Free Genevieve: A Witchblood Story (Witchblood Series) by Emma Mills Page B

across his forehead as he whispered the word, ‘ Evie ’.
    Genevieve bolted down the next street , keeping to the shadows and avoiding any noise or disturbance, only pausing to catch her breath some minutes later. She recognised him, she was sure, but from where? She wondered if he was a member of court, also on the run; but as her brother had illustrated only too clearly, no-one was to be trusted and he didn’t look like he was struggling for food. No, she shook her head, the only way to keep your freedom, keep your fine clothes and full larder was to buy your freedom with blood and betrayal.
    Looking both ways down the alleyway , Genevieve soon realised she was lost. She didn’t recognise this part of town. She would have to go back, yet already her vision was blurring, her head spinning from fatigue. She inspected the bread in her hands. One was less burnt than the other - she would save that for her mother. She hunched down against the wall and scraped as much of the black from the remaining loaf as possible. Underneath it was still dark brown and as dry as the sawdust that had lined her pony’s stable, but it was food, so she bit into it hungrily. Once she had finished her crumbling loaf she had gone directly back to the riverside to ease the effect of the ash coating her throat, gulping down the murky water without pause. Feeling a little better she set off with the remaining loaf for her mother.
    Dawn was breaking by the time Genevieve made it back to where their hideout stood and w hat she saw as she turned the corner into the lane froze her blood and made bile flood her throat. A group of three men and a couple of local women were standing in the doorway to the cottage. Judging from the sounds, there were more men inside the cottage. The women were standing together, heckling and shrieking in high-pitched voices, their weathered skin showing the years of hardship under the king’s rule.
    ‘Drag ’er out by ‘er ’air if she can’t walk!’ one cried.
    ‘I bet we could sell it for a pretty amount. Git ’er out ‘ere. Let’s see ‘er finery,’ another yelled.
    The loaf fell from Genevieve’s hand and rolled into the gutter as she watched her mother dragged by her hair into the street by three burly men. The peasants crowded round the woman, not noticing the girl creeping silently along the lane, drawn like a magnet yet helpless against the mob. It was when she was a couple of doors away that Genevieve caught her mother’s attention. The peasants took no heed of the sudden panic that flashed in the older woman’s eyes. They expected nothing less. It urged them on; excited them.
    Genevieve hesitated and pressed herself back into the shadows, uncertain what to do. How could she help? She had nothing to fight with, and her noble upbringing had left her powerless in such a situation anyway. Her mother stared at her and, smiling very briefly, shook her head at her daughter. A woman grabbed at her hair, stroking it, then another pulled a rusty knife from her pocket and began hacking away at her mother’s once luscious locks.
    ‘Never mind the ’air, look at the dress… ’ow many crowns we’ll get for that.’
    ‘ I wan’ it. You ain’t bought me a fine dress since we married.’
    ‘Why’d you get it. Let me have it…’
    ‘Oi! Geroff! I ’eard ’er first. You can ’ave the blanket. Give it a good scrub an’ it’ll come up fine.’
    ‘I wan na see what’s under those petticoats,’ the tall man said, leering and pushing his way between the women.
    ‘Yeah ! Give the women their fineries and we’ll ’ave our own fun,’ another shouted.
    ‘Pull ’er into town. Let’s ‘ave ’er. The guard won’t arrive till noon to take ‘er away.
    A tear slid down Genevieve’s cheek. She couldn’t watch her mother go through this cruelty and do nothing. Without another thought, she stepped out of the shadows and began to sprint towards the only person she had left. Her father was dead. Alfred