Page 44 of A Time of Witches

If he wanted to see her as a vapid girl who used her youth and looks to secure a rich husband, so be it. She would allow him to underestimate her.

“Yet that new life wasn’t enough for you.” Hopkins tilted his head and a lock of curled hair rolled over his shoulder. “I understand, Mrs. Brantham. I am a man who appreciates finery myself. A man who always wants more.”

He offered a self-indulgent smile and glanced down at his stately attire, clearly new by his jacket’s crisp appearance.

“Except you killed your husband for your wealth.” He tsked.

“I did not, but you clearly killed innocent women for yours.” She spoke with a calmness belied only by her frantic pulse.

Color flooded his cheeks. “Mind yourself, Mrs. Brantham.” The playfulness of his tone held an edge.

She would not be so easily put off. “The clothing upon your person was paid for with the blood of the four women you murdered in Manningtree.”

“They spoke of witchcraft.” Hopkins exploded to his feet, his fist slamming upon the wood in a sharp, hollow thud. “As God as my witness, I heard them with my own ears. I purged the earth of their condemned souls.”

His hat tumbled from his head and those careful curls were a wild riot about his shoulders. He paused, drew in a deep breath and tugged his doublet over his paunch where the fabric had bunched. With great care, he retrieved his hat and sank into his seat, once more composed, cheeks still florid with his fury.

In that moment, she had seen the man he was, beyond the genteel clothes and nature, beyond his affected manner.

He was a man plagued by guilt.

And paid handsomely for his unforgivable transgressions.

“Tell me of how your lover bade you kill your husband.” Gone was his genial tone. In its place was the flatness of unfeeling apathy.

She understood then. In his mind, he had shown her kindness, he had offered a part of himself which she had exploited. For that one brief moment, when he’d lost himself to his rage as she’d remained stoic and composed, she had possessed the power.

He would not make such a mistake again. She was equally as certain that he would no longer see her as similar to himself. No, he would regard her as he did the others—inhuman. Incapable of feeling.

Unworthy of mercy.

“Did your lover also have you turn the milk at the Bryon’s farm?” he asked when she did not answer. “Was it also your lover who made the Andersons’ horse go lame?”

“No,” Sybil replied firmly.

Hopkins raised his brows so they disappeared beneath the over-wide brim of his ridiculous hat. “No, it was not your lover? You must speak plainly.”

“What lover?” Sybil demanded.

“Why, the Devil, of course. You have taken him as your lover, have you not?”

“Of course I have not,” Sybil cried, incredulous.

Was this what the other prisoners endured?

Hopkins turned his attention to the parchment in front of him and began to write, the scratch of his quill overly loud in the quiet room.

“So, you have not lain with the Devil?” He asked the preposterous question with such sincerity, she might have burst into laughter under other circumstances.

“I have not,” Sybil repeated sternly.

“Have you met Mother Cornell?”

She shook her head, brow pinching in confusion. “No.”

“Has the Devil come to you in the form of a small boy?”

“No,” Sybil said again, tamping down her exasperation.