Witches in Red

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I am called Mariah.

In the mid of one night, I slipped away from the Móndyalítko encampment where I lived and made my way into the trees. I left my perpetually angry sister and my other relatives behind—at least for a little while.

I would not let myself think on any of them tonight. I was going to meet my love.

It still amazed me that he’d been living right under my nose for nearly four months, and we’d never noticed each other. How was that possible? But of course we both had obligations and duties, mine even less pleasant than his. Then . . . only a few weeks ago, we had spoken, and his hand had brushed mine, and I had known.

He was kind, not like the other soldiers posted here to oversee the silver mines. He whispered to me softly and touched me as if I were made of glass, and he listened when I spoke. I’d never known how starved I’d been for someone to listen until he filled that empty space.

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