Page 72 of A Time of Witches

Her household?

“Who denounced me?” she asked, despite herself.

Who?

Who would send her to a place such as this?

Who would endanger Jacinda?

Did they not understand how vulnerable the girl would be without Sybil?

Hopkins grinned and Sybil realized that she’d played into his trap. “You know I cannot say who spoke against you.” There was a condescending note to his words. “But today, I will have your confession.”

The words chilled Sybil. The memory of Edith’s raw, bleeding feet rose in her mind.

Hopkins nodded to the guards in the room. Two stood by chairs on either side with two more men in the middle between them.

Dread swirled low in Sybil’s gut. The room was silent, but the anticipation of what was to come vibrated in the air, like the frenetic moment before lightning strikes the earth.

“Go to that chair.” Matthew Hopkins indicated the one across the room.

Sybil stiffened. “I would prefer not to.”

Hopkins curled his fingertips in a beckoning motion and two guards in the middle ran like dogs to comply.

The tall one slapped a cudgel against his palm. “The chair. Now,” he barked. He jumped toward her, as though meaning to strike.

Sybil lunged toward the chair.

The guard there spun her round and shoved her back, sending her sprawling in the direction of the other chair.

“Back the other way,” the larger guard said, trotting beside her. “Quickly.”

She ran back to where she’d started.

It was a foolish game, something children would play. For the first hour—maybe more—Sybil dashed about back and forth, running out her rage, stretching her legs after being too long locked inside a crowded cage.

Any time she slowed, one of the men shouted in her ear, face close enough to fleck her skin with spittle. Once, she stumbled and fell, and the men were there, bellowing for her to stand and slamming their cudgels so near her head, her ears rang.

All the while, Hopkins continued the barrage of questions, ridiculous and relentless.

Was the Devil her lover?

Did she attend the Sabbath with him?

Did he give her familiars?

Did she curse the cows to yield sour milk?

Did she blight the crops?

To each, she answered no. And for the moments she had to pause to first catch her breath, there was a red face in hers, demanding an expedient response.

After the first hour, her energy waned, and her pace slowed. The yelling only increased.

Eventually, time lost all meaning. There was not a single window in the long, narrow room by which to gauge the hours or note when day turned to night. Perhaps if there had been a window, she might have thrown herself from it.

An eternity dragged on as she trod between the chairs. Although now, all the shouting in England could not quicken her steps. Her feet throbbed in her shoes, the wooden heel of one latchet had broken and left her lurching unevenly back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth.