CHAPTER 3: Marked by Mercy

Elizabeth stopped leaving her door open.

It was a small thing—one she barely noticed herself—but by the third morning it had become habit. She lifted the latch behind her, slid the wooden bar into place, and paused with her palm resting on the door as if expecting it to shudder beneath her touch.

She dressed more slowly than usual. Not from weakness, but from care. She chose darker wool, a longer apron, pinned her dirty blonde curls tighter than before.

She did not wear the small charm of dried rosemary she’d once kept tucked into her bodice. She did not want to be accused of believing in protection that was not sanctioned.

When she stepped into the street, the village was already awake. Not bustling—never bustling anymore—but alert in a way that set her teeth on edge. People spoke in pairs now, never alone. Heads bent together, then lifted as she passed.

Conversations stopped. Not abruptly. Politely.

Elizabeth nodded to those she knew. Some nodded back, stiff and distant. Others pretended not to see her at all.

She made her way toward the granary first. The line was shorter than it should have been. Several families had not come at all.

A man she recognised from the south fields stood near the door, arms folded tight across his chest. His eyes tracked her openly as she approached.

“You should stay away,” he said, not unkindly.

Elizabeth stopped. “From food?”

“From people,” he replied. “It isn’t right. You’re… untouched.”

Elizabeth studied him for a moment. His cheeks were hollow, his lips cracked. There was a tremor in his hands he had not bothered to hide.

“I wash,” she said. “I sleep. I eat when I can.”

He shook his head. “Others do too.”

He stepped aside anyway.

Inside the granary, the air was dry and choking. Dust hung thick enough to taste, coating her tongue. The clerk avoided her eyes as he weighed her ration. His fingers lingered too long on the scale, as though hoping it might tip against her.

She left with less grain than usual and said nothing.

By late morning, a pattern emerged.

She was allowed into houses only when someone else had already failed. When the priest had prayed and left. When hope had thinned to something narrow and sharp.

At one such house, a boy no older than ten answered the door. His eyes were rimmed red, his nose running freely. He did not step aside until Elizabeth asked permission.

Inside, the room smelled of vinegar and old sweat. A man lay on the floor, blankets piled atop him despite the heat. His breathing came in shallow bursts, each exhale rattling.

Elizabeth knelt and began her work. She did not linger. She did not touch more than necessary. She spoke only when she had to, her voice calm, neutral, professional. When she rose to leave, the boy thanked her without meeting her gaze.

Outside, she leaned briefly against the wall, fatigued from the effort of holding herself together.

At midday, the church doors opened.

This was unusual. Services had been shortened, then canceled altogether. The faithful no longer gathered shoulder to shoulder; God, it seemed, was no longer safe in numbers.

Father Aldric stood in the doorway, flanked by two men Elizabeth did not recognise. One carried a ledger. The other wore a chain of office she had only ever seen during disputes over land or marriage.

Elizabeth slowed.

Father Aldric’s eyes found her immediately.

“Elizabeth,” he said, too loudly.

The men beside him turned.

“We need to speak,” the priest continued. “Inside.”

Elizabeth did not resist. Refusal would have meant something else now.

The church smelled different than it had days before. Less incense. More cold stone. The candles along the nave burned low, their wax spilling unevenly like tears hardened mid-fall.

They stood near the altar.

“People are frightened,” Father Aldric said, hands folded. “They are looking for order.”

“Then give it to them,” Elizabeth replied.

The man with the ledger cleared his throat. “We have questions.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “Ask.”

“Why do you survive where others do not?”

She met his gaze steadily. “I don’t know.”

“Why do you touch the dead?”

“So they are not alone.”

The second man shifted, uncomfortable.

“You do not pray aloud,” the ledger-holder said.

Elizabeth glanced at the altar. “God hears whispers.”

Father Aldric flinched again, the way he always did when she spoke plainly.

“We are not accusing you,” he said quickly. “Not yet.”

The words hung between them.

“What are you asking, then?” Elizabeth said.

“That you remain indoors,” the priest replied. “For a time. Let the village settle.”

Elizabeth felt something cold slide into her chest.

“If I stay indoors,” she said carefully, “people will die.”

“They are dying anyway,” the man with the chain said.

Elizabeth looked at him. “Not alone.”

The meeting ended without resolution.

Outside, the sky had darkened. Clouds pressed low and heavy, threatening rain that would turn the lanes into mud again. Elizabeth walked home slowly, feeling the church at her back like a watchful eye.

The first stone struck her basket near the well.

It did not hit her—only the wicker edge—but the sound was sharp and unmistakable. She turned.

No one stood close enough to claim it.

A woman crossed herself hastily and hurried away.

Elizabeth bent and picked up the stone. It was small. Smooth. A child’s throw.

She set it gently on the well’s edge and continued walking.

That night, she barred her door fully.

She ate little. The grain tasted of dust. She drank water and felt it sit heavy in her stomach.

Illness had rules. Fear did not, and fear was organising itself.