Page 57 of A Time of Witches

The jars on the shelves shone as if new, their contents rich with ingredients necessary for anything Lilith might need.

But for what?

To heal? To save? To protect?

To make herself exist?

Was that even a thing?

She hoped it was…

Returning her focus to the book, she discovered the writing was no longer faded, but dark, as if freshly written. Even the ink on the quill glistened. She touched the sharpened point and her fingertip came away black. Still wet.

The flowers on the table plumped into marigolds, their heads brilliant shades of gold and yellow. Among them, various stones and crystals gleamed in the candlelight, power glinting from within.

A smooth purple one caught her attention. Amethyst?

She lifted the stone and the cool surface pulsed against her palm, imbuing her with strength. With certainty.

Her mind sharpened and she returned her focus to the book.

Grimoire.

The handwriting inside was some old-world jumbled mess of ornate letters with elongated s’s and f’s and sweeping tails on the p’s and y’s. Despite the unique writing, Lilith could still read the archaic script as easily as one of Essie’s texts.

Jacinda,

Read this from the beginning and you will understand.

Love eternally,

Sybil

Lilith’s breath caught, with disbelief and excitement entwined with everything she’d hoped for when she set out on this trip for England.

She’d just won the creepy old house lottery.

Perhaps this book would tell her more about both women. And hopefully more about what was expected of her.

Lilith flipped to the front of the book—the grimoire—eager to read more, as Sybil encouraged.

For the answers she would find, for the path she must forge ahead with. There was no going back now.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sybil

The aroma of roasted meat lingered in the hallway of the prison. The savory fragrance carried toward Sybil like a dream. Like a nightmare.

Matthew Hopkins awaited her, knowing she hadn’t eaten in almost a week.

Her stomach twisted, her need savage. The focus of her existence narrowed as she imagined gripping the greasy flesh in her hand, sinking her teeth into the crisp skin to the tenderness beneath, savoring the salty, herbed juices exploding in her mouth.

She was practically panting with desperation when the guards deposited her into the room for a second interrogation.

A massive platter sat before Hopkins, featuring a goose roasted to golden perfection and glistening in the candlelight. An assortment of vegetables framed the bird: potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and string beans.

Sybil hadn’t thought there was moisture left in her body, but now, thick saliva flooded her mouth, and a sharp ache fisted her stomach.