Page 131 of A Time of Witches

“This is ridiculous.” Hopkins banged his hand on the railing. “Guards.”

The guards remained where they were. The one with the scarred eyebrow, who had only days before taunted Sybil in her cell now looked directly at her, as if truly seeing her for the first time. “We sent my mam to the pesthouse, thinking she was not long for this world. She returned a sennight later. I hadn’t realized…all this time, it was on account of Mrs. Brantham.”

“My boy had a fever,” a woman at the front of the mob said. “She made a tonic, and he recovered.”

A murmur began among the throngs of people, snatches of their words caught from where Sybil remained with her hands painfully bound behind her.

Plague victims spared and consoled, babies born, comforts delivered to the elderly and the injured. Through it all, several women continued to glare at the magistrate, equal parts fear and hatred.

“But she’s a witch,” someone cried. “Burn her!”

“It is not her who must be stopped, but the magistrate.” A woman’s voice came from the crowd, harsh with desperation.

Hopkins lifted a brow.

“Save Mrs. Brantham,” another woman cried.

Sybil’s breath caught. Hope flickered anew. Hope and gratitude for the people who had not forgotten her in her time of need.

“Kill the magistrate,” a woman cried. “Kill him for what he’s done to us.”

The violence of the cry summoned the bloodlust of the crowd. Gone was the uncertainty that had left them shifting their weight from foot to foot. Their faces were florid with outrage, their voices sharp with judgment.

With the need for vengeance.

“Guards,” Hopkins shouted above the din.

The younger guard who had allowed the little girl to flee that fateful night put his hands out, blocking the other guards from coming forward. “My sister said ye touched her.” He stared at the magistrate, his eyes blazing with hate. “I didn’t believe her at the time…” He tucked his right fist into his left, popping the bones there, then he turned to the mob. “Kill the magistrate!”

The answering cry was deafening. “Kill him!”

Robert Walsingham looked out at the wrath calling for his blood and roared at them like a beast, spittle stretching between his teeth like cobwebs. Then he turned toward the pyre and flung the torch upon it with all the force of his rage—one final act of control before he lost it to the mob.

The tinder caught at once, despite the spit of rain earlier. Sybil jerked from the heat, held by the stake at her back.

The magistrate did not stay to witness his handiwork but dashed round the pyre to the open field leading to town. A coward with his back to those whom he had wronged. Those who now wanted revenge and gave chase.

Sybil stared at the pulse of light beneath the logs. Fire glowed in its depths, fanned to life by the sweep of wind. Flames erupted all around her and smoke clogged the air, filling her lungs, her nose, her mouth. She coughed, bringing a lungful of the polluted air even deeper.

A tongue of fire licked at the hem of her shift, flicking over her skin with intense pain.

For all Kat’s efforts and the grief of Anne’s admission, Sybil would still die.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Lilith

“Enough,” Asher growled. “I said enough.”

A humming ceased abruptly.

“You don’t have to be so dramatic.” Despite Aunt Jacqueline’s nagging tone, there was a note of terror.

Lilith’s face rested on something cool. The ground?

The scent of rich soil and grass overwhelmed the delicate fragrance of honeysuckle.

“Lilith.” Asher’s voice again. Softer this time. “Lilith, talk to me. Open your eyes.”