Page 124 of A Time of Witches

Several women descended upon the prisoners with scissors. Sybil looked up at the woman before her, recognizing her wide blue eyes.

“Mrs. Jones?” Sybil asked as the woman took her hands.

The woman looked up, her brows lifting in startled recognition. “Mrs. Brantham.”

Mrs. Williams was there, as cold and steely as she’d been when shaving Sybil’s hair from her body and prodding at her with a hollow bodkin. She shot a hard glare at Mrs. Jones.

“Forgive me,” Mrs. Jones whispered.

Before her arrest, Sybil had softened her cuticles with lavender and calendula-infused rose oil, her nails kept clean and perfectly rounded. Now they were black with grime, the cuticles ragged, the brittle nails uneven and chipped.

With surprising care, Mrs. Jones snicked the broken nails into a brown jar and twisted the cap into place.

Likewise, the other prisoners were having their nails hastily clipped. The ones who still had hair lost locks that were crudely shorn and stuffed into jars.

Those brown jars would be tucked into the basement of the building, separating the nails and hair from the witches being killed. For those not buried whole would be denied entry into heaven. Or so they believed.

Once the jars had been sealed, the men and women were crammed back onto the cart. Margery’s hair had been hacked with intentional cruelty, an obvious attack against her beauty.

She clasped Sybil’s hand and squeezed her grip. Sybil squeezed back. For strength, for comfort.

Beneath the jeers of the mob pressing around the cart, the unmistakable murmur of the vicar droned on in prayer, begging mercy for their souls.

When they finally came to a stop on Thingoe Hill, a crude wooden beam awaited them, affixed with eighteen ropes. To the right was a pyre of split logs with a stake jutting from the center. For Sybil.

Beside her, a woman whimpered, and a puddle formed beneath her feet.

Though many townspeople followed the procession of the cart, many more were already waiting by the gallows. Hundreds.

Mayhap even thousands.

Lightheadedness overwhelmed Sybil and she swayed on her feet.

A breeze stirred from the east, and she closed her eyes, letting its sweetness wash over her cheeks, savoring the moment of nature, breathing in the verdant fragrance of sun-warmed grass and late summer blossoms.

Oh, how she longed to have her shackles removed, to let the earth embrace her into death.

The wind picked up, whipping her shift against her body.

She blinked her eyes open. Clouds crowded the horizon, ferociously dark in contrast to the clear sunny day only moments before.

Unnatural.

Frantic suddenly, she searched the faces of the gathered crowd when Margery’s hand was abruptly ripped from hers. Too late to stop, Margery was pulled away along with the other condemned until only Sybil remained.

The women and men were marched to the gallows in a single line and nooses were looped around their necks. A charged silence descended on the crowd and lightning flickered in the clouds.

Matthew Hopkins stepped forward. “You die today for your admission and evidence of witchcraft. As of this day, the world will be rid of your wicked ways.”

The crowd cheered, a cry of savage bloodlust.

The executioner slid behind the row of prisoners, a black hood masking his face.

He stood behind the first woman—Mary Bacon, whose husband had recently been arrested for trying to help her. Just that morning, she had learned her son had, indeed, embarked on the journey to the Connecticut Colony in the New World.

With a single shove from the executioner, she flew from the platform. Her scream was cut short by the brutal snap of the rope. Her feet thrashed as her body swung, jerking in helpless spasms.

The masses roared with approval.