Page 38 of A Time of Witches

He’d gone to the battle of Marston Moor charged with a need for vengeance. While he returned a hero, the light in his eyes had been snuffed by the violent slaughter of so many Royalists. In the month following his return, his wife died in childbirth along with his firstborn, a little girl.

His fragile soul had perished along with them, leaving him a husk of a person, hollowed out by loss. Now he sat in the prison, gaze fixed on nothing, face slack, as if already dead.

“Poor Edward Morris,” Edith tutted. “They say men plagued by melancholy are as subject to the Devil’s influence as are women with our weak minds.”

“Weak minds indeed,” Sybil scoffed.

“And that man, the vicar.” Edith nodded to a frail old man. “He escaped the noose when he spoke up for a woman accused of witchcraft some thirty summers ago, but there’s no one to help him this time round. He’s already confessed.”

“A vicar confessed?” Sybil studied the elderly man in surprise.

Age had leached all color from his hair, as well as from his grizzled beard. Still, even as he wavered on his feet, he held the hands of two men, his head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer.

“They swam him,” Edith whispered. “The water trial broke him, that dear man. He confessed.” She drew in a shaky breath. “They mean to break us all.”

“Then we must be strong.”

Sybil looked at those in the cage with them. Most were as old as Edith, their faces creased with age, their hair wispy shades of gray and white. Women who society felt no longer offered value to the community. Women whose presence would never be missed.

Such women were so easily discarded.

But there was also a child, a little girl tucked in a dark corner, as if trying to wish herself unseen. She shrank back from Sybil’s observation, the poor chit.

The iron door grated open with a shrill cry, and the barrel-chested guard shoved the women back with his cudgel before depositing a young woman inside.

Her unbound hair spread about her shoulders like a thick golden cloak, and even in the dark, dismal light, her beauty was unmistakable. She wore a shawl dyed in Lavenham blue from the nearby town, which obtained the distinct color from their use of woad.

“My husband,” the young woman whispered. “Please send him word. Oh, my husband, my husband…” She buried her face in her hands and wept. One of the older women approached and patted her shoulder. A woman who had naught to give but comfort and offered it readily.

“Sybil Brantham,” the guard’s voice rang out through the sound of the woman’s quiet sobs.

Edith tensed beside her.

“Sybil Brantham,” the guard called again. “Come forward.”

“Be cautious.” Edith locked eyes with Sybil. “He is cruel.”

And as brave as Sybil wished to be in that moment, she was terrified.

Not so much for herself, but for what her incarceration might mean for Jacinda.

Chapter Eighteen

Lilith

Lilith woke to the sound of barking, followed by Asher’s insistent hush. A glance at her watch illuminated 8:18 in white numbers.

She had slept that morning. Like actually slept.

The nightmares had started early on in the night with Jacinda begging Lilith to hurry, to help save Sybil, but then finally left her alone long enough to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that staying at a B&B meant there would be breakfast.

Knowing she’d likely see Asher, Lilith took a quick shower and added a bit of mascara, blush, and pink lip gloss.

Lord, Essie was getting to her with all that Mr. Darcy nonsense.

She left her room and entered the glass-walled patio where a wrought iron table awaited her with a single plate setting.