Page 25 of A Time of Witches

A man beside Sybil lobbed what looked to be a potato toward the woman. It exploded with slick brown rot. “Hag.”

The kestrel turned his head toward a lone bird following the woman’s progress.

A woodlark.

Recognition slammed into Sybil.

The persecuted woman turned, revealing a familiar face, confirming what Sybil already knew.

Edith.

A hand gripped Sybil’s arm, so tight, so fearful, it could only be Jacinda. “Help her.”

Temptation ensnared Sybil—to do something brave and stupid. And entirely useless.

No.

The word resonated in Sybil’s mind, Edith’s voice as clear as if she’d spoken aloud.

“She’s hideous,” a woman cried. “Foul creature, lured by Satan!”

And there it was, the accusation that homely features were manifested by the evil inside.

Edith had been plagued by warts from an early age, immune to every application she tried. Vinegar washes in moonlight, garlic and bacon and pig’s blood, even potatoes that had been rubbed over her skin and then buried. Those potatoes decayed into the ground long ago, but the warts remained.

As a result, the world had been cruel to Edith for her lack of beauty, and that viciousness bore its mark upon her, leaving her withered.

But for all that hatred, she gave only love.

The gnarled hands that curled around her filthy cloak had tended to those forgotten by the rest of the town. The gaze that had lowered in shame at the crowd’s jeers looked upon others without malice or judgment. The back bent protectively forward had toiled in a garden for those who could not provide for themselves.

Witch.

Hag.

Sinner.

On and on, the accusations flew as the pitiful progression of a good woman being defeated by the evil of a mob slowly crept by.

The weight of a stare pulled Sybil’s gaze across the street where Kat stood, her flame-red hair bright against an emerald green bodice. Like Sybil, she did not move.

One of her children had his face pressed into her skirts, her hand secure on the center of his back. Protective.

The sheen of Kat’s tears mirrored Sybil’s own turmoil. Guilt. Shame. Horror over the necessity of their impotent silence.

Down the road, someone shoved Edith, sending her sprawling. A man lunged forward—not to offer aid, but to land a kick to her ribs before the guard could issue a lazy threat to leave the prisoner be.

Then they turned up Cook Row, toward the old jail, and Edith was gone.

The crowd dispersed and Sybil clasped Jacinda’s hand in a way she had not done since the girl had been a child, yet Jacinda did not protest as she would on any normal occasion. Together, they picked their way through the lingering crowd until they reached Brixton.

Sybil turned to Jacinda to lift her onto the horse. But the girl did not move and instead choked out a sob, beginning to cry in earnest.

Overhead, the sky split open and rain poured down as the earth wept for Edith.

As it would soon weep for the many women who would follow, for Sybil understood more than she wished to share with Jacinda.

The arrests had only just begun.