Margery was there, however. Fire-haired and gracious, ever ready with kind word and quiet smile. She does not unsettle me as Alice does. There is peace in her company. I think perhaps I shall speak to Father about a formal offer.
The image of him—young, proud, trying to please a stern father—settled heavily in my chest.
Gentry said nothing as we scrolled further. Only the soft clack of keys filled the archive room.
22nd May, 1571
We are wed. My father is content. Margery has been received warmly by the household, though I fear Alice’s absence from the ceremony stirred more talk than I’d like. They were friends once, I am told. But something sour has passed between them.
I hear whispers from the stable lads and kitchen maids. That the two were seen oft in the woods as girls. That Alice draws symbols in the dirt behind her shop. That Margery chants when she thinks herself alone.
I do not lend ear to such nonsense. Yet last eve, I came upon them speaking in the banned tongue. Cymraeg, though poorly masked, and when I asked the meaning, both gave silence. Margery laughed after, said ‘tis only a charm for sleep. But Alice did not laugh. She looked at me as though she pitied me.
Gentry leaned closer, his voice hushed. “Cymraeg—Welsh. Very old.”
“Too old,” I murmured. “He knew something wasn’t right.”
He nodded. “But he didn’t stop it.”
We read on.
5th June, 1571
I begin to doubt. The harvest moon is yet far, but I’ve heard the milk curdle in the pitcher before the sun sets. The dog has not howled in two nights, and the babe born to Martin’s wife came with no breath.
Alice will not look me in the eye. Margery says she mourns a cousin lost to fever. I want to believe her. I do.
But I have seen Margery walk the garden by candlelight with no flame. I have seen Alice trace circles in ash. I have watched the crows gather on our roof and not move when I pass beneath.
A shiver danced along my spine.
If word of this should reach my father—or the town—there would be no trial, no mercy. The old ways are not forgiven here. Not now. Not ever. The vicar still speaks of fires. And I... I could not bear to see her burn.
The page ended there.
I sat back slowly. My birthday had passed at midnight, unnoticed in the wake of ink and ghosts. One hundred and forty-eight years, and I still hadn’t outrun what they’d started.
Gentry looked over at me. “You okay?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t.
Not yet.
“Let’s keep going,” I whispered. This time there was no date.
There hath been an ill occurrence this day. Word travels fast in a village such as ours, but never swifter than when it is laced with fear. Alice and Margery were overheard by townsfolk in heated discourse—too loud, too public. Their voices carried, and with them, suspicions long whispered behind closed doors.
I have long endeavored to quiet the rumors that shadow the sisters. Yet now I cannot but wonder if there be truth in them, though it pains me to confess it. My father hath caught wind of the matter, and he wastes no breath in prayer or patience. He hath called for a hunt.
Alice stands accused, and those who show her favor now find themselves under the same watchful eye. Already, some among them begin to turn away, offering silence where there was once friendship.
Margery speaks not of it, but I see the dread in her countenance. I know she fears what Alice might say, if pressed. Sisters they may be, but fear makes strangers of us all.
The trials are set to begin ere the week is out. My father will see it through. He shall not suffer the stain of pagan rites upon our name—not while there is breath in his body.
As for me, I do not know where I stand. Between blood and belief. Between love… and the law.
There was another note, scribbled in the margin.
