Page 85 of A Time of Witches

A groan escaped Lilith. Because she had never known herself. She’d always been a chameleon, trying to fit in, but always somehow altering to the wrong environment, so she stuck out.

She put a fingertip to the page in an effort to turn it. The page stuck fast.

Embedding her fingernail between two pages midway through the book, she tried again. The pages clung together as if glued.

Apparently, this was the entry she needed to read.

Chapter Forty

Sybil

Sybil did not recall when she had finally been thrown back into the cell, nor when the gift of dreamless slumber offered a reprieve from the horror she’d endured.

When she woke, light spilled from the crude window, revealing a new day. She sat up and a dirty shawl peeled away from her torso where someone had covered her. A shard of light revealed the familiar Lavenham blue beneath the grime, bringing the realization that it was the pretty young woman’s shawl.

Sybil looked across the crowded room, finding the woman with her arms folded across her chest, and nodded her thanks. The young woman inclined her head in return, a silent acceptance of a truly selfless gesture.

Something shifted in the rushes beside Sybil, and she turned to find Edith sitting quietly beside her with the little girl curled in her lap.

Sybil’s feet were cold as ice. Her woolen stockings and shoes had not been returned. Not that she could have squeezed her battered feet into the latchets regardless. Even now, the tendons of her toes weren’t visible beneath the swelling and mottled bruising of her feet.

“I have your bread ration for you,” Edith whispered, pulling two pieces of bread from her waistband.

Sybil lifted her gaze to the bread. Edith extended a cup of ale, fuller than usual. Likely partly her portion as well as Sybil’s.

Edith pushed both toward Sybil, her actions gentle to keep from waking the girl. “They were generous this time.”

There had been no food or water after Sybil had been walked, nor before she had been so stripped and prodded.

“Liar,” Sybil croaked. “That is yours.”

Edith’s brow pursed. “Your need is greater than mine.”

“You give all your food away,” Sybil accused, hating how desperately she truly did want the bread. And the ale.

Oh God, the ale…

Edith truly looked at her then, studying Sybil from the crown of her roughly shorn head to her battered feet. A sheen of tears shone in Edith’s eyes. “Please, my friend. Eat.”

Sybil did not protest again but fell upon the gift with zeal. Her desperate, breathless gulps echoed back at her from the hollow of the mug and never had anything been more delicious than the cool liquid slaking her parched throat. Next, she tore into the bread, her teeth barely able to chew before her stomach demanded the food be forced down in greedy swallows.

The meal was scarcely satisfying after having gone so long without, and she could have sobbed for want of more. Instead, she thanked her friend for the great sacrifice and lay back in the rushes, her abused scalp stinging where the bits of hay dug into fresh cuts.

How she longed to sleep. To forget.

“Sybil Brantham.”

She jerked at the sound of her name, alarm bells clanging through her skull.

Edith placed a comforting hand on Sybil’s shoulder.

“Sybil Brantham,” the young guard called, louder this time. “You have a visitor.”

She lifted her head, suspecting a cruel trick. After all, this was a place without hope. She would do well to remember as much.

Rising unsteadily to her damaged feet, Sybil made to smooth her hair, fingers skimming her bald pate.

Her heart lurched in horror.