Page 109 of A Time of Witches

He had not let go of her hand, and she did not pull away. “You cannot beg for my release. It is far too dangerous. But you can speak out against the atrocities that are being committed. They are starving us, walking us between chairs for days at a time, having women bared and shorn—”

The words clogged in her throat. She could not give voice to such memories. Doing so made them too real when she would rather they fade into the fog of her mind.

“They pricked me with a trick bodkin with a hollow handle and claimed I did not bleed, stating it was proof enough.” Sybil took his hand, reveling in the warmth and strength of his long fingers. “John, I am condemned.”

He shook his head fiercely. “No, there has to be a way—”

“There is not.”

“I’ll preach against what is happening with my parish and to anyone else who will listen,” he vowed. “But you, Sybil, there must be a way to set you free?”

She was about to shake her head when a thought came to her.

The valerian extract.

Sybil sniffed away the vestiges of her tears. “Mayhap, but it would be through escape.” She lowered her voice and glanced toward the door, as if expecting the guard to walk through at any moment.

“I told him you wished counsel from a vicar,” John admitted sheepishly. “I think they hope it means you will confess.”

“I will never confess,” Sybil said vehemently.

“See there?” John grinned. “You are still my same Sybil. Resilient and with an iron will.”

My same Sybil.

How she cherished those words, and the way he saw strength in her that she had not felt in far too long.

Mayhap his seeing strength in her might bring it into existence once more.

“Come again tomorrow,” Sybil said. “See if you can find some clothing like the guards wear. Meet with a young woman named Margery and give her the clothing to secret into the prison. And bring ale for the guards.” If the guards drank enough, they would not taste the bitterness of the valerian root. “A lot of ale.”

“I shall return on the morrow.” John studied her, his gaze like a caress. “I will speak to people of what they have done here,” he said quietly. “Of how they persecute the innocent. Of the unfairness and the brutality of Edith’s death.”

Sybil looked quickly away, unable to yield to her sorrow once more lest the loss consume her. Now was not for mourning.

Now was for fighting back.

For doing what she could to keep anyone else from dying.

John turned to go, but she caught his arm. “There is something I must tell you.” Her heart fluttered erratically and suddenly she was breathless, lightheaded. “In case…”

In case the attempt to escape went awry and she never had the opportunity to speak to him again.

“What do you know of my life?” she asked. “Of me and my household?”

He tilted his head in that inquisitive way of his that conveyed she held the entirety of his attention.

“Jacinda,” she said.

It was so difficult to breathe. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her thoughts racing.

He nodded. “Your sister.”

“Not my sister.” Sybil pulled in a deep inhale and clung to John’s hand. “My daughter.” She stared deep into his eyes, knowing her next words would forever change how they saw the world. “Our daughter.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Lilith