Cindra sighed in relief as she entered the small bedroom. She had been looking everywhere for Atholt and here he was, safe and sound with his aunt.

“Well there you two are”, she smiled, “I was worried sick. I should have known you would have him Isabelle. You could have let me know he was with you though”.

Her heart began to slow, pounding out a throbbing beat in her temples. Her head was aching but it was probably just the heat. Perhaps she would sit down and rest for a moment since Isabelle was minding Atholt anyway.

“Hope you don’t mind if I take a seat, I really am feeling quite tired”, Isabelle did not answer, so Cindra took that as a yes and slumped down onto the bed.

In fact, it wasn’t just her head that was hurting, but her entire body seemed to have joined in, a deep, rhythmic pounding stretching out to her extremities and then triumphantly thumping its way back again.

She heard the soft whimpering of Atholt. Just like him, to want his mother now when she was so very tired. Couldn’t he just be happy with his aunt for now. She looked up to see what the problem was and caught sight of Isabelle in the mirror.

Her insides contracted in an icy rush of fear as she saw the face gazing back at her in the mirror. Isabelle’s skin was pallid, clinging grotesquely to the angular bones beneath, their stark white forms visible in places. Her eyes were dull and milky, sunken into the dark hollows of their sockets, staring blindly as she turned rigidly towards Cindra, her limbs awkwardly jerking.

Atholt was struggling weakly in her arms, his tiny body shivering at her frigid touch. He raised a feeble hand towards his mother, his eyes welling with tears that threatened to run down his trembling cheeks.

Cindra leapt to her feet, her exhaustion forgotten.

“Give him to me!”, she cried, reaching out towards her son’s precious body.

Isabelle stared at her blankly, clutching the baby to her wasted chest.

Terrified for Atholt, Cindra reached forward and yanked him from Isabelle’s unresisting arms.

She pulled his warm body against hers, shuddering in terror as she watched Isabelle’s face. Isabelle looked at her nephew, lying in Cindra’s arms, her head pivoting slowly downwards on her emaciated neck with an audible click.

Without warning searing flames burst from her chest, showering Cindra and Atholt with sparks.

Cindra leapt backwards with a shriek of horror. Atholt began to howl, writhing in her arms so that she almost dropped him.

She began to move, slowly backing towards the door, still facing Isabelle, her tiny hand clenched into a trembling fist, ready if she came towards them. Isabelle turned to watch them go but she did not move as the sparks began to set alight the rug beneath her feet.

She turned towards the door, desperately groping with her free hand at the doorknob. Atholt was screaming in her arms, coughing and choking on the smoke that billowed up around them.

Cindra sobbed in terror as she realised that the door was locked, and try as she might she could not manage to wrench it upon. She beat against it with her fist until her knuckles were bleeding, praying that someone on the other side would hear her.

The tapestry burst into flames with a roar of heat, great tongues of fire raged upwards through the embroidered forest turning the leaves and trees into blackened ashes, carefully woven threads curling up in the heat.

Isabelle stood amongst the flames, unaffected by the baking heat as the hungry flames licking up her body. Tendrils of fire wrapped around her, peeling back her robes with incandescent fingers, to consume the pallid flesh beneath.

Cindra stared transfixed by the horrific sight, as parts of Isabelle’s body began to crumble away, the skin boiling and bubbling on her face, her lips pulled back from her teeth in a dreadful leer of pain or pleasure.

She saw Isabelle fall to her knees and then she disappeared amongst the towering flames.

Suddenly, with an animal cry of pain, Isabelle launched herself from the fire towards Cindra and Atholt, her hand reaching out towards Atholt. Atholt’s hand flew up in panic as Cindra tried to shield him. Isabelle managed to brush his frantically waving hand with one charred finger, before the fire drew her back into its depth, folding her writhing body in the searing heat of its embrace.

Atholt screamed in pain, a raw red mark flaring up where Isabelle had touched him. The drapes on the bed burst into flame with a rush of hot air. Cindra felt scorching pain as her dress caught alight, the flimsy material of her veil curling and crackling in the heat. She pressed her body over Atholt’s tiny form to protect him from the baking heat that surrounded them.

Cindra woke, her heart pounding, her face hot and sticky, her nightgown clinging to her sweat-soaked body. Her nose had begun to bleed again, hot liquid pouring down to her mouth, a metallic taste in her throat.

She waited for the baby’s cries to subside in her ears as she groped her way out of the terrible nightmare until she realised that she was awake and Atholt was really crying.

She pushed herself out of bed, rushing over to his crib. He was lying there, his tiny arms flailing in panic, his cheeks stained with tears and sweat.

“Shhh my poor little man, it’s alright then. I’m awake now”, she lifted his feverish body carefully from the crib and into her arms.

He wailed as her nightgown brushed against his hand and she peered down at him in the darkness. There on his tiny hand was a small patch of blistered, red skin, the shape of a finger tip. She looked down into his horrified upturned eyes and shrieked.

She felt Garrick by her side, the unpleasant warmth of his large body, the stench of ale on his breath.

“What… what’s wrong… is somethin’ wrong with Atholt”, he slurred heavily leaning against the crib.

“She burnt him!”, she shrieked mindlessly, “she burnt him!”.

Garrick’s arms reached furtively towards them and then dropped uselessly to his sides.