Page 52 of The Witch

“The mark on your body,” Strickland says impatiently. “The mark of the devil.”

“I have no such mark!”

The sheriff unlocks the door to my cell. I take another step back, but there is nowhere to go. Whether I approve or not, this is going to happen.

Strickland enters my cell first. I take another step back, my shoulders hitting the wall. My fingers fly to the buttons on my dress. “Pray allow me to⁠—”

“You had your chance,” he grunts.

Strickland reaches out and forcibly rips the dress from my body. It is the only clothing I have here, and I do not know what I will wear when they are done with me. At first, I am hopeful that Strickland will stop after my chest is exposed, but no, he does not stop there. He rips every bit of clothing from my body until I stand before the two men, shivering and stark naked.

The watchful eyes of the two men scour over me. Their gaze is almost starved, and all I can do is huddle, striving to shield my bosom. It is only Jonas who averts his gaze.

“There is nothing,” I say, although it is hard to speak with my teeth chattering.

I do not know what a witch’s teat looks like. I reckon neither of these men know either. But that does not stop them from inspecting every bit of my skin, pinching every mole or blemish until I blush.

“Turn about!” Strickland barks at me.

When I do not move at his command, he grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me where he wants me. I scream, but the sound only echoes off the walls.

After that, the inspection is far less gentle. Sheriff Bixby still stands a few feet away, but Strickland is much more thorough. I close my eyes, wishing for this to be over.

“Have you completed your task?” I squeak out when his fingers linger on my hips.

“You must be patient, Mistress Eldridge.” Strickland’s mouth is so close to my ear that his breath tickles my neck. “If you have the mark of the devil, we shall find it.”

They will find no such thing, but all I can do is wait. Soon, I will be home with my husband. Soon, this nightmare will be over.

Jonas Reeve was wrong.

“Aha!” Strickland cries out.

He grips my left arm, which is covered in tiny bumps from the chill. I do not know what he is referring to, but then I see the red mark on my forearm. A frisson of fear runs through me until I realize that I’m looking at the burn from when I was pouring broth into a bowl for Judith Hatch and my hand slipped.

“’Tis a burn!” I say.

“A burn from the devil!” Strickland says triumphantly. He turns to his superior. “What say ye, Sheriff?”

“That looks suspicious to me,” Bixby agrees.

I cannot believe what I am hearing—I assumed the explanation would suffice. “’Tis a simple burn! I was making broth for my neighbor, and it spilled.”

“The matter will rest in the hands of Magistrate Putman in the courtroom,” Strickland says.

The wound on my arm is still raw and healing. Surely it will be healed before the trial, although if it is as quick as Hitty’s, there is a chance it will still be as red and angry. What will Magistrate Putman make of it?

Magistrate Putman will accept spectral evidence. Your trial will go as Hitty’s did.

“May I don my attire?” I ask the two men, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

“You may,” Strickland says.

I do my best to replace my torn clothing, but nothing stays together anymore. I have to hold my dress in place with my hands. Strickland smirks at my struggle.

“I would like to see my husband,” I say.

“No visitors are allowed for the accused,” Bixby tells me.