Are you there, sister?

The thought permeates, slithering through loam and wood, a hazy breath across waters before diving and hacking through cold earth to lap at the roots of mountains.

Are you there?

I can feel them waiting just out of ken, just past the veil, waiting, whispering, soon. The whisper becomes a wail becomes a bellow, demanding and insistent and violent, a full-throated rush of wind shaking the trees and tugging at my hems. 

I pull my cloak tighter and keep my eyes downcast. Grandmother’s cottage lurks ahead, a vague lump in the forest’s mist, and her pie is growing cold. I have no time tonight for faeries and I sternly shout as much at the darkness. 

The whispers recede, rebuked, and the breeze dwindles down to mere little plucks at my skirts. I sigh and accept the compromise. I approach Grandmother’s. 

Everything is wrong. No wood is chopped, no lanterns lit, no smoke escaping her chimney. The mist echoes oddly and rings out with murmurs –

…sister…

-which I ignore. I shift the basket to my left hand, grip my dagger with my right, all caution and nerves. Door opens. Eyes gleam. I gasp. A wolf.

Are you there yet, sister? The thoughts roar at me, driving me to my knees. Are you there yet? Have you seen what they have done? ARE YOU THERE, sister?

Another wolf approaches from behind, roughly grabbing my arm and twisting it behind my back. A third soldier comes into view from around the corner of the cottage. The air is acrid with smoke and the bitter waste of burnt herbs.

Witchcraft, they cry in justification as they begin to beat me. Witchcraft, they howl with spyful wide eyes. Witchcraft, they insist with closed ears and closed minds. Witchcraft, they claim, as excuse for their deeds.

Very well, I decide, if that’s what they want. The mist gathers, time slows, the forest itself holding its breath as the faeries call to me and finally, finally, I answer.

Are you there, sister?

I am, now. Come to me.

And they do.

It is done.