Page 37 of A Time of Witches

The jailer, a short man with a chest like a barrel, unlocked a gate unceremoniously and waved the prisoners back with his cudgel, despite the women already cowering.

With a hard shove at Sybil’s back, she stumbled forward, her legs too weak to bear her weight as she pitched to the floor. The rushes were wet and foul smelling, and she wrenched her face aside. The clang of metal on metal rang out as the door was latched, followed by the click of a lock.

And just like that, she was a prisoner.

“Oh, Sybil.” The voice was familiar.

Gentle hands curled around Sybil’s shoulders and helped her sit.

She looked up into Edith’s bruised face.

“Edith.” Sybil caught her friend’s hand, chains clinking where they draped from their wrists. She squeezed her friend’s fingers. To give and to receive comfort. To rein in her growing terror.

“I’m sorry to see you here,” Edith said mournfully. “The magistrate was responsible for this, I presume?”

Sybil nodded.

Edith sighed. “I regret I stopped Kat—”

“No.” Sybil would not let her say she regretted discouraging Kat from cursing the magistrate after learning what he’d done to Sybil.

What he’d likely done to many of the women in Bury St. Edmunds. Including Sybil’s own neighbor, leaving a babe who was spirited away in the middle of the night to a childless couple three towns over.

“Never apologize for not wishing ill on others,” Sybil said weakly as she allowed Edith to help her to her feet and guide her toward the rear of the cell. They both gratefully sank to the floor where they had a wall at their back.

The rushes beneath them had not been changed in some time. Dark flecks moved about on the hay, and something large and unseen shuffled beneath.

“More women will be accused.” Edith lowered her voice. “They encourage us to speak against one another, name new victims for them to arrest.”

A wail broke through the prisoners’ shuffles and murmurs, a low, defeated keening that made Sybil’s chest ache.

“I did not denounce you,” Edith said quickly. “But they will take you to be questioned.”

“I never assumed you would.” Sybil leaned her head against the wall. Dampness from the old stone bled into the cloth of her dress. The wet chill crept into her bones and left her skin pebbled with gooseflesh. Exhaustion weighted her limbs, a demand for sleep after what she had endured.

Her mind, though, was a hive of activity, a constant buzz of worry.

Jacinda.

Jacinda.

Jacinda.

If Sybil had been arrested, would she be next? Would Magistrate Walsingham use her to get to Sybil? Could the girl manage without Sybil there to protect her?

She had been left vulnerable and Sybil was helpless to offer any aid.

Tears burned in Sybil’s eyes. Not fear, but fury. The indignation that she could not be with Jacinda to ensure her safety. Sybil blinked until her vision cleared.

She had to be strong.

“What can I expect when they examine me?” Sybil asked.

“The inquirers are insistent, spinning such stories when they bid our confessions, encouraging us to admit their preposterous tales are true.” Edith patted Sybil’s arm. “You have always been strong, my friend. You have naught to fear.”

Sybil nodded and a silence settled over them, each lost in the horror of their own thoughts. Finally, Sybil had a chance to catch her breath, to truly take in her surroundings. Her gaze drifted toward the men’s cage and caught sight of a familiar face: Edward Morris.

He was a shadow of the youth he had been the year before, back when he was a staunch Parliamentarian. Then, he’d been vociferous in his protestations to the king’s rule. Especially the preposterous taxes, like Ship Money dues when they did not even live near the coast.