Page 96 of A Time of Witches

“My life never had love in it until I met you both.” Edith clasped their hands.

They embraced, the three of them, the final circle of their sisterhood made whole. “May the earth guide you,” Sybil whispered, quiet enough that the guard would not hear.

“Now,” the guard said testily, earning him a sharp look from Kat.

Before she was sent away, her hand slipped into Sybil’s, placing a small glass vial against her palm.

Edith straightened her back, head lifted like a queen. A woman who felt beautiful.

That confidence led her from the room as Sybil was forced back to her cell and Kat was sent back home.

Outside, the crowd clamored in a frenzy as Edith was led to the cart that would take her near the abbey ruins where River Lark flowed.

Hag.

Witch.

Ugly.

Their insults were knife points in Sybil’s heart. She only hoped that Edith kept her head lifted, that she continued to feel beautiful.

For Edith truly was the loveliest soul to ever walk the earth.

When the shouting abated and the footfalls outside went quiet, the waiting began.

The entire prison fell silent, save for the occasional shifting of vermin in the rushes. But even their activity was subdued, as if they sensed the grave mood.

From the men’s cage, the old vicar prayed for Edith’s soul, for her strength as she endured the test that broke him. In between his prayers, he wept.

Margery remained by Sybil’s side, as did the little girl.

An hour passed.

Two.

Eventually, light faded to dark, and still, Edith did not return. Sybil took that moment to uncap the vial and sniff, the earthy odor reminiscent of bad cheese.

Valerian root.

A draught upended in mugs of ale would send the guards into a deep, incoherent slumber. Such a gift might prove helpful indeed.

Sleep eluded Sybil that night, interrupted by a heaviness in her chest. The assumption to Edith’s prolonged absence.

News of the swimming test did not reach her ears until the following afternoon, told by a guard who appreciated the attention of so many as he recanted the tale he’d heard through another.

It was said that Edith remained upright and proud in the cart, her face lifted to the sky.

Sybil could imagine her friend, elevated by the lovely silk gown, soaring over the insults and the hate. Knowing she was truly loved.

It was said they bound Edith’s right big toe to her left thumb and her left big toe to her right thumb. In this position, she was shoved into the river.

It was said she bobbed about, coughing and sputtering, enough that an impatient few deemed her a witch. But before she could be fetched from the icy River Lark, she sank like a stone.

It was said they waited for her to rise once more, spitting and cursing them all. But she did not. The trail of bubbles where she descended melted into the current and the gleam of her white cap showed beneath the water.

It was said there was a lark song in that moment, the most mournful one to have ever been heard.

It was said the mood turned somber as Edith’s innocence spoke for itself with her death, when all recalled the goodness she’d bestowed upon others. How she tended to the infirm and the aged, how she gave to those who had none. Solemn beneath the weight of such knowledge, the crowd dissolved as a woodlark swept from the trees, carrying with it that sorrowful tune.