Foreword

There are stories that behave like songs—polished by repetition, made gentle by distance, safe enough to hum.

And then there are stories that behave like wells.

You don’t invent a well. You dig one. You open the earth and you take what you want from below, and the earth remembers the shape of your hands. Sometimes it gives you clean water. Sometimes it gives you the taste of iron. Sometimes it gives you nothing at all until the day it decides you’ve been leaning too far over the mouth.

This book is a well-story.

It draws from the old European habit of turning fear into folklore: plague years, hunger years, winters when people needed something to blame because blaming felt like control. When disease moved through villages like smoke, and the Church was both comfort and cudgel, it didn’t take much for suspicion to become certainty. A woman who didn’t fit. A woman who wouldn’t kneel the right way. A woman who was convenient to break.

The name Anna Maria von Stockhausen—like many names in old tales—walks a crooked road between legend and record. In some tellings she’s noble, in others a servant. In some she survives the rope, the water, the fire, the stake; in others she dies in custody and the rest is what frightened mouths made of the quiet afterward. The details shift because that’s what people do with horror: they reshape it until it fits their favorite kind of lesson.

This novel chooses a different lesson.

It isn’t interested in proving whether a specific woman rose from a grave in a specific year. History is full of missing pages and convenient lies. Instead, this story asks a colder question: what happens when a community decides that killing someone will make them feel clean?

What happens when faith becomes a hammer, and righteousness becomes a crowd sport?

What happens when a single person’s pain is turned into public entertainment—and then the audience wants a second show?

In our modern world, we like to imagine we’re beyond the village square. We have better medicine, better laws, better language for cruelty. But the hunger to scapegoat didn’t die with candlelight. It just changed its clothing. We still love a clean villain. We still love a story that says the fearful were right all along. We still love to punish someone until the punishment feels like proof.

And that’s why old ghost stories still matter.

Not because they teach you to fear the dark.

Because they teach you to fear what people will do to each other when they’re sure they’re the good ones.

So take this as you would take any folktale told close to a fire: with your guard up and your ears open. Let it scare you, because it’s meant to. But when it does, pay attention to where the fear comes from. The supernatural is only the final costume. The first monster is always human.

And if you find yourself listening too closely—if you feel that cold behind the teeth, the sense that something is leaning in from under the world—then do yourself a favor.

Don’t say her name out loud.

Just turn the page.

— R. E. Smith

​

Von Stockhausen

Anna Maria’s Story

 

Chapter One: The Washhouse

In winter, the estate smelled like damp wool, ash, and money that had never lifted a finger in its life.

Down in the servants’ arteries—the back halls, the scullery, the washhouse—you got the real perfume of survival: soap, onions, sweat, and the sour bite of lye that ate skin the way hunger ate pride. If the house had a heart, it wasn’t in the lord’s study. It was in the kitchen stove. If it had a soul, it was in the washhouse, where steam rose like prayers nobody was paid to hear.

Anna Maria stood over the tub with her sleeves rolled high, scarf tied tight, hands already red and cracked. She scrubbed linen hard enough to make the boards complain.

She wasn’t angry at the cloth.

She was angry at the world for insisting she be grateful for misery.

A strip of linen floated at the top—pale, stubborn, always rising. Every time she pressed it down, it fought back toward air like a drowned thing trying to remember breath.

Anna held it under for a long moment, knuckles whitening.

“Don’t you start doing that,” Greta said from the doorway. “I swear to God, Anna, if you go staring into the tub like it owes you a prophecy, I’ll smack you with a spoon.”

Anna blinked and let the linen rise. “Good morning to you too.”

Greta came in with a basket on her hip, broad-shouldered and hard-faced in the way women get when they’ve spent their whole lives hauling other people through their days. Her hair had gone iron-gray early. Not age—just wear.

She dumped the basket down. “Morning’s for rich bastards who wake up with clean hands.”

Anna’s mouth twitched. “Then I’ll wait for evening.”

Greta snorted. “Don’t get clever. Clever gets you noticed. Noticed gets you fucked.”

Anna’s cheeks warmed. She kept her eyes down and scrubbed harder. The water slapped soft against wood.

Greta leaned over the tub and squinted at Anna’s hands. “You’re scrubbing like you’re trying to peel your own skin off.”

“It itches,” Anna lied.

“Everything itches,” Greta said. “Life itches. But if you scrub your hands to bone, you’ll still be you—only with less skin to defend yourself.”

Anna didn’t answer. In this house, the safest thing a servant could be was silent. Silence didn’t invite questions. Silence didn’t give people handles.

Greta’s gaze flicked to the yard window. “He’s coming through today.”

Anna’s scrubbing slowed by a heartbeat. “Who?”

Greta looked at her like she’d asked what water was. “Don’t play stupid with me. The coachman. The one with the polished boots and the Protestant breath. The one who keeps looking at you like you’re not part of the furniture.”

Anna pressed the cloth into the tub until her wrists stung. “He’s just a man with a cart.”

“Most trouble is,” Greta said. “Starts out looking like a cart.”

Anna’s stomach did a small, stupid flip. She hated herself for it. Hated how easy it was for one man’s attention to make her feel alive.

Johann had spoken to her like her thoughts mattered. He’d asked questions no one asked a maid unless they wanted to break her or buy her.

What do you believe?
What do you want?
Are you tired of being small so other people can feel big?

Anna had smiled once—one small slip—and he’d watched it like he’d caught a glimpse of a rare bird.

Greta watched the way Anna’s eyes went distant. “Anna.”

Anna scrubbed harder. “What?”

Greta’s voice dropped, rougher now, less teasing. “Listen. I’m not your mother. God help you, I’m not anyone’s mother. But I’ve watched girls get sweet-talked into thinking attention is rescue.”

“I’m not—” Anna started.

Greta cut her off. “Bullshit. You’re human. That’s the point. You want a door out. You want a hand that isn’t always taking.”

Anna swallowed, throat tight.

Greta jabbed a finger toward the tub. “You think a man with clean boots comes around because he’s fond of your soul? Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But this house”—she nodded toward the estate like it was a beast—“this house eats girls who start wanting things.”

Anna’s hands trembled. She hid it by wringing the cloth until water streamed down her forearms.

Greta reached into her apron and slapped a heel of bread onto the washhouse bench. “Eat. Before you go fainting and they call you lazy and I have to spend my day lying through my teeth to keep you from getting thrown out.”

Anna stared at the bread. Warm. Dense. Real.

“Greta—”

“Eat,” Greta snapped. “Don’t make me repeat myself. I’m too old for tender speeches.”

Anna tore off a piece and chewed. The warmth settled into her belly like a tiny, stubborn light.

Greta’s eyes softened by a hair. “And tie that scarf tighter. Damp gets into bones. Damp gets into thoughts. And thoughts get you dead.”

Anna swallowed the last bite. “That’s cheerful.”

Greta’s mouth twitched. “Cheerful is for people who don’t have to earn tomorrow.”

—

By late afternoon, the estate changed its posture the way a dog does when a stranger steps into the yard.

Voices lowered. Feet moved quicker. Spines straightened. The house didn’t need to shout. It simply existed, and everyone else bent around it.

Anna carried folded linens through a back corridor, trying to keep her mind dull and obedient. She turned a corner and nearly collided with someone.

The stack slipped.

A man caught it before it hit the stone. Hands quick. Confident.

“Careful,” he said, amused, like life was something you could afford to laugh at.

Anna felt heat rush her face. “I’m sorry.”

He steadied the stack and handed it back. His boots were polished enough to show a warped reflection of the hallway. His coat was good wool. His gloves were clean.

Johann.

Up close, he smelled of cold air, horse, and iron—like he’d been out in the world where things happened, not in here where things were decided.

His eyes flicked down the corridor, checking for witnesses.

Then he looked at her and smiled like he didn’t give a damn who saw.

“You’ve been hiding,” he said quietly.

“I’ve been working,” Anna replied, sharper than she meant.

Johann made a soft sound—half laugh, half sigh. “That’s the same thing in this place.”

Anna tightened her grip on the linens. “Why are you here?”

“Because I said I’d come back.” His voice was steady. No flirtation, no performance. Just a fact he’d chosen to honor.

Anna’s heart stumbled. She hated that it mattered.

He leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice. “There’s an old well behind the orchard,” he said. “Come when the bell rings for evening prayer.”

Anna’s mouth went dry. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Johann corrected. “You won’t. Because you’ve been trained to think wanting is a sin.”

Anna’s fingers clenched until her nails bit skin. “You don’t know me.”

Johann’s gaze held hers. “I know what you are to them,” he said. “You’re useful. You’re quiet. You’re replaceable.”

The words hurt because they were true.

Johann stepped back as footsteps sounded somewhere nearby. In an instant, his face went neutral—the mask of a harmless man.

As he passed her, he murmured without turning his head, “If you come, bring your scarf. The air by the well cuts like a knife.”

Then he was gone, boots whispering on stone.

Anna stood there, heart banging against her ribs like it wanted out.

A soft throat-clear behind her.

Anna turned.

Father Eberhard stood at the far end of the corridor, robe neat, hands folded, eyes calm as a locked door. His smile was gentle in the way a wolf’s stillness is gentle—patient, certain the rabbit will freeze.

“Anna Maria,” he said, using both names like a seal pressed into wax. “Are you well?”

“Yes, Father,” she answered automatically.

“You look flushed.”

“It’s warm in the washhouse.”

“It is winter,” Father Eberhard said, still mild.

Anna’s tongue felt too big. “The stove, Father.”

He nodded slowly, as if granting her the right to speak at all was charity. “I noticed a visitor today,” he said. “A coachman.”

Anna’s pulse thudded. “Yes, Father.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“No,” she lied.

Eberhard didn’t look surprised. He looked satisfied.

“You needn’t fear men,” he said gently. “Not if you keep yourself within God’s order.”

The phrase sounded holy. It landed like a hand on her throat.

Anna lowered her gaze. “Yes, Father.”

“I’ve not seen you in confession lately,” he continued.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Work does not excuse neglect of the soul,” Eberhard replied. “Especially when the air is… unsettled.”

Anna felt the damp in her bones. Felt the way people whispered about sickness in the poorhouse. Felt the way fear rotted the edges of ordinary days.

“There have been worries,” Eberhard said. “A child fevered. Milk souring too quickly. A taste in the water.”

Anna’s fingers tightened around the linens. “That isn’t—”

Eberhard lifted one hand in a small, calm gesture that stopped her like a leash. “Rumor does not require proof, Anna Maria,” he said softly. “Only hunger.”

He stepped closer. Incense and damp wool. A man’s breath dressed up as holiness.

“Come tonight,” he said. “After evening prayer.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command with velvet on it.

Anna nodded because she knew what happened to girls who said no.

“Good,” Father Eberhard said. “God is merciful to those who submit.”

He turned and walked away.

Anna stood alone in the corridor with linen in her arms and bread warmth still lingering in her belly, and the sick certainty that someone had just written her name down somewhere.

Not in ink.

In something that didn’t wash off.

 

 

Chapter Two: The Well Behind the Orchard

Evening crept in early, as it did in winter—gray sliding into darker gray, the estate’s windows lighting up like small, trapped fires.

Anna moved through her last chores with the stiff focus of a woman trying not to think. Thinking led to wanting. Wanting led to punishment. She folded. She stacked. She carried. She smiled when spoken to. She swallowed every sharp word that rose in her throat.

Greta caught her at the kitchen doorway, ladle in hand like a weapon.

“Eat,” Greta said, and shoved a bowl at her.

Potato broth. A crust of bread. A smear of fat on top like a tiny blessing.

“I can’t,” Anna whispered.

Greta’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t, my ass. You can. You won’t.”

Anna’s throat tightened. “I have to go to confession.”

Greta’s mouth flattened, and the look she wore wasn’t respectful. It was the look of a woman who’d seen too much “mercy” delivered with a man’s hands.

“Of course you do,” Greta muttered. “Because God forbid you get one quiet night without some priest climbing into your skull.”

Anna flinched. “Greta.”

Greta waved her off. “Don’t ‘Greta’ me. Eat your soup. If you go in there hungry, you’ll shake. And if you shake, he’ll smell fear like a dog.”

Anna took two quick mouthfuls. The broth warmed her mouth, her throat, her belly. It was comfort, and comfort made her feel reckless.

Greta leaned in, lowering her voice. “You going straight there?”

Anna nodded too quickly.

Greta’s gaze held her like a grip. “Anna… I’m not saying don’t ever want anything. I’m saying pick your wanting carefully. This house doesn’t punish you for sin. It punishes you for being seen.”

Anna swallowed. “I know.”

Greta’s voice went quieter, rough around the edges. “If you’re thinking of meeting him…”

Anna’s cheeks warmed. “I’m not.”

Greta scoffed. “You’re a worse liar when you’re afraid and when you’re horny. And you’re afraid.” She jabbed the ladle toward Anna’s scarf. “Tie that tighter. Your hair’s loose. Loose hair makes men think they’re invited.”

Anna’s stomach twisted. She pulled the scarf tighter until it bit.

Greta softened by a hair—just enough to be dangerous. “If he’s decent,” Greta said, “he’ll wait. If he’s not, he’ll push.”

Anna’s voice came out thin. “And if I don’t go, the priest pushes.”

Greta’s eyes hardened. “Aye. That’s the bloody game.”

Anna stared at Greta, seeing not just the cook but the survivor: the woman who’d learned where the knives were kept and who to smile at so she wouldn’t have to use them.

Greta shoved the bowl back into Anna’s hands. “Finish,” she ordered. “Then go. Straight. And keep your eyes open. This place is full of men who think God gave them permission to be bastards.”

Anna drank the last of the broth.

Then she set the bowl down and walked out before her courage could run off.

—

Outside, the yard was a crust of frost. The air smelled like cold soil and smoke. The orchard beyond the back wall looked like a field of black fingers reaching for the sky.

Anna told herself she was going straight to the chapel.

Her feet didn’t listen.

She crossed the yard, crunching softly, moving like she was afraid the night would call her name out loud. The orchard swallowed her quickly. The branches above clicked together in the wind like teeth.

The old well waited behind the last row of trees, half-choked by brambles, its stone lip dark with damp. Even in winter it looked wet, as if it sweated.

It looked like a mouth.

A shape moved near the well.

Johann stepped out from shadow with no lantern, no horse, no cart—just a man and the certainty of his own choices.

“You came,” he said.

Anna stopped several paces away—far enough to run, close enough to regret. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Johann’s eyes held hers. “No,” he agreed. “You shouldn’t. That’s why it matters that you are.”

Anna’s breath fogged. “What do you want?”

“To talk without the house listening,” he said. Then he glanced toward the estate lights and added, quieter, “And to get you the hell out of it.”

Anna’s heart kicked. “You can’t just—”

“I’m not taking you,” Johann cut in. “I’m asking.”

Anna almost laughed, bitter. “Since when do people ask servants for anything except work?”

Johann stepped closer, slow, careful. “Did he summon you?” he asked.

Anna didn’t need to ask who. “Yes.”

Johann’s jaw tightened. “I saw him watching you.”

“Everyone watches,” Anna said.

“Not like that,” Johann replied, and the words were sharp with something like anger. “He watches to own what he sees.”

Anna’s skin prickled. “He’s a priest.”

“He’s a man,” Johann said. “And men don’t stop being men because they’ve learned to hide behind God.”

Silence fell between them, heavy as wet cloth.

Anna stared at Johann, trying to decide if he was real hope or just a different kind of danger.

Johann’s voice softened. “Come with me.”

Anna swallowed. “Where?”

“Memmingerberg first,” he said. “I’ve got a cousin who owes me a favor. Then farther. Augsburg. Ulm. Anywhere you’re not a name on a priest’s tongue.”

Anna’s mind filled with small, impossible pictures: a room with a door she could lock; bread she didn’t have to earn with pain; mornings that didn’t start with dread.

Her voice shook. “If I leave, Greta gets blamed.”

Johann didn’t blink. “Then we take Greta too.”

Anna let out a short, incredulous breath. “You can’t kidnap the cook.”

Johann’s mouth twitched. “Watch me.”

The humor hit her like warm broth. For a second she almost smiled for real.

Then the memory of Father Eberhard’s calm face slid over her skin like cold water.

“I can’t go tonight,” Anna whispered. “He’s waiting for me.”

Johann studied her. “If you go in there, he’ll make you confess things you didn’t do.”

“I know.”

“And if he keeps at it,” Johann said, voice low, “you’ll start believing them.”

Anna’s hands shook. She clenched them in her scarf until her fingers hurt. Pain was proof she was still inside her own body.

Johann stepped closer, stopping just short of touching. “Then don’t go,” he said.

Anna opened her mouth, ready to say something brave—

Footsteps crunched on frost.

A servant boy appeared between the trees, breath panting, cheeks red with cold. His eyes went wide when he saw Johann. Then they snapped to Anna like she was his last hope.

“Anna!” he gasped. “Greta said—she said come now.”

Anna’s stomach dropped. “Why?”

The boy swallowed hard. “Father Eberhard’s in the kitchen. Asking questions. About you. About the water.”

Johann went rigid. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

The boy’s voice shook. “Old Frau Liese. In the quarters. She’s bad. Greta said you helped her last time and she’s calling for you.”

Anna’s mind snapped to Frau Liese’s thin body, the way she coughed like her ribs were trying to escape. Liese wasn’t kind. She wasn’t cruel. She was just old and used up and alone—the future every servant could see if they looked too far.

Anna turned toward the path.

Johann caught her wrist—lightly, careful, like he was stopping a candle from tipping. His hand was warm even through cold air.

“If you go back,” he said, voice tight, “you walk straight into his net.”

Anna stared at Johann’s hand on her wrist. No ring. No claim. Just urgency.

Then she looked at the boy—his fear, his honest need.

Anna pulled free gently. “Someone’s asking for me,” she whispered.

Johann’s eyes searched hers. “And if you go,” he said, “who will ask for you?”

The question landed like a stone in her gut.

Anna’s breath shook. “Greta will,” she said. “If no one else does, Greta will.”

Johann’s jaw worked like he wanted to argue, but he swallowed it. He nodded once, sharp. A man accepting a loss.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “If you’re still you tomorrow, come back here.”

Anna flinched at the phrase, because it sounded like a warning dressed up as hope.

Johann stepped back into shadow. “Go,” he said. “Before he sees you returning from the orchard.”

Anna hurried after the boy, frost crunching, breath burning. The estate lights grew closer, and with them the sense of walls closing in.

Behind her, the orchard fell quiet again.

But as she reached the last row of trees, she heard it—soft, slow, patient.

A drip.

Then another.

And the faintest creak, like the old well had shifted its weight to listen.

Anna didn’t look back.

She told herself it was only water.

Only winter.

Only fear.

Yet the skin along her arms stayed prickled, and a thought pressed up from somewhere deep and cold:

Some places remember names.

And some places don’t let them go.

 

 

Chapter Three: A Bad Taste in the Water

Frau Liese’s room smelled like old sweat, damp straw, and sickness that had given up on shame.

It was a servant’s room the way a coffin was a bed—just enough space to lie down and be quiet in. The only light came from a candle stub on a crate and the thin gray leak of evening through a crack in the shutter.

Anna slipped in behind the boy and shut the door fast, like the cold outside might follow her in with teeth.

Frau Liese lay curled under a blanket that looked more like a rag. Her face was waxy. Her lips were cracked. Each breath came with a wet hitch, like her lungs were full of river weeds.

Greta stood by the bed with her arms crossed, jaw clenched hard enough to crack walnuts.

“Finally,” Greta hissed. “I was about to drag you by the hair.”

Anna ignored it, because Greta only got that sharp when she was scared.

“What happened?” Anna asked.

“Same bloody thing that happens every winter,” Greta said. “Old bones, bad air, too many souls crammed into too little warmth. She started coughing, then she started rattling.”

Frau Liese’s eyes flickered open. They focused on Anna like Anna was a door.

“You,” Liese rasped. “The… wash girl.”

Anna went to her immediately and knelt, touching Liese’s forehead with the back of her hand. Hot. Not fever-mad blazing, but the steady heat of a body struggling.

“I’m here,” Anna said. “Easy now.”

Liese’s fingers clawed at the blanket. “Water,” she whispered. “Water tastes… wrong.”

Anna’s stomach tightened.

Greta made a disgusted sound. “Everything tastes wrong when you’re dying.”

Liese’s eyes snapped toward Greta with sudden anger. “Not like this. Bitter. Metal.”

Anna looked at Greta. “What water has she had?”

Greta jerked her chin toward the corner where a clay cup sat on a stool. “From the kitchen bucket. Same as everyone else.”

Anna picked up the cup and sniffed. The smell hit her first: faint, sour, like wet pennies left too long in mud. She tipped the cup and took the smallest sip.

Bitter. A metallic tang. Not poison—at least not the clean, quick kind people imagined. More like something rotten had leached into it.

Anna set the cup down carefully. “Who drew it?”

Greta hesitated. That was answer enough.

“The boy,” Greta muttered. “He ran to the well. Because the barrel’s low and the lord’s lot take theirs first. Don’t look at me like that, Anna. We were short.”

Anna didn’t look at Greta like anything. She looked at the room, the thin walls, the cracked shutters, the way servants lived at the edge of everyone else’s comfort.

“Which well?” Anna asked.

Greta’s gaze flicked away. “The orchard one.”

Anna felt the skin along her arms tighten.

“The old well,” she said.

Greta shrugged like shrugging could make it less true. “The other’s iced at the lip. And the river’s half-slush. What the hell did you want—snow soup?”

Anna swallowed, thinking of Johann standing near that well, thinking of the drip and creak she’d heard as she ran. Thinking of Father Eberhard’s words: a taste in the water.

Liese’s breath hitched. She coughed, wet and deep. It sounded like someone tearing cloth.

Anna leaned in, bracing Liese’s shoulder. “Spit it out,” she murmured. “Don’t swallow it back.”

Liese hacked into a rag. The rag came away streaked with dark phlegm.

Greta swore under her breath. “Christ.”

Anna’s heart pounded. She looked at Greta. “Get me clean water. Not from that well. Melt snow if you have to. Boil it.”

​

 

Greta’s eyes narrowed. “Boil water for a servant? In this house? You want me to get my head cut off?”

Anna stood, suddenly fierce. “Then steal it. Lie. Tell them it’s for the lord’s tea. I don’t care. She needs clean water.”

Greta stared at her, and for a moment Anna saw something like pride in the cook’s eyes—quick, dangerous, immediately hidden.

Greta spat to the side. “Fine. You righteous little shit.”

She pushed past the boy and yanked the door open.

A shadow filled the doorway.

Father Eberhard stood there with a candle in one hand and a face arranged into concern like it was a garment he could put on.

Greta froze.

Anna felt her stomach drop.

Eberhard’s gaze moved slowly over the room: the straw mattress, the sick woman, the boy, Anna kneeling like a prayer.

“Greta,” he said gently. “I was told there was illness.”

Greta’s mouth tightened. “Aye, Father. Like every winter.”

Eberhard stepped inside without asking permission. He didn’t need it. He carried authority the way smoke carried stink.

He looked down at Frau Liese, and his expression softened—almost convincing.

“My child,” he murmured. “Do you want me to pray with you?”

Liese’s eyes flicked to him with something like fear. She tried to speak, but it came out as a wet cough.

Anna kept her voice respectful because respect was armor. “She needs water, Father. The well water tastes wrong.”

Eberhard’s eyes slid to the cup on the stool. “Wrong,” he echoed.

Greta’s tone sharpened. “It’s the orchard well. Might’ve gone foul.”

Eberhard’s gaze lingered on Anna a little too long. “The orchard well,” he said softly, as if tasting the words.

​

​

Anna felt the old instinct rise: don’t be interesting. don’t be specific. don’t be the first person with an opinion.

But Liese moaned again, and Anna’s compassion beat fear to the punch.

“It tastes of metal,” Anna said. “And bitterness.”

Eberhard nodded slowly. “And you noticed.”

Anna swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

Greta barked a short laugh, bitter. “She’s got a tongue, Father. That’s all.”

Eberhard’s eyes didn’t leave Anna. “A sharp tongue can be a gift,” he said, “or a temptation.”

Greta’s face went hard. “Don’t start that.”

Eberhard held up his candle slightly, the flame steady as if the air itself feared him. “I am only concerned,” he said.

Then he turned to the boy. “You drew the water?”

The boy shrank. “Yes, Father.”

Eberhard’s smile stayed gentle. “From the orchard well.”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone there?” Eberhard asked. “Anyone at all?”

Anna’s spine tightened.

The boy glanced at Anna—just a flick, quick as guilt.

Greta saw it and swore. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Anna’s mouth went dry. “He didn’t—”

Eberhard lifted his hand, stopping her with the smallest motion. “Answer,” he said to the boy, still gentle.

The boy swallowed. “I… I saw Anna earlier,” he blurted. “Not at the well—just… in the orchard. I saw her coming back.”

Greta’s eyes flashed. “You stupid little bastard,” she hissed, not with hatred—panic.

The boy flinched like he’d been struck.

 

 

Anna felt herself go cold. It didn’t matter what the truth was. What mattered was the shape it made when spoken aloud.

Eberhard nodded, serene. “Thank you,” he said. He turned back to Anna. “You were in the orchard.”

Anna forced her voice steady. “Yes. I was called back.”

“By whom?” Eberhard asked.

Greta snapped, “By me.”

Eberhard’s gaze slid to Greta with the mild patience of a man watching a dog bark behind a fence. “And before you were called back?” he asked Anna.

Anna’s mind flashed with Johann’s hand on her wrist. The warmth. The words If you’re still you tomorrow.

“I was walking,” she said carefully. “I needed air.”

Eberhard hummed. “Air,” he repeated. “In the orchard. Near the old well.”

Anna kept her face blank. “I didn’t draw water.”

“Of course,” Eberhard said, as if agreeing cost him nothing. He leaned toward Liese, voice turning holy again. “My child, may I pray?”

Liese’s lips trembled. “No,” she whispered, barely audible. “Please… no.”

Eberhard paused.

For a flicker of a moment, the mask slipped. Not anger—something colder. Offense.

Then the gentle smile returned. “As you wish,” he said. “But confession eases the soul when the body suffers.”

Greta’s hands clenched into fists. Anna saw it and felt a surge of protective fury. Greta could mouth off to anyone in the kitchen. But here, in a sickroom with a priest, every word was a nail in the wrong coffin.

Anna stepped slightly between Eberhard and the bed without making a show of it.

Eberhard noticed. He always noticed.

His gaze landed on Anna like a hand. “You care for her,” he said.

 

 

“Yes, Father.”

“How admirable,” he murmured. “Charity is a virtue.”

Then he tilted his head, as if listening to something deeper than the room. “Tell me, Anna Maria… have you noticed other things? Strange things? Signs?”

Anna’s stomach turned. This wasn’t about water. This was about building a story. Father Eberhard was gathering pieces, arranging them.

“No,” Anna said. “Only that she’s sick.”

Eberhard’s candle flame didn’t flicker. “There are whispers,” he said calmly. “A cow birthed dead. Milk souring in sealed jugs. A child fevered and speaking nonsense. People are frightened.”

Greta snapped, “People are always frightened. It keeps them warm.”

Eberhard ignored her and kept his eyes on Anna. “Fear seeks explanation,” he continued. “And when it cannot find it, it invents it.”

Anna felt her throat tighten. He was repeating her own thought from the orchard, turning it like a knife.

“I only want to help,” Anna said.

“I believe you do,” Eberhard replied, and the way he said it made it sound like proof could be twisted into guilt. “That is why you must be careful. Women who help too much invite suspicion. Especially when they wander orchards at night and notice foul water before anyone else.”

Anna’s heart hammered.

Greta’s voice rose, sharp and ugly. “You want someone to blame, just say it, Father. Stop circling like a damn crow.”

Eberhard’s eyes turned to Greta. His smile remained. “Mind your tongue,” he said quietly.

Greta opened her mouth again.

Anna touched Greta’s arm—just a quick squeeze, warning. Greta’s breath came hard through her nose, but she swallowed the next words.

Eberhard looked pleased by that too.

 

 

He shifted his candle and glanced toward the door. “I will send someone to inspect the well,” he said. “In the meantime, boiling water is wise.”

Greta muttered, “Aye. Wise. And impossible.”

Eberhard pretended not to hear. He stepped closer to Anna, voice dropping. “Come to confession tonight,” he said. “We will speak privately. There are… matters of the soul that attract darkness if left unattended.”

Anna met his eyes and forced her voice calm. “Yes, Father.”

Eberhard held her gaze for a heartbeat too long, then turned and left, candlelight retreating down the corridor like a slow, obedient serpent.

When the door shut, the room felt like it exhaled.

Greta rounded on the boy. “You little shit,” she hissed, but her eyes were wet with fury and fear. “Why would you say her name?”

The boy’s lip trembled. “He asked. He—he looked at me—”

“I don’t care if he looked at you with God’s own eyes,” Greta snapped. “You keep your mouth shut. You keep it shut until it bleeds.”

Anna knelt by Liese again. “Hush,” she murmured to the boy, gentler. “It’s done.”

Liese coughed again, then clutched at Anna’s sleeve with surprising strength.

“Don’t let him,” Liese rasped. Her eyes were wide now, lucid with terror. “Don’t let him… take your words.”

Anna’s breath caught. “What did he do to you?”

Liese shook her head weakly, tears sliding down into the cracks of her skin. “He makes… you say things,” she whispered. “Then he says… you said them.”

Anna’s blood went cold.

Greta’s face tightened, and for once she didn’t have a crude joke ready. She looked away like she couldn’t stand to see the truth.

Anna took Liese’s hand and squeezed. “I’m here,” she said. “You’re not alone.”

Liese’s grip eased, just a little.

 

​

Greta cleared her throat roughly. “I’ll get water,” she muttered. “Not from that damn well.”

Anna nodded. “Boil it.”

Greta gave her a look. “If they ask, it’s for the lord’s tea,” she said. “And if they don’t ask, I’m still doing it anyway. To hell with them.”

She left, shoulders set like a woman going to war with a kettle.

Anna stayed by the bed, listening to Frau Liese breathe, counting each wet pull of air like it was a debt that might come due any moment.

Outside, somewhere beyond the walls, the orchard well sat in the cold dark.

And Anna couldn’t shake the idea that Father Eberhard wasn’t just watching her anymore.

He was building her.

Name by name. Detail by detail.

A story strong enough that when the town got hungry, it would know exactly where to bite.