Page 81 of A Time of Witches

Sybil

The “searchers” were two women, both of whom Sybil had tended in the past with her mother’s remedies.

Mrs. Jones, with wide, bright blue eyes, who had anxiously approached Sybil three years before seeking a posset to help the child in her womb who had ceased to move. And then later, after Sybil confessed there was naught to be done, she’d stemmed the blood from the loss of the woman’s babe.

The second, Mrs. Williams, wore the somber dress of a Puritan, her hair pulled back in a braid as severe as the look in her steely gray eyes.

Sybil recalled how exuberantly she had protested The Book of Sports, a government-issued book of games allowed on Sundays some ten years prior, going so far as to snap the sticks children used in Morris dancing.

Mrs. Williams had also been the one to plead for Sybil’s help when her youngest son fell ill with the plague, and how she’d wept with gratitude when his fever broke after Sybil’s teas took effect.

There was no gratitude in her level gaze now.

A shiver skittered down Sybil’s spine.

Hopkins pushed up from his desk. “I leave you with these women.” He bowed low as a courtier, a mockery of respect.

The guards followed him from the room, leaving her alone with Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Williams. The latter thinned her lips as she regarded Sybil. “Remove your gown.”

Shock drew Sybil instinctively back. “I will not.”

Mrs. Jones appeared less certain. “Perhaps we can check without—”

“No.” Mrs. Williams tossed down a heavy leather bag which clinked inside upon landing. “We will find a witch’s mark on her no matter where it has been hidden.” She nodded to Sybil. “Remove your clothes or we will seek help to do so.”

Sybil took another step back.

Surely they were not serious.

“The magistrate is near.” The hardness in Mrs. Williams’s eyes told Sybil she knew exactly the type of man he was.

Tendrils of fear closed around Sybil’s throat.

How could a woman be so cruel to another?

Sybil pulled at the ties of her bodice, hands shaking. A stubborn knot refused to pull free and Mrs. Williams hissed in impatience. She stalked toward Sybil, steps biting loud and hard into the wood floor. A pair of shears screeched open and sliced through the once-fine bodice before Sybil could protest.

The gown sagged open and dragged down her body, stopping only when the sleeves caught at her arms.

An astonished cry escaped Sybil, and she tried to back away, shackles clanking and catching, preventing her steps. Mrs. Williams caught her with a merciless grip, the shears working in rusty squeals.

Sybil twisted and wrenched, but was no match for Mrs. Williams’s vice-like grip. Starvation had weakened Sybil’s body, and the last of her resistance bled away.

Too weak with hunger to fight back.

The grinding snick of the shears filled the room as her stays were cut away, then her petticoat, so she stood in only her shift. Her nipples pebbled beneath the thin fabric and she crossed her arms over her chest, cheeks burning with mortification.

“Take it off.” Mrs. Williams puffed from exertion. “Or I’ll cut it away and leave you in prison without a stitch on you.”

Sybil looked to Mrs. Jones, but the other woman averted her wide blue eyes, turning away her shame.

“How can you do this to a fellow woman?” Sybil’s voice cracked.

“You’re no woman.” Mrs. Williams spat on the ground, a globule of white foam landing near Sybil’s feet. “You’re a witch.” She held up her shears like the weapon they were. “The shift.”

Choking back a sob, Sybil drew the hem of her shift over her head and released it quickly to cross her arms over herself.

The white fabric floated to the ground like a flag of surrender.