Page 87 of A Time of Witches

“But he died of the plague,” Jacinda cried.

“He did. But a woman tried as a witch is merely hanged, and a woman who has killed her husband is burned alive.”

Jacinda shrank back. “No.”

“It is what they want. To make an example of me.”

It is what he wanted for her repeated rejection.

Robert Walsingham. The magistrate.

He had not been by to see his handiwork. Not yet. Sybil knew it was only a matter of time.

“One of the servants denounced you,” Jacinda said, her words inflamed with a wrath that could make the entire town burn. “I will find who did it.”

Sybil shook her head. “It matters naught now.”

“It matters,” Jacinda said between clenched teeth. “There has to be a reason why. A way to stop this.”

Sybil continued to shake her head. “Please…keep to yourself, stay to the manor, wear your bracelet. See Kat.”

“She has been by,” Jacinda said softly.

The tension drawing Sybil’s shoulders to her ears relaxed some. Kat had made good on her promise. Of course she had. “Kat has been given instruction to see to your care.”

Jacinda put her hand to the iron bracelet on her wrist and nodded again.

Sybil glanced to the guard, wishing she could say more. How she longed to tell Jacinda she would remain strong in prison to keep suspicion from turning to her, how Jacinda must refrain from using her gifts.

A knot swelled in the back of Sybil’s throat.

There was so, so much to say that she had put off for too long.

“Mind Kat,” was all she could manage.

If anyone could corral the enormity of Jacinda’s power, it was Kat—a woman used to navigating life around the tantrums and chaos of seven children, all while trying desperately to establish herself as a seamstress in the village. Kat hadn’t the time for impatience or hesitation.

Jacinda nodded and surreptitiously looked to her right, where the guard watched them with bored disinterest. With shaking fingers, she pulled the iron bracelet from her wrist.

The scent of the earth’s power teased at Sybil’s nostrils despite the heavy iron manacles at her feet—a wet, pungent fragrance, like the moments before a rainstorm in a garden thick with fragrant blossoms.

Though she wanted to tilt her head back and revel in the aroma, to strain her ears for its hum, doing so was far too dangerous.

She reached for Jacinda’s wrist when the image of the guard wavered, like heat rising from flame. A blocking charm.

Alarm prickled through Sybil’s entire body, stinging every nerve ending. “Don’t. Not here.”

“Quick.” Jacinda passed a bladder of ale to Sybil from her basket. There was authority to her tone, an understanding of caution. A note of maturity.

In Sybil’s absence, the girl was finally starting to become a woman.

And though Sybil wanted to decline the offer, the slosh of liquid was more than she could resist. She put the mouthpiece to her lips and drank and drank.

Sweet and bright and gloriously wet, she gulped until her thirst was slaked. Jacinda then brought a sack of food from the basket.

The guard wore a strange dreamlike expression on his face, as if he could not keep his eyes open.

Sybil looked at the food and hesitated. “You can’t do this. If you’re caught with what you’re doing to him…”