to a
loft – the bedroom, she supposed.
    ‘Welcome to my home,’ the man said. ‘It’s not much, but it’s the best a humble woodsman can afford.’ He opened the stove door and poked at the embers.
Firelight glistened on the sweat beading his brow.
    ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ Hazel asked.
    ‘Unwell? Oh, yes,’ the woodsman said, looking through her with hollow eyes. ‘Sick at heart, you might say.’
    ‘We should go.’ Bramley’s voice was a muffled squeak. ‘We might catch whatever ails him.’
    Ignoring him, Hazel perched on a stool by the window and clasped her hands in her lap, waiting for the woodsman to continue.
    ‘A Witch Hunter has been plying his trade in Watley,’ he said, running a hand down his face.
    Hazel tensed. Her mother had sometimes spoken to Mary of Witch Hunters when she didn’t think Hazel was listening – they were ruthless men dedicated to finding people accused of
wielding magic.
People like me
, she thought, her heart fluttering.
    ‘And not just any Witch Hunter, but Captain John Stearne himself.’ The woodsman’s voice was flat, like a guilty man confessing his sins. ‘They call him “The
Butcher”
.
That’s who I’ve been working for.’ He pointed at the dresser. ‘Pass me the clothes from the top drawer.’
    Hazel opened it. Inside were neatly folded dresses: simple clothes, but well made and looked after. She handed them to the woodsman, wondering what he was going to do with them. To her surprise
he stuffed them into the stove. Fire raged, casting an orange glow throughout the cabin.
    ‘And what did this man . . . Captain Stearne do?’ she asked.
    ‘He came with soldiers to hunt for witches – all kinds, from Wielders to healers.’ His face crumpled and tears gathered in his eyes. ‘They barred the town gates, trapping
everyone inside. Then he set up his court in the market square and judged anyone he suspected of witchcraft.’
    Hazel sat unmoving
. I’m beginning to understand why Ma kept me hidden away
, she thought.
    ‘The trials went on for days . . . and when they were over, he ordered me to build the execution pyres.’
    ‘I don’t want to hear the end of this,’ came a muffled whisper.
    Hazel quickly covered her pocket with her hands to stifle Bramley’s squeaking – but the woodsman didn’t notice, he just gazed into the roaring stove.
    Hazel started to tremble. ‘So the smoke over the town . . . ?’
    The woodsman blinked slowly and nodded. ‘Stearne is gone but the pyres still burn. Beacons to show that Watley is cleansed of witchcraft. That is why I am sick in both heart and
soul.’
    ‘Who . . . who did they burn?’ Hazel whispered.
    ‘Wise women, healers, anyone suspected of having a bit of magic about them, anyone considered . . . odd.’ Hazel flinched as his eyes bored into her. ‘Women like Mary. She lives
somewhere here in Wychwood – no one knows quite where, but the Witch Hunters may have found her. Who knows?’ He threw the rest of the clothes in the crackling fire.
    Oh no, not Mary
, Hazel thought.
    ‘Bottom drawer,’ the woodsman said.
    Hazel