The older woman didn't get up immediately. She lay on the ground for some time. It seemed like hours to the man with her. The cuts in her back bled profusely, the only sign that told him she was still alive. He did his best to tend to them, but it was as though hate itself had torn her skin; she would never recover.

When she finally did move, she was furious. She said nothing, wincing as she picked herself up from the ground. She ignored her pain, thinking only of revenge. But first things first, of course. She limped to the corpse of her newly dead husband and leaned over to grab his hand, red with his own blood. The murderer she has chosen to identify herself with came back into the room with a fresh towel and saw her working at this task, and a silent understanding was had. He put down his things and threw the body over his shoulders.

It was very late at night, and nobody was out to see them at their task. The woman led the way to the witch's garden, where nobody dares trespass. She wordlessly commanded her companion to lay the corpse down and went back as he sought after a shovel. As she limped to her empty cottage, she used her feet to cover the blood that trailed the ground with dust. Inside, she mopped up the mess and used a knife to scrape the dried blood from her polished wood floor. A stain remained where she stood, so the hag dragged a rug to cover it and placed her furniture on that rug. Her companion had finished his task and came in to wash, while she climbed into bed, exhausted. 

Eyes heavy, she looked out her window where her dead husband now lay before sleep overtook her.

The morning light had just begun to shine on the treacherous spot, hidden by rampion.