THEY SWARM ME LIKE wasps the instant the elevator doors open, pale hands groping, white eyes flashing—and the raid on Medea, which has already been a disaster, becomes very nearly a route. In the end all I can do is to open my musket—even as they claw and tear at my clothing—and bathe the compartment in flame; hoping the fireproof quilting of my vest will protect me now that it has been so gravely compromised.
Somehow, it works—and I am able to climb out from beneath them, triggering the doors behind me before any can escape to continue their attack. (As Captain Patrobus likes to say: “A burning witch is not a dead witch—it is, however, a pissed off one.”)
Then the car is descending and I am clasping my tunic—which has been ripped open to expose a breast—knowing that if I am to sweep and
