Page 58 of A Time of Witches

“Have you had time to think?” Hopkins asked by way of greeting.

Sybil scarcely heard him over the vision of that roasted goose. A tremor rippled through her, an uncontrollable shudder of need.

“Have you had time to think?” This time when he asked the question, he lifted a pewter mug. The liquid inside sloshed wetly.

The primitive part of Sybil redirected her focus to the contents of that mug. He brought it to his lips, drinking noisily, the muscles of his neck squeezing as he swallowed.

Without realizing what she was doing, Sybil’s mouth parted, and her empty throat worked with each of his greedy gulps.

Ale.

It was ale.

The yeasty scent, the hint of sweetness from the malt, the smell unmistakable.

Hopkins set the mug down, and some of the contents splashed out over the desk in beaded droplets. “Do you have anything to tell me?”

Sybil stared at those droplets, desperate enough to lap them up from the wooden surface.

She tried to swallow, but her parched throat clicked in protest. “I have nothing to say.” The laconic reply had to be forced out. Her thoughts were thick as mud, her voice hoarse, her lips dry and splitting. The stink of her own breath was both evident and appalling.

No doubt he could smell her, too. Not only the halitosis of starvation, but the filth of her unwashed body, her snarled, oily hair.

“No confession then?” Hopkins took up an eating dagger and sliced into the goose. Rivulets of clear juice streamed from the incision and the golden skin peeled back to reveal tender white flesh.

A soft whimper rose unbidden from Sybil’s throat.

Hopkins paused in his task and looked at her, his brow quirking slightly. The corners of his mouth twitched.

He had heard.

Sybil hated how easily he’d witnessed her weakness.

“I imagine you are hungry.” He plucked the slice of meat with the tip of his dagger. “I would share my meal with you, if you would have it.”

Her heart smacked against her ribs, throbbing with anticipation.

Hopkins tilted his head, his expression one of sympathy. “But first, you would have to confess.”

A twisting pain knifed through her stomach. Sybil shook her head rather than speak.

With a casual lift of his shoulders, he brought the goose to his mouth and peeled his lips back so she could watch his teeth sink into the meat. He chewed noisily and tilted his head back, eyes closing in pleasure as he moaned.

“This might be the best goose I’ve ever tasted.” He licked his lips, leaving them wet, a smear of grease slick on his chin. “I can’t say much for this town, but you do have fine cooks.” He sliced off another morsel, this time extending a hunk of quivering meat to Sybil.

How she longed to snatch it, not caring if the dagger cut her fingers in the process. She wanted to shove the chunk in her mouth and lean her head back in pleasure as he had done, groaning around the meat as it slid down her throat.

“Speak your confession.” He waggled the goose flesh, dripping flecks of juice upon the desk, where they puddled with an iridescent sheen. “Say you’re a witch. Admit you took the Devil as your lover. Admit you danced around the fire with him at the Sabbath, that you suckled familiars.” Hopkins’s voice became louder with each declaration as he bade her speak. “Admit you killed your husband with the powers the Devil gave you. Admit your sister is of the same pact with the Devil as you.”

Sybil’s focus snapped from the knife and the offering extended toward her. No longer did she think of food or drink, but of protecting Jacinda.

And of justice.

Over any food in the world, she would choose her grimoire, that old text bequeathed to her by her mother. The one she had left for Jacinda with a small spell that it should find its way to her should she have need of it.

In that moment, Sybil would employ any enchantment, sacrifice the last bit of her gifts, to see this man destroyed. To ensure women remained safe.

But she could not have her grimoire.