Page 62 of A Time of Witches

Kat nodded. “I figured as much when I saw that bracelet on her.”

“If you’re freed…” Sybil didn’t want to put any damning words to voice where too many ears could listen.

“I’ll see to her,” Kat promised, understanding the unspoken request.

Because Jacinda did need to be told what she could do. That using her gifts in such uncertain times might be seen by the wrong person. Only one denouncement could result in an arrest.

“There are ways to get ye out,” Kat said with that look in her eyes—the one that gleamed with the opportunity to bend and break the rules.

“No.” Sybil shook her head. “Please just see to Jacinda.”

Kat nodded in understanding. Her thumb worked under the manacle with a frown. “It’s so silent.”

Sybil knew she didn’t mean the prison, which was filled with the shuffles and moans and murmurs of scores of people.

Even in the din, the silence of the earth’s hum was stifling. A pang radiated through Sybil, mourning and longing all at once.

A clatter rattled over the bars and Sybil’s stomach tightened in anticipation. They were to be fed. Sybil and Edith snapped to attention along with the rest of the prison, like animals alert at the notion of food.

There was a shift in Kat’s expression, dulling the playful part of her as she truly took in the surroundings.

Sybil saw everything freshly through her friend’s eyes—near-skeletal bodies, the misery, the soiled rushes that contained more life beneath than above.

“Oh, Edith… Sybil…how…?” Kat pressed a hand to her chest, emblazoned with a decorative filigree she’d likely hand stitched.

“Don’t.” Sybil handed Kat a piece of bread. “We need your fire more than your empathy.”

“The fare is hardly edible,” Edith said, almost apologetically. “But when you’re hungry enough…”

Even as she spoke of hunger, she tore her bread in half and gave the larger portion to a woman who had been ill the night before.

“It’s not about hunger.” Kat smirked. “It’s about letting your fancy take over.” She lifted the crust. “This is not, in fact, a piece of stale rock-hard bread.”

The little girl watched, large eyes fixed on Kat and the bit of bread pinched in her fingertips.

So, too, did the beautiful young woman who kept mostly to herself. Matthew Hopkins had seen her three times already, and each time, she returned weeping. The last time, her breath had smelled of ale and roasted meat.

“Imagine the greatest cook ye know,” Kat instructed. “And they’ve created yer favorite meal. Hold that in yer head and eat.” She studied the gray lump in her hand. “This is my mam’s apple pastries.” Her eyes scrunched shut. “The best pastry to ever grace England.”

She popped the morsel into her mouth, and everyone watched as she chewed. Finally, she swallowed and opened her eyes. Sybil practically leaned forward at the display, eager to see if one’s thoughts truly had the power to create a feast where there was simply moldy bread.

Perhaps that was true sorcery.

“Well?” the pretty young woman asked.

Kat pursed her lips. “I think the apples turned. It tasted like moldy bread.”

Regardless, every woman considered their bread a moment longer than usual.

If Sybil could consume any one thing again, it wouldn’t be a meal, but tea.

She ate her bread and saved her small ale, letting the memory wash her away.

Those nights she returned from the pesthouse in St. Peter’s, weary in body and wearier still in soul. As she splashed vinegar upon her hands at the plague stone and Bess boiled her clothing to kill any plague seeds, Henry would come to her with a tea of his own making. The recipe was one derived from the knowledge he’d acquired from Sybil’s mother.

Chamomile and lavender for relaxation after a long day, valerian root to calm her mind of the horrors she’d witnessed in the plague house, and nettles to keep her body healthy. All this with a bit of honey to sweeten the bitterness of life that she witnessed day after day.

Though she’d begged him to stay on the outskirts of town at Brackenmere Manor, he had come with her to their townhouse in Bury St. Edmunds, at her side in her darkest hours despite the great risk to himself. For by then, he was nigh on five and fifty and his body was frail from the passing of time.