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PaGe4A - 10.29.25

The bells of St. Canice tolled dusk as Alice stirred the fire in her stone hearth.
Shadows danced against the walls of her grand house,
the scent of herbs and beeswax thick in the air.
The people of Kilkenny whispered that she owned more gold than the bishop himself
— and more secrets than any soul had a right to keep.

At her feet, a black cat purred.
Not a cat, she thought, but something older.
Something that had followed her across lifetimes.

"Robin," she murmured, "they are coming again."

The cat lifted its eyes, glinting green like shards of glass.
Let them come, a voice seemed to hum in her mind.
You have power still.

Outside, hoofbeats echoed on cobblestones.
The church men were marching — torches flaring,
robes snapping in the wind.
Bishop Ledrede's voice carried across the square:
"Alice! By the authority of God and Holy Church,
we summon thee to answer for heresy and murder!"

Alice smiled faintly.
They never accused men of such things
— only women who owned their lives.

She reached for her blue vial, its surface swirling like moonlight in water.
Inside was a tincture of wolfsbane and dreamroot, the same she had used
to ease the pains of her dying husband.
They had called it poison.
She called it mercy.

Petronilla, her servant, trembled by the door.
"Mistress, we should flee!" she whispered.
Alice shook her head.
"You'll go. I'll buy you time."

A cold wind burst through the shutters, scattering parchment and herbs.
The cat leapt to the window, its eyes like embers.
"The old gods are not done with me yet," Alice whispered.
"Not while men still fear the power of a woman's will."

She stepped into the courtyard, her cloak billowing like storm clouds.
The bishop's torchlight painted her face in gold and shadow.
"There is no witch here," she said softly, "only a woman you could not tame."

And as they advanced, the torches flickered — once, twice — then every flame
in the square snuffed out.
Darkness swallowed Kilkenny whole.

When light returned, Alice was gone.
Only a cat remained, sitting where she had stood, tail curled and eyes gleaming
with quiet amusement.

Some said she fled to England.
Others swore she became wind and shadow, wandering the moors.
But in Kilkenny, on nights when the moon burns white and the church bells toll,
women still whisper her name —
and sometimes, they say, a black cat watches from the window, waiting.