When Witches Can’t Cast, Chapter One
Drowned if she is, damned if she isn’t—Gatty Carter can’t escape the curse of being called a witch.
Marked by suspicion and chased by fear, Gatty’s life shatters after a cruel prank nearly ends it. Desperate for safety, she flees the only home she’s ever known.
But escape offers no sanctuary. Arrested for vagrancy in a strange town, Gatty soon finds herself at the mercy of a mysterious family with dark secrets of their own. They claim to run a home for wayward women, but in reality, they seek out survivors of witchcraft accusations, hoping to unlock powers none of the women possess.
Among this unlikely coven, led by an overimaginative matriarch, Gatty discovers a bond she never expected. But as she grows close to these women, and even closer to a handsome librarian—her deception becomes harder to keep. Now, she must embrace the very role she’s always feared—or risk losing the only family she’s ever known.
For readers who believe the real magic is women who refuse to be silenced.
Chapter One: The Mob and the Mud
Dedham Vale, England, 1758
The village square reeked of damp straw and stale sweat, and Gatty Carter sat in the center of it all.
The chair beneath her creaked ominously, its legs half-sunk in the churned mud, as if it too wanted to disappear. Around her, faces pressed close—a wall of sneers, furrowed brows, and whispering mouths, hungry for a spectacle. She recognized most of them: neighbors who once nodded to her in passing, now leaning in like wolves scenting blood. So many of them she’d helped—delivered elderflower when their fevers ran high, mixed horehound into syrup when the children couldn’t breathe. It hadn’t taken much, just a few herbs and a willingness to listen. But they didn’t remember that now.
Edward Fenton stepped forward, raising a hand to quiet the crowd. “I have no joy in bringing this to you, neighbors,” he began, his face set in a mask of heavy sorrow. “But my barn—my livelihood—was lost to flames just last night. And there are questions that demand answers.”
A murmur rippled through the gathering, uncertainty spreading across the sea of faces like frost. It was always like this—first doubt, then fear, then fire.
Edward sighed, shaking his head slowly, like each word weighed more than the last. “Yes, I saw her,” he continued, gesturing toward Gatty. “Gatty Carter. She was near my fields not an hour before the blaze. Her hands moved in strange gestures, and her lips…” He paused, letting the silence grow thick. “Her lips moved as if in prayer—but not to any God I know.”
Gasps fluttered through the crowd. Gatty stiffened, pulse roaring in her ears, but forced herself to sit still. Her skin itched under their stares. They don’t want truth. They want something to burn.
Behind Edward, his sister Daisy stood tight-lipped and grim. Gatty’s gaze flicked to the far edge of the crowd, where Edward’s eldest son lingered near the property line that edged up to her own. She knew exactly why Edward wanted her gone—he’d made her an offer for her land just last week. She’d turned him down. Politely, but firmly. Apparently, that was enough to be called a witch these days.
“I saw her too,” piped William Harper, stepping forward eagerly as the crowd made room for him. His wiry frame twitched with the excitement of being noticed. “Coming back from the hedge path, I did. Saw her waving her arms, like she was conjuring something. Thought it odd, but didn’t think much—until I heard about the fire.” He glanced around, his earlier grin replaced by a performative frown. “We all know what that means, don’t we?”
The crowd’s murmurs grew darker, rolling through the square. Gatty felt their eyes crawling over her skin—hot, greedy, itching to find something monstrous in her face.
She rose slowly, pushing herself upright despite the sinking legs of the chair. “This is madness,” she said, her voice low but clear. “I was walking back from the miller’s. Same as I do every week. I had a loaf of bread tucked under my arm. Ask Tom Miller’s wife, she saw me go. I never went near that barn.”
William let out a short bark of laughter. “Oh, but you’d say that, wouldn’t you?” He leaned in, breath sour. “That’s just what a devil’s handmaiden would do—deny the truth.”
Laughter flared—uneven, nervous. A woman in a threadbare shawl pulled her child behind her skirts. An old man spat near Gatty’s feet.
Gatty’s jaw locked. Her tongue felt like iron, her throat raw from holding back. They always punished her worst when she let her anger show. Be quiet, be clever, be small.
But she was tired and angry, and in that moment, she was done being small. “If the devil’s handmaidens are real, William, then surely you’d know—you’ve spent enough time groveling for his favor.” Her words cracked through the laughter like a whip. “You’ve always hated me, simply because I can read my own name. You’re a pig, and you’ll die rooting in your own filth.” A few in the crowd blinked, taken aback. Someone stifled a laugh. Others glanced uneasily toward William.
His face turned crimson. “Don’t let her twist your thoughts!” he barked. “She’s poisonous! Always has been. How dare you speak against your betters?”
“She cursed Tommy’s stomach!” cried Daisy suddenly, her voice high and shrill. “He was fine ’til she glared at him. I saw it!”
Mary Tanner stepped forward, eyes wide. “My goat dropped dead the very morning she passed by the fence! Tell me that’s not witchery!”
“She was at the apothecary, trading herbs for coin,” someone hissed from the back. “Not ordinary ones either. The kind that don’t grow this side of the forest. She deals in conjure.”
A small, sick flicker of something burned in Gatty’s chest—almost like laughter. Conjure? It was valerian, and hawthorn, and a bit of foxglove—not poison, not spells. But once they name you, it doesn’t matter what’s in your basket.
Edward raised his hands again, calling for silence. He turned back to the crowd, his expression carved from somber stone. “I take no joy in this,” he said. “But we can’t ignore the signs.” He spread his hands like he was appealing to heaven. “The magistrate calls it superstition. The priest turned me away. But you—my neighbors, my kin—you know what you’ve seen.”
Gatty’s hands gripped the arms of the chair. Seen? They’d seen nothing. Not the truth. Only what Edward told them to look for. She wanted to scream it, to stand and shout them all down—but her throat tightened like a snare. They don’t want your voice. They want your silence. “God’s teeth,” she muttered, half to herself, as anger stirred behind her ribs. “If you’d just leave me be…”
But no one ever did. A woman alone was never just left to be. She was watched. Measured. Judged. Until she slipped, or spoke, or said no.
“She’s no kin left to speak for her, poor dear,” Mary Tanner said sharply, with no trace of pity in her voice. “Living alone on that patch of land, turning down Edward’s proposal like she’s better than the rest of us. No family. No husband. It’s a tragedy, truly.”
A tragedy, Gatty thought, but one they’ll gladly fix by tossing me in the river.
“A tragedy’s not the same as a crime,” called a voice from the back.
Gatty turned toward it, heart lurching. It was Maud Hutchins—a widow with clouded eyes and trembling hands, but a spine that hadn’t yet given in. She’d once traded eggs for Gatty’s feverfew tincture, back when it was safe to do so. Gatty had shown her how to steep it with lemon balm to ease her cough. Not magic. Just plants. Just knowledge.
“It’s no sin to refuse a marriage proposal,” Maud added, louder now. “What matters is whether she set fire to that barn. Did anyone actually see her do it?”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the crowd, not conviction—giving Gatty hope.
“And what would you know of it, Maud?” snapped a man near the front—Daisy’s jackanapes of a cousin, all fire in the belly and bluster, Gatty thought, though she’d never learned his name. “You taking her brews? Letting her mix you up something special in return for silence?”
The crowd pivoted, hungry for a new target. Gatty’s stomach turned as Maud flinched, their stares crawling from her like parasites. Her hands tightened on her shawl until her knuckles shone white.
“I—I only ever asked for help with my cough,” Maud stammered. “Not charms. Not magic.” But the courage that had flared for one brief, shining moment was already draining from her voice. Fear did that. Gatty knew the taste.
Then Daisy’s husband Nathaniel straightened, puffing up his chest like a rooster on a fencepost. “I saw it, too. Gatty Carter pointed at the barn, and flames shot up like a devil’s matchstick.” He crossed himself quickly, his fingers fumbling the gesture. “With my own eyes, I did.”
Gatty’s rage surged like a kicked hornet’s nest. Her hands trembled with the need to strike the lies from his smug mouth. Her whole life she’d been told to hold her tongue, smooth her voice, keep her temper tucked away like a loose hem. But what good had it done?
“You liar,” she spat. “You’ve lived three fields from me for years and never had the courage to look me in the eye before now. I turned Edward down last week, and now you all circle like dogs at the scent of blood.”
“She speaks the truth,” Maud said quietly, though her voice barely carried. “He’s had his eye on her land since his wife died. Everyone knows it.”
“She’s making it up!” Edward bellowed, stepping back into the circle, his tone sharpening. “No one’s talking about taking her land. This isn’t about marriage. It’s about danger.” He turned slowly, sweeping the crowd with his gaze. “The magistrate would not hear me. The priest dismissed me. But you—you are the people who must live beside her. What if next time it’s your barn? Your child?” The words struck like sparks to dry hay. A low growl of dread passed through the crowd, growing teeth as it rolled forward. Gatty searched their faces—neighbors, former customers, people she’d once helped or fed or spoken kindly to. She searched for even a flicker of doubt. Just one. Please. Just one person to see the truth. “I beg of you to see through this madman’s lies!”
“Sit her down!” William barked, puffed up with borrowed authority. Two men lunged forward, one on either side of her, making Gatty jump. She twisted, elbowing one in the ribs, but they caught her, their strong hands biting into her shoulders. One shoved her hard into the chair. She hit it awkwardly, her spine jarring, and for a moment, stars danced in her vision.
Then came the slap.
An open palm, swift and sharp. Her head snapped to the side. Pain flared, white-hot. The copper tang of blood filled her mouth. She spat into the dirt and raised her eyes, trying not to show her fear.
The man leaned close, his breath thick with beer and rot. “You’re braver than you are smart,” he muttered. His fingers coiled in her hair, yanking it back until her throat stretched bare. “And bravery won’t count for much when you’re burning.”
A hush swept through the crowd as William stepped forward, brandishing a glass bottle like a trophy. The liquid inside sloshed, catching the early light.
“This’ll settle it,” he announced. “Holy water. From the church font itself.”
Gatty narrowed her eyes. “Holy water?” she said, her voice cutting through the noise. “If it were truly holy, William, it’d already be burning holes through your filthy hands.”
There was a pause—just a breath—then a flicker of nervous laughter, thin and hesitant. Someone gasped. A woman’s hand flew to her mouth.
“She twists words,” William shouted, too loud now. “Like a snake. Don’t let her twist yours!”
Then from the back: “Dunk her in the river!” The cry was sharp and gleeful, and Gatty’s eyes widened. “Dunk her!” someone echoed.
“Dunk her! Dunk her!” others shouted, the chant building with frightening speed. The frenzy rose like a tide, each voice feeding the next until it became one deafening roar. Gatty flinched, not from the sound, but from the knowing—it was over. No one would save her now.
William lifted his arm like a conductor drunk on his own music. “Let’s see if she floats,” he said, triumphant.
“No!” Gatty shouted, lurching against the chair. “Please don’t—”
But her voice was swallowed whole by the chant. They didn’t want your words. They wanted your silence. Your confession.
Hands clamped down on her shoulders again, tilting the chair back as if she weighed nothing at all. Gatty kicked and twisted, boots sliding in the mud.
“Get her down from there!” a woman’s voice cried out—faint and distant, quickly drowned by the chant. Through the shifting bodies, Gatty caught a glimpse of a few women clutching children, being ushered away, heads bowed, faces pale. Even they won’t stay. Even they’ll let it happen.
The River Stour glistened beyond the green, dark and restless beneath the morning light. Its brown water coiled like rope, quickened by the spring rains, and here and there, white foam snagged on the rushes like teeth bared in a snarl. Her stomach turned to stone.
She couldn’t swim. They were going to drown her. They were truly going to do it.
Survival on her mind, she thrashed, boots flailing wildly. Her heel connected with something solid—a man’s nose. He howled, stumbling back.
The chair wobbled dangerously in the confusion, one side momentarily unsupported. Gatty seized the moment. Twisting her body with everything she had, she flung herself sideways. The chair toppled with a sickening crack, landing hard in the churned mud. Pain shot through her spine. Her hands splintered against the rough wood as she clawed her way free. She didn’t think—thinking would stop her. Her body took over.
She rolled, gasping, skirts soaked and tangled. The world spun—shouts rising behind her—but she was already on her knees, mud to her elbows, her heart a war drum.
Gatty scrambled upright, skirts bunched in her fists, and ran.
“Get her!” Edward’s voice cut through the uproar like a blade. But she was already gone.
She darted toward the trees at the edge of the square, branches like reaching fingers, shadows like cloaks. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The mob roared behind her—an unholy chorus of fury and fear, their boots churning the earth in pursuit.
Branches whipped her face. Thorns scored her arms. She barely felt it. Somewhere ahead, she heard the rush of water. The river.
She ran toward it blindly, lungs burning, mud sucking at her boots. The scent of wet bark and churned earth filled her lungs.
When she burst onto the riverbank, she skidded to a halt.
The river was swollen, churning with recent rain. It writhed like a living thing—black, merciless. The current snarled, hissing against stone and root. A bitter spray stung her cheeks.
She hesitated, chest heaving. There’s nowhere to go.
“There she is!” a voice bellowed behind her. “Don’t let her get away!”
Panic surged, white-hot and blinding. She ran further still away from the voice, then turned toward the water. It looked bottomless, eternal. A shadow bobbed in the current—driftwood and flotsam, she thought, until it turned, revealing what looked almost like an arm. A body.
Her stomach twisted. The mob wanted her gone, and the river would oblige. No trial. No scream. Just a ripple, and then… nothing. Her eyes scanned the shore, desperate.
There—a massive tree leaning over the bank, its roots like claws, grasping at the river’s edge. A hollow gaped at its base, dark and damp and waiting.
It wasn’t safety. But it was a choice.
Gatty dropped to her knees, fingers clawing at the earth as she dragged herself into the hollow. The bark scraped her arms. Cold and rot wrapped around her like a second skin. She shoved branches over herself, stuffing leaves into the gaps, forcing herself down into the dirt like a root. She gritted her teeth to silence her breath. Still. Still. Don’t move. Don’t even be.
“She’s not here!” someone shouted, close now. A boot crunched above her head. “She must’ve gone into the river,” another voice said, loud and uncertain. “I don’t see her. You?”
Gatty didn’t blink. Her heartbeat thundered like hoofbeats in her ears. Her lungs burned, but she kept her mouth shut.
“Wait—what’s that?” someone called sharply.
Her breath froze. Her stomach lurched.
“That’s her!” another voice cried. “Down there! In the current—she’s gone.”
“Isn’t that wood?” Edward asked skeptically.
“Wood the shape of a man, maybe,” someone retorted.
Silence fell like a shroud. Even the mob seemed caught off guard by their own words.
“This has gone too far,” William muttered. His voice, once bloated with pride, now cracked. “It was supposed to be sport, not… not this.”
Sport. That’s all she’d ever been to them. Not a neighbor. Not a healer. Not a woman. A game. A warning. A thing to throw into the fire to feel safe again.
“Sport?” Edward snapped. “You were the one waving holy water like a prize goose. What did you think would happen?”
“I thought she’d run,” William said weakly. “Maybe scare her a bit, make her think twice.”
Gatty lay still, their words settling on her chest like stones.
Sport. That’s all she’d ever been to them. Not a neighbor. Not a woman. Just a story to pass around, a scapegoat to toss in the fire when the shadows grew long. She’d given them balm for fevers, roots for coughs, lavender for grief. And now they called her a danger.
“Let’s go,” someone muttered. “If she’s in the river, she’s already dead. There’s nothing to see.”
“You’re right,” William agreed quickly. “Come on—before someone comes looking.”
Their voices drifted away, muffled by distance and the roar of the river. Still, Gatty didn’t move.
The cold crept deeper, turning muscle to stone, bone to ice. Her body screamed from the stillness, from the tight hollow, from the strain of holding herself small and unseen. But she stayed silent. Buried. Invisible.
She was supposed to be dead.
And for now—she would let them believe it.
Let them gather at the tavern and toast the cleansing of the valley. Let them whisper that the river had taken her. Let them pray over their breakfasts and feel safe again. She’d give them that comfort, if only to keep her name out of their mouths a little longer.
Hours passed. The stars shifted overhead, sharp and distant. The forest exhaled its mist into the cold. And at last, when the wind grew still and the world felt hollow with quiet, Gatty moved.
Her limbs screamed as she uncurled herself. With shaking arms, she pushed aside the damp branches and crawled from the hollow. Her body was stiff, her fingers raw and half-numb. Mud clung to her skin like a second, rotting hide. Her skirts were soaked and stiff, dragging at her legs with every movement. Her stomach growled low and bitter.
The square was quiet. The woods held only the hush of wind and river. No more shouts. No more boots. No more chanting.
The mob was gone.
The river surged beside her, black and wild in the moonlight—a beast that had nearly swallowed her whole. She stared at its surface, the water dancing silver around a half-submerged log, and thought: I could have vanished. I still might.
They think I’m dead.
The thought hit her like a slap. Equal parts relief and fury. It opened something inside her—a cold, hollow ache—and filled it with fire. Let them think it. Let them whisper and clutch their crosses. I’m still here.
And that, for now, would have to be enough. She rose to her feet on trembling legs. The riverbank was slick and treacherous. The mud sucked at her boots like it meant to pull her down again. Every step hurt. The cold gnawed at her bones, and her breath fogged the air like smoke.
But she moved. Because if she didn’t, she might never again.
Time blurred. The moon vanished behind clouds. A fox barked in the distance. Her hands throbbed, then numbed. Still, she walked.
Just before dawn, a sound broke the hush—the groan of wagon wheels and the soft clop of hooves on frozen earth.
Gatty froze. Her pulse jumped. Someone’s coming.
She dropped low, slipping into a tangle of brambles. The earth sucked at her skirts again, but she didn’t flinch. Through the thorns, she saw it: a farm cart, piled high with blocks of peat and heavy sacks of grain.
The driver was an older man she didn’t know, wrapped in a thick coat with a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face. He hummed a low, tuneless melody as the cart creaked past. It sounded so ordinary, so alive, that Gatty nearly wept at the absurdity of it.
Then he stopped. Another man emerged from the trees, and the two broke into argument.
“You told me the road was clear!” the driver barked, voice hoarse with cold. “If I’d known about the washout, I’d have taken the mill route.”
“It’s barely a washout,” the other man grunted. “A bit of mud’s nothing. You’re just looking for an excuse to whinge.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” the driver snapped. “You’re not the one who’ll be knee-deep in muck, dragging a cart free with a rope and prayer.”
Their voices echoed faintly down the road. Neither of them noticed her. Not yet. The cart’s back gaped open, its stack of peat shifting slightly beneath a wind-rustled tarp. Gatty’s chance.
Her boots were silent on the soft earth. The smell of peat hit her like smoke and stone and warmth remembered. She gripped the wooden slats and hauled herself up, scraping knees and palms on rough timber. Her muscles screamed, but she didn’t stop.
The blocks were cold, but not like the air. She burrowed in deep, letting them settle over her—hiding her scent, her shape, her past. She tugged the tarp down, inch by inch, sealing herself into the darkness.
The argument ended with a grunt. A stomp of boots. Then the groan of the driver climbing back into place.
The cart lurched. The horse snorted, hooves crunching frozen soil. The wheels turned.
Beneath the tarp, Gatty curled into herself. Every muscle throbbed. Her skin itched beneath layers of grime and cold. But the road moved beneath her.
She was going forward. And for now, forward was enough.