But apparently her squire was not so innocent as she had imagined, Kate had informed her after studying the black sparkling onyx crust running up her hands, up the length of her forearms, that this substance was known among witches as hellfire, and that only one who had put their hands directly into hell to make a pact with satan himself had secured this mark of evil. Kate took the stranger’s broom too, but gave instruction to ensure that its care was secured, and it would be returned at such a time that she might leave for wherever she was going. She asked Mistrial too, to bind her from any and all magics while she stayed with them. This task Mistrial set upon like a mother lion and in no time at all a symbol had arranged itself in her mind, arriving in the middle of the night, just as she was settling into sleep, and set her heart to a panic. So she hurried downstairs and painted it over and over down a roll of bandages and wrapped her stranger up. Then stopped to appreciate her work. The head swelling had gone down considerably, and in fact improved the fullness of the features of that fine face, though the fever still raged. Mistrial enjoyed looking at this person, she was certain they had amassed considerable kinship in the trenches of frontier dentistry. She then took a needle and some thread and stitched a safety sigil, further binding the magic of the bandages, under the tongue just for good measure - the dental scarring somewhat masking the evidence of this final intrusion. As Mistrial resurrected her mummy through little sips of soup and herbal tea they talked a bit. The stranger said her name was Heathcliff but not to let that get out. She said she would have given a fake name but she was too dumb to lie and everyone would notice she didn’t pay attention to any fake name. First thing she asked for was her broom and Mistrial told her it was nearby and she’d get it back. She asked about her teeth and Mistrial said about the same. She noticed Heathcliff spoke in a salivary kind of way, regularly sucking back spit and all her fricatives produced big clouds of fine spittle when the light was right. Mistrial wasn’t sure if this was her regular way of speaking or if it were an effect of the surgery but either way the mannerisms persisted. It added to the somewhat churlish demeanor the girl had, but churlish in the manner of someone whom you’re glad is dumb because it makes them easy to love in this world of generally unlovable people poised to strike. They smoked together. Mistrial would put the cigarette to her lips and Heath would take little sups, gulping air with it. The work of a true nursemaid. Mistrial kind of knew her gal was on the mend when she took heavier drags, and around that time they were getting outside to sit on the swinging bench out in the thin light of morning. Heath looked out on the misty swamp, bursting in profusion of golden rays, she said it was heavenly and that she wished she could be in convalescence forever and Mistrial said sure I’d be sure glad to take care of you. And they spoke.at length about Heathcliff’s coven. How she ran away, how she was born into it and how weird it was growing up having the left-hand path designated for you. How her mother, Vermilla, was abusive but also deeply and jealously loving, and kept her dependent and sheltered throughout her young life. She told her of how she dreamed of a great destiny and saw it fading fast, and with Vermilla’s outbursts getting more outrageous and demented with age, and how the rest of the coven were turning in on themselves and her being unable to rely on her mother to shelter her from the consequences of their ire, she felt the squeeze and knew it was time to go. Mistrial asked her what it was like putting her hands into hell and Heath said she couldn’t put it into words but she didn’t know her hands could feel shame and guilt, nor that shame and fear at such heights had an equivalent to pain like white fire. It still hurts, she said, you just kinda adjust.