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slumped on a stool with his chin resting on his chest.
    ‘Now there’s a man who takes his job seriously,’ Bramley said.
    Hazel crept up to the hut, unhooked the lantern hanging over the door, and passed silently into the town. Two things struck her as she stood in the cobbled courtyard just inside the gate. The
first was the overpowering smell of sewage, and the second was the silence.
    When daydreaming about the world outside the Glade, she had imagined towns to be busy places full of people, noise, hustle and bustle. Instead, the courtyard and the streets leading from it were
deserted, the houses and shops shuttered and dark.
    ‘What’s this?’ Hazel muttered, kneeling down. The cobblestones were covered in a layer of grey paste. She rubbed it between her fingers.
    ‘I think it’s ash and rainwater,’ Bramley said, scurrying down to her hand to have a sniff. ‘Look, it’s everywhere.’
    ‘But where could all this ash be coming from?’ Hazel said, before remembering the smoke column and what was causing it. ‘Oh.’
    ‘It must have been burning for days,’ Bramley said, racing back up to the comfort of her hair.
    A dog barked a few streets away, followed by a man shouting. Somewhere behind a nearby shuttered window a woman sobbed. Hazel was gripped with an urge to turn tail and run.
No
, she
thought.
I must find Mary. And to do that, I need to talk to this Captain Price.
    Holding up the lantern and avoiding the reeking gutter running down the middle of the cobbles, she set off towards the centre of town using the smoke column as a guide. Empty washing lines hung
between buildings like spiders’ webs.
    Light spilt out from the windows of a tavern; a glimpse inside revealed a low room with tables, chairs and a serving hatch. A few pinch-faced men sat together, talking in low voices. One woman
slumped in a corner, red-rimmed eyes staring at nothing.
    The road sloped up, passed under a covered butter market and then opened on to an empty moonlit square, fronted on three sides by shuttered houses and shops. Hazel stopped by a horse trough full
of brackish water, and knelt down in its shadow.
    ‘Well,’ Bramley whispered, ‘this place certainly tells a grim tale.’
    In the middle of the square were piles of blackened timber, belching smoke, their embers still glowing. Jutting from them were six poles burnt down to charcoal spikes. Ash choked the air,
catching in Hazel’s throat and making it hard to breathe.
    ‘At least it seems to be over now,’ she whispered back. ‘Look, there are lights on over there. Perhaps that’s the gaol?’ She pointed towards a low stone building
with a stout door and a rank of barred windows. They were all dark except for one at the end, which glowed with candlelight.
    She ducked back behind the horse trough as the gaol door crashed open. Two men in red uniforms ambled out. One dragged his musket on the ground, the other swigged from a bottle.
    ‘Watch out, witches,’ the one with the musket slurred. ‘The patrol is sallying forth.’ Both men folded up, wheezing with mirth.
    ‘Shut your traps, you drunken sops,’ bellowed someone from inside the gaol. ‘You’re militiamen, so act like it or I’ll throw you in the cells.’
    The men faded into the night. The door slammed shut.
    ‘The local militia,’ Hazel hissed. ‘Looks like we’ve found the right place, anyway.’
    ‘I don’t think much of their discipline,’ sniffed Bramley. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
    ‘No, but it’s the only one we have.’ She took a steadying breath and marched up the gaol steps. There was a piece of parchment nailed to the door:
    Attention, citizens of Watley,
    Your town has been purged.
    For the duration, the town militia
    (under the direction of the Order of Witch Hunters)
    will be enforcing martial law and a strict curfew.
    By order of Witch Hunter Captain John Stearne
    John Stearne
, Hazel thought.
That’s who the woodsman talked about.
Standing up as