Bridget knelt by the warmth of the hearth.

The orange glow of the fire painted flickering shapes on the stone walls.

The peat fire's heat warmed her skin, but internally she felt a creeping cold that no flame could warm.

The cold March night pressed against the window panes with a distant towel,

wind wailing like a banshee around the eaves.

The cottage air was dense with peat smoke, and Bridget's head swam.

Just beyond the firelight, a ring of faces hovered in the dark.

Her husband, father, and neighbors, people she'd known her whole life, stared at her as if she

were something unholy. They kept their distance, tense and

silent, and Bridget's heart drummed. Why were they looking at her that way? Aside from her ragged

breathing, the cottage was deathly quiet until the fire popped and made her flinch. No one moved or spoke

her name. Michael, her husband, tightened his grip on the poker like a weapon. Bridget's mouth

was dry as ash. She tried to call out, but only a broken whisper escaped. Bridget forced herself

to meet Michael's eyes. A strange, feverish light gleamed there, a dangerous mix of fear and conviction.

His lips moved soundlessly, as if in prayer. Behind him, a cousin

muffled a sob, looking at Bridget as if she were a ghost. In that moment, with a fire

crackling low and the night air seeping in, A bolt of understanding struck her. They did not see her,

not Bridget. In their eyes, she was an imposter wearing her face. One dreadful word rose in her mind,

changeling. Dread twisted inside her as she recognized the grim purpose in their faces.

They intended to purge the creature they thought she was.

Bridget trembled.

The fire did nothing to stop the icy chills,

...