The Hand of Glory

The CampfireThe openingFree

There was once an old inn high up on the moors, on Stainmore, in the north of England. A lonely place. The wind blew there all year round. The nearest neighbor was miles away.

The inn was owned by a farmer and his family. They kept the money from the inn in the house, in a strongbox. There were no banks out there.

One cold night, late, after the family had gone to bed, there was a knock at the door. A traveler. An old woman, in a long, ragged coat and a deep hood, asking for shelter from the cold.

The maid, a young girl named Bella, let her in. She said she could sleep on the bench by the kitchen fire, and go on her way in the morning.

The old woman thanked her and lay down by the fire.

But Bella didn't like the look of her.

The old woman kept her face hidden in her hood. And when she lay down on the bench, her coat fell open, and Bella saw, underneath it, a pair of men's trousers. And heavy boots.

It wasn't an old woman at all.

Bella said nothing. She pretended to go to bed. She lay down on a little bench in the corner of the kitchen, with her face turned toward the fire, and closed her eyes most of the way.

And she watched.