Page 45 of A Time of Witches

Clearly, Hopkins wanted to inspire a passionate reply, to pique her ire that she might have a slip of the tongue he could twist into condemnation.

Every word she spoke was measured, every action carefully weighed. “I have neither met nor known the Devil in his form or any form.”

“Did you attend the sabbath with the Devil?”

“I could not when I have never met him.” She tried to keep the cynicism from her tone.

“Then you must have familiars.” Matthew Hopkins looked up from his writing, mustache glistening in the candlelight.

“Familiars?”

“Animals that are connected to you.”

This, she understood.

Daughters of the earth had animals they befriended with their hearts and souls. After all, those with gifts often lived in solitude. Like Edith.

The affinity between a woman of the earth and the animals they connected to was precious, akin to the bond between a mother and child.

Animals offered comfort and companionship, two lost pieces that fit together in the great world. Like Sybil’s own steadfast Brixton, and Jacinda’s kestrel, who never let a human lay hand upon him until Jacinda. Like Kat’s squirrel that never ceased moving, and Edith’s plain woodlark, whose song was lovelier than all the others.

The attachment between them was beautiful, forged by similar features possessed by woman and animal alike, a connection broken only by death.

But then Hopkins continued. “These familiars suckle blood from teats upon your person, and act as conduits to the Devil himself.”

Sybil could not stop the look of horror that crossed her face. These witch hunters had taken even the wondrous nature of the friendship between woman and animal and wrenched it into the prurient and vulgar.

“Absolutely not,” she replied, unable to keep the vehement denial from her tone.

“Do you testify you have spoken the truth?” Hopkins asked, quill poised over the parchment.

A drop of black ink slid from the tip and blotted the page like a spatter of blood.

“I do,” Sybil replied. “I will sign my own name stating as much.”

“That is not necessary.” Hopkins scribbled with flourish. “Think on your words,” he cautioned. “When you return next, I hope you shall speak the truth.”

“I have spoken the truth.”

Ignoring her words, the guards grabbed her shoulders and roughly hauled her to her feet. The chains at her wrists rattled, the heavy manacles cutting into her skin.

“And remember,” Hopkins said as she was led toward the exit, “your sister has your mother’s cunning blood as well.”

He looked up, watching as she was dragged away, the threat apparent in the gleam in his eyes. A man like him would not be happy with only Sybil.

Jacinda was in danger, too.

Chapter Twenty-One

Lilith

Lilith carried a cup of chamomile tea into the living room, where Aunt Jacqueline lounged in her recliner, now cleaned up in pleated pants and a blue-striped blouse.

Thankfully, she’d shaken whatever trance had brought her to the manor.

Lilith set the mug on the table beside Aunt Jacqueline, the sweet herbal fragrance scenting the air.

Aunt Jacqueline startled at the tap of the mug on the table and looked at Lilith in surprise. “I didn’t see you there.” She smiled. “Thank you, dear.”