A Veil of Betrayal

Chapter Eight.

 Widow Curd's hut is a small, ramshackle structure made of wood, with a thatched roof and walls that seem to lean inwards. Its exterior is weathered and worn, with patches of moss and vines creeping up its sides and the wooden roof sags in on itself and it looks close to caving in.  There are no windows, only a single wooden door that creaks ominously when Layle opened it. "Widow Curd?" She calls out, her eyes adjusting to the darkness as she steps inside and looks around, her pulse thrumming under her skin.  The hut is dimly lit by candles and oil lamps, casting long shadows across the uneven floorboards and the air is heavy with the smell of herbs and incense. The walls are adorned with various talismans, symbols, poisons and dried herbs, bones and body parts (animal? human?) hinting at the widow's practice of witchcraft. On the table in front of her, a dead crow lies on top of a large, old manuscript, with yellow, aged parchment,  faded ink that contains spells, incantations, and rituals written in some old, archaic language that Layle doesn't understand. She steps forward and with a jolt realises that it's not ink the words are written in. 

It's blood. 

Layle begins to think that she's made a mistake coming here, and steps backwards to leave but her body hits a body and she has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. "Layle Farley," A voice from behind her hisses and a shiver goes down her spine. "What a pleasure to finally meet you." Slowly, Layle turns around and has to hold back a gag.

Widow Curd was a legendary fairy tale gone wrong for the common people of Bârân,  a cautionary tale for the children to not wander into the woods. But, looking up at her now, her features half visible in the flickering light, Layle thought she was something of a nightmare. Her nose is long and hooked, resting on her old face, etched with deep lines and wrinkles. She's wearing, dark, tattered robes that hang loosely off her form, and her hair colour is eerily similar to Layle's except the Widow's is in unkempt tangles. But it's her eyes that jar Layle, sending unease through her body. They're gleaming and piercingly blue, with a glint of knowing- of knowing everything about Layle without having to even say a word. Layle swallows. "I need medicine. For my sister." The Widow sniffs, and shuffles around Layle making her way towards the table and flicking through her manuscript. "I realise that. But I've been watching you. And I've heard you. I've heard the absence of pfenning- or even gold solidus- in your pockets. How were you expecting to receive the tonic?" Layle steps closer, and her voice takes on a desperate tone. "Please- I need to save my sister. Eve. She's very sick and-" The Widow holds up a wrinkled hand and Layle falls silent. When she speaks, there's a wistful undercurrent in her voice. "Many years ago, a man came looking for me. His wife was in labour and it wasn't looking good for her or their child. So he begged me to help them. I did. For a price. This man had a daughter. And she was...Beautiful. I was envious of her youth, her purity. I was able to save the child, but not her mother. And I got the eldest daughter's beauty, even for a fleeting few years. A week later, the man came again, distraught and furious. His daughter's hair had turned silver overnight." Layle's eyes widened, but unseeing,  struggling to comprehend what she had just heard. She stood there frozen, and the Widow's face breaks into a grin, revealing her receding gums and black teeth. "Yes," She croons. "Your one insecurity,  the reason you feel so different from everyone in the world, is because your father dabbled with me.  I can help your sister. But know: you will have to pay the price one day too, Layle." Layle swallows and nods firmly. "There is nothing I can think that could be more important to me than my family." The Widow examines her for a second before reaching into a basket and holding out a small vile full of a dark green liquid. "This should rouse her out of the fever in the next two days." Layle reaches out to grab it, but the Widow holds it just out of reach. She sneers down at Layle, the smell of decaying teeth and meat making Layle want to retch. She drops another flask into Layle's pocket and Layle catches sight of something pink. "Someday, I'll ask of you a favour of equal magnitude to what I've bestowed upon you, although you may not recognise it at this moment, you will. And you will regret it deeply." And on that cheerful note, Layle grabs the tonic out of the Widow's hand and leaves the hut, wishing she didn't take one step inside it.