Page 78 of The Witch

“And did you find the teat?”

“We did,” Strickland confirms. “’Tis on her arm.”

Putman smiles triumphantly, as if he expected nothing less. “Mistress Eldridge, pray show us your mark.”

With both Putman and Strickland leaning over me, I pull back the sleeve of my woolen dress to reveal the burn, which has been made redder and more irritated by the itchy fabric.

“’Tis a simple burn.” My teeth grind together. “From a hot broth.”

“So she says,” Strickland says, “but if you will allow me, Magistrate Putman, I can prove that this is no simple burn.”

How can he prove such a thing? It is impossible! But Putman looks intrigued and nods. “Proceed.”

“You see,” Strickland goes on, his face animated as he addresses the courtroom, “everyone knows that a witch’s teat is a mark of the devil, and therefore, it is unable to bleed like human flesh, even when pricked with a needle.”

“Have you a needle?” Putman asks.

“I have, Your Honor. I lifted it from my wife’s sewing basket.”

Strickland reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. From within the handkerchief, he extracts a tiny needle. I flinch and draw back.

“What do you intend to do with that?” I demand.

“Mistress Eldridge,” Putman says impatiently, “if you are truly a God-fearing woman, you will allow Deputy Strickland to perform this simple test to prove your innocence.”

I cannot imagine that if he pricks me with that needle, I will not bleed. But will that really prove my innocence? If I bleed, will I be allowed to go home? And what home can I go to when my own husband believes that I am a witch?

But I have little choice in the matter, so I hold out my arms, still shackled together. I did not hear of such a thing in Hitty’s trial, but Strickland would not introduce evidence that would result in my freedom. He is not here to help me. He is here to ensure my trip to the gallows.

Strickland positions the sharp end of the needle over the burn on my arm. I hold my breath, waiting for the prick of the sharp pin, and for a moment, I lift my eyes. They meet Strickland’s, and I see the smug expression on his face. Then he jams the needle into my arm.

I feel pressure on my skin, but not the sharp pain of the needle tip breaking through the surface. My skin has resisted the needle. There is no blood, just as one would expect if I were a witch.

No. No, it cannot be.

I drop my eyes, and that’s when I discover the tip of the needle has been so worn down as to be useless. It has not broken through my skin because it is not sharp enough to do so. Strickland knows this, but nobody else in the courtroom is close enough to see the dull point. Even Putman is unable to see it.

“She does not bleed!” Strickland holds up the needle as evidence for the entire room to see. “She is a witch! It has been proven!”

A burst of exclamations and chatter breaks out in the courtroom, drowning out my repeated cries of, “The needle was dull!” Putman seems to hear me but disregards my words. I reckon a dull needle is far less interesting than a witch in our midst.

I look across the courtroom to where Archie sits, wearing his best duchesse satin doublet suit. This time his eyes are not lowered and he’s looking right at me. And he is shaking his head, as if he cannot believe he ever associated with the likes of me.

And then next to him is Molly. Who smiles.

“Hush thy tongues!” Putman is banging his gavel so furiously that the mallet end cracks and then splits in two. “Hush so I may issue my ruling!”

His words are enough to bring down the volume of the courtroom. What they have to say to one another is far less interesting than Putman’s verdict.

“Mistress Caroline Eldridge,” he says. “Rise to thy feet.”

I rise to my feet, my hands still bound in front of me by the metal shackles. My legs are shaking terribly, but I will not give anyone in this room the satisfaction of knowing how frightened I am.

“Mistress Eldridge, this esteemed court doth declares thee guilty of the foul craft of witchery,” Putman says. “Your sentence is death by hanging, to be carried out tomorrow”

In spite of the damning testimony, Archie’s unwillingness to vouch for me, and the stunt pulled by the deputy, I never really believed until that moment that the magistrate would find me guilty. I am not a witch. I have never cast a spell or brewed a potion. Hitty was nothing more than my friend, but they did not believe her either.

Tomorrow, I will die. Just like she did.