Evernight
Bridget Magnus
0
In the dim heart of Norwich, England, 1632, a storm rolled over the thatched rooftops, casting lightning through the cracks of an old stone cottage. Inside, a warlock bent over his worktable, his hands trembling with feverish triumph. Before him stood a glass jar, its surface etched with sigils of containment and runes that pulsed faintly like veins of living fire. Inside the jar—motionless yet strangely aware—was a doll. Its porcelain skin gleamed pale against the candlelight, its hair tangled and dark, its eyes wide and glassy with silent fury.
Once, she had been Bridget Magnus, a midwife with healing hands and whispers that soothed the sick. But her gifts had drawn suspicion, her remedies mistaken for witchcraft. When they came for her, torches blazing, she had cursed their judgment and promised to rise again. The warlock, intrigued by her defiance, bound her essence before the pyre consumed her, stealing her soul at the edge of death and sealing it within this fragile form.
For years, she stood still—unaging, unyielding—watched by the flickering light of dying candles and surrounded by relics of dark science. Petals dried at her feet, the scent of burnt sage lingered in the air, and rusted instruments lay scattered, reminders of the man who had stolen her freedom. But deep within her glass prison, the witch’s eyes shimmered faintly. She remembered.
Now, centuries later, as dusk pressed through cracked shutters, something in the air stirred. A whisper crossed the dust-choked room—soft, deliberate, venomous. The jar trembled. Fine cracks spidered along the glass, and for the first time since her capture, the doll blinked. The witch had waited long enough. Bridget Magnus had returned, and vengeance would come sealed in porcelain.
