*Alexander*
The bite of cold still clings to the air as I drive the axe into a length of oak, splitting it clean for the woodpile. My breath rises in clouds, the rhythm of chopping warming me against the lingering frost. Winter stores must last until spring planting, and every stick of firewood matters.
I have paused to wipe my brow with my sleeve when a sudden clamor drifts from the village common: shouts, shrieks, the sound of many voices tangled together. Then a sharp cry rings out, too shrill to be ordinary laughter, too wild to be neighborly chatter.
From beyond the hedgerow, down toward Salem, voices rise in a tangled chorus: girls shrieking, men shouting to hush them, women whispering behind their hands.
I set the axe aside as curiosity tugs me toward the noise. As I crest the
