This Little Chapel

She'd heard, after Tilda Tewt was gone, that she'd been sent to that mill, the one that nobody came back from. Poor bastard, Magda had thought. Better her than me.

Tilda had smiled and laughed, Magda was almost sure of it, those few weeks they'd been together at the Grey House before Tilda was shipped off to work in the other world. There was laughter, even in the House. It was a dangerous laugh, a violent laugh, a hard-working woman's laugh, most often. She couldn't remember the tone of Tilda's laugh. When she came back, there was no trace of a smile. And she was quiet.

Magda heard her throwing up one early morning, in the darkness of the hall were the women slept, and knew that was a beating offence. Sobs followed the retching, and mumbles, almost like a prayer. Off her head, Magda thought.

The following morning she heard the rumour. She slipped out during the lunch hour, another beating offence but she could get away with it, if she was careful, and she went up to the top floor, where the view opened up for miles around. She searched for a long while until she saw the mill. The smoke had already cleared out, except for tiny wisps that wound their way through the tops of the trees. That was the old mill. She was almost sure of it. It was true.

Well done, lass, she thought, filled with hungry glee.