Page 7 of A Time of Witches

Bess helped Sybil into the plain garment, brushing at the coarse fabric as she would the finest silk. A faint scent of lanolin clung to the woolen gown, reminiscent of Sybil’s childhood when no finer fabric could be had.

“Anne seems amiss lately, too.” Bess swept Sybil’s hair back to plait into a long braid. “I do wish you’d allow me to create more elaborate updos.”

The light gleamed against Sybil’s rich, black hair. Though she was no great beauty, her features were handsome enough—hazel eyes that were often called clever, and a jaw that was a mite too hard. Her one true glory was her hair, thick and luxurious, dark as velvety night, falling well past her waist.

While Bess would delight at a more stylish fashion, the heavy Puritan population of Bury St. Edmunds frowned upon such extravagance and Sybil had learned well from her mother to maintain a muted existence.

Fully dressed, Sybil left Bess to tend to the bedchamber, but paused outside Jacinda’s door. The image of the extinguished candles intruded Sybil’s mind like a warning bell.

Was Jacinda the one at risk?

Fear prickled over Sybil’s skin.

Quiet as a thief, she pushed into Jacinda’s room and let her eyes adjust to the dark. The girl—for she would always be a girl to Sybil—lay sleeping, red-gold hair splayed over her pillow, mouth slack with sleep and slightly agape.

In the corner of the room, away from the window, Jacinda’s beloved kestrel sat, tufted into its black speckled feathers. Absent jesses or bells or even a hood, the obedient pet kept watch over the sleeping girl, gleaming black eyes fixed on Sybil.

At Jacinda’s wrist was the band of decorative iron, a gift from Sybil earlier that year to mark her sixteenth year. When, ignorant to the power of her bourgeoning abilities, Jacinda had nearly caught the manor on fire. The curtain nearest the hearth still bore a singe from the last time Jacinda had been impassioned with rage.

Some of the tension ebbed from Sybil’s shoulders at the sight of that bracelet pressed against Jacinda’s skin, quieting her gifts. The girl would come into her knowledge of the earth soon enough. But now was not the time. Not when a threat tainted the air with the odor of ash and death.

Again, Sybil thought of Manningtree, of those women perceived to be so dangerous.

The kestrel shifted on his perch, restless, anxious. As if he too sensed the threat.

She had thought Jacinda protected after Henry and Sybil wed. And there had been safety for years. Until his death and the slander suggesting Sybil’s elevated widowed status was temptation enough for her to kill her husband.

That the gossip was false made no difference. A rumor once spoken could not be recalled.

And only one single spark was needed to light a pyre.

No, now was not the time for Jacinda to step into her legacy.

Sybil turned away and let the door close silently behind her. If she was going to harvest herbs, she must do so soon, before other demands required her time.

How pleased Mother would be to see Sybil taking to the various tinctures and salves she had spent her stubborn youth turning her nose up at. Just as she would be pleased to see Sybil accepting the earth’s power and seeing to Jacinda’s care.

Sybil had spent a lifetime promising her mother she would never attract attention, that she would keep them safe.

Whatever portent of ill tidings had whisked out those candles told her such vows—despite her arduous efforts—might well be broken.

Chapter Four

Sybil

Hours later, Sybil rode the path oft taken between her home and that of her neighbor, the first stop of several for the day. While her neighbor required a willow bark tincture for her headaches, Mr. Cooper needed some nettle tea for his gout, and some feverfew for the Daniels’ boy. Even after all these years, her mother’s herbal aids for fevers, agues, and everything in between were sought by the community. While Henry hadn’t been a lord, his vast fortune put Sybil in a position to help those in need. These days, there were many.

Cloth manufacturing had once been plentiful in Bury St. Edmunds. Before taxes and regulations devoured profits. Before the Dutch came in with the lighter, more modern new draperies that turned everyone’s heads.

In times of such strife, Henry’s family made wise investments that withstood the test of time. Following his death, Sybil utilized the profits from those investments to ensure his employees remained cared for and well paid.

Her horse’s head bobbed aggressively as he walked, riled by her disquiet. But then, Brixton was always in tune to Sybil’s moods. He had been ever since she saved him from slaughter after his final failure at the Newcastle racing grounds the king had established not far from Bury St. Edmunds.

Were it not for the lashing scars upon Brixton’s pale glossy coat, one would never know how easily life had once discarded him. He was powerful, muscular, and had a fine, superior attitude to match his outward demeanor. At least to all but Sybil, whom he trotted to meet like an adoring pup.

She patted his strong neck. “Don’t let my nerves vex you.”

A woodlark landed in the middle of the path.