Robin

ROBIN

Robin did hear every word.

She reads the note that the woman pushed under the door, then screws it up into a ball before throwing it on the fire.

Robin isn’t a witch—not that she cares what they think—but has frankly been called far worse. So what if she doesn’t keep the cottage spotlessly clean? It’s her home and how she chooses to live is her business. Some people think money is the answer to all of life’s problems, but they’re wrong, sometimes money is the cause of them. Some people think money can buy love, or happiness, or even other people. But Robin won’t be bought. Everything she has now is hers. She earned it, or found it, or made it all by herself. She doesn’t need or want anyone else’s money or things or opinions. Robin can take care of Robin. Besides, this cottage might not look like much, but it was somewhere she used to run away to as a child. Just like her mother before her. Sometimes home is more of a memory than a place.

The comments about her personal appearance hurt a bit, more than they should have. But name-calling stings no more than nettles these days, and the initial irritation soon fades to nothing. Besides, being dismissed as an elderly woman amuses her in some ways. Just because her hair has turned gray, it doesn’t mean that Robin is old. She tells herself that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about—the man can’t even recognize his own reflection. But although vanity has never been one of her qualities, it doesn’t mean she is immune to insults.

She tidies herself and the place up a little—because she wants to, not because of what he said—then carefully pulls back the corner of one bedsheet curtain, to check that the visitors aren’t still lurking outside. She is pleased to see that they are halfway up the hill already. Out of the way and earshot.

Now that she is sure they cannot see or hear anything else that they shouldn’t, Robin sits down in the old leather chair and lights her pipe. She just needs a little something to steady herself and her nerves, and this is the last chance she’ll get to smoke it. The only visitors she is used to these days are Patrick the postman—who knows better than to knock or say hello—and Ewan, the local farmer who grazes his sheep on the land around Blackwater Loch. He sometimes drops by with milk or eggs to say thank you—she lets the animals feed for free, and understands that farming has become a tough business. He also tells her snippets of gossip about various characters in town—not that Robin wants to know—but most people stay away.

Because all the locals know the stories about Blackwater Chapel.

Robin looks out of the window to check on the visitors one last time. They’re near the top of the hill now, so it’s safe to go out. She puts on her coat and Oscar stares up at her. A few years ago, Robin would have thought that a house rabbit was a ridiculous idea, but as it turns out, they make surprisingly good companions. Robin slips a red leather collar inside her pocket, then heads off toward the chapel alone. She knows what happened to the visitors’ dog because she took him. But Robin doesn’t feel guilty about that at all, even though she used to own a dog herself, and knows how upset they must be.

Bad people deserve the bad things that happen to them.