The prisoner gazed out of her window. It was one of four in Crowstone Tower, the tall stone cage in which she was being held.
Here, if she kept her eyes up, she could pretend that the prison walls fear below did not exist, and that she was looking upon the world from a castle, or perhaps a mountain. But today she was done with make-believe; pretending she was in a dream, pretending someone was going to save her. The girl wrapped her arms more tightly around herself, against the cruel wind that ripped through the bare windows. It smelled of the marshes: briny with a whiff of fish. The tide was out, leaving only a vast expanse of mudflats at stranded fish, tussocks of marsh grass, and a battered, abandoned rowing boat. A tendril of her long, tawny hair flew in between her lips. She tugged it free, tasting salt, and leaned over the cold, scratched stone sill as far as she dared. The windows were not barred; they didn't need to be. The hight of the tower was deterrent enough. The noise of the crows circling outside was constant. At first she had thought of the birds as friends, chattering to keep her company. Sometimes, one would land on the sill. Pecking, watching, unblinking. The caws began to sound less friendly. Accusing, mocking. Marsh witch, the crows seemed to croak, in the voices of the villagers. Came in off the marsh, she did, killing three of our own.
She had never meant to hurt anyone.
The scratches in the stone stretched the length of the windowsill,