Speaks the Nightbird

"A coat, I presume?" Matthew prodded. "Since it was cold out?"

Garrick slowly blinked. "A coat," he said. "Must've had on my coat, but... I don't remember puttin' it on."

"And shoes? Or boots?"

"Shoes," he said. "No, wait. My boots. Yes sir, I believe I had on my boots."

"Did you get a good look at Rachel Howarth's face, there behind the barn?"

"Well. . . not her face, sir," Garrick admitted. "Just her backside. She was kneelin' away from me. But I seen her hair. And she was a dark-skinned woman. It was her, all right." He glanced uneasily at the magistrate and then back to Matthew. "It had to be her. It was Daniel's land."

Matthew nodded, scribing down what Garrick had just said. "Did you spew?" he asked suddenly.

"Sir?"

Matthew lifted his face and stared directly into Garrick's dull eyes. "Did you spew? You left your bed to go outside for that purpose. Did you do so?"

Again, Garrick had to think about it. "I . . . don't recall if I did," he said. "No, I think I seen that figure crossin' the Howarth cornfield, and I . . . must've forgot 'bout feelin' poorly."

"Let's go back a bit, please," Matthew instructed. "What time had you gone to bed that night?"

"Usual time. 'Bout half past eight, I reckon."

"Both you and your wife went to bed at the same time?"

"Thereabouts, yes sir."

"Were you feeling poorly when you went to bed?"

"No sir. I don't think I was." He licked his lips again, a nervous gesture. "Pardon me for askin', but . . . what's all this got to do with the witch?"

Matthew looked at the magistrate. Woodward's chin had drooped, but his eyes were open and he gave no sign of wishing to interfere—even if that were possible—with Matthew's line of inquiry. Matthew returned his attention to Garrick. "I'm trying to clear up a point of confusion I have," he explained. "So you did not go to bed feeling ill, but you awakened perhaps six hours later sick to your stomach?"

"Yes sir."

"You got out of bed carefully, so as not to awaken your wife?"

"Yes sir, that's right."

"And then?"

"Then I went outside to spew," Garrick said. "But before that didn't you pause to put on your coat and boots?"

"I . . . well. . . yes sir, I must've, but I can't rightly recall it."

"How many gold buttons," Matthew said, "were on the front of Satan's cloak?"

"Six," Garrick answered.

"Six? Of that number you're positive?"

"Yes sir." He nodded vigorously. "I seen 'em shine in the moonlight."

"It was a full moon, then?"

"Sir?"

"A full moon," Matthew repeated. "Was it a full moon?"

"Reckon it had to be. But I don't recall ever lookin' up at it."

"And even with this bright moonlight—which enabled you to see a figure crossing a distant field without a lantern—you were unable to see Satan's face?"

"Well sir . . . the Devil was wearin' a cowl over his head."

"That may be so, but were not the buttons on the front of his cloak? If the bright moonlight made those six gold buttons so memorable, could you not see a portion of his face?"

"No sir." Garrick shifted uneasily on the stool. "It weren't his face that caught my sight. It was . . . that terrible big thing the witch was suckin' on."

"Covered with thorns, I think you've already told us?"

"Yes sir, it was."

"Satan spoke to you, did he not? In fact, he called you by name?" Garrick nodded. "Did you not look at Satan's face when he spoke to you?"

"I believe I did. But . . . there weren't nothin' there but dark."

"Did Rachel Howarth ever turn her face toward you?"

"No sir, she didn't."

Matthew paused to lay aside his quill and massage his hand again. He glanced once more at Woodward, and saw that the magistrate was still motionless but his eyes were open and his breathing was steady, if very labored.

"Mr. Garrick!" Rachel suddenly said, standing at the bars. "What have I ever done to you, to cause you to make up these lies?"

"They ain't lies!" Garrick hugged the Bible for protection. "You know I seen you, out there givin' service to your master!"

"I was never behind that barn, doing such a sin! And I never consorted with such a creature! If you're not lying, your mind has invented a fantasy!"

Woodward loudly slapped his hand upon the table for order, and immediately Matthew said, "Silence, please! Madam Howarth, I speak for the magistrate when I say it's in your best interest not to disrupt the testimony."

"Her best interest?" Garrick sounded amazed. "Have you taken the witch's side?"

"No, Mr. Garrick, I have not. I'm only pointing out to Madam Howarth that it is your right to speak without interruption." Matthew started to pick up the quill again when Nicholas Paine entered the gaol bearing a basket.

"Pardon the intrusion, but I have your tea." Paine came into the cell, placed the basket before Woodward, and opened it. Inside was a simple white clay pot and a single cup. "Compliments of Mrs. Zeborah Crawford."

"My thanks," Woodward whispered.

"Will you be needing anything else?"

Woodward thought about it. He patted the desk in front of him. "Poppets," he said.

"The poppets? You wish to see them?" Woodward nodded. "Now."

"They're at my house. I'll go directly and fetch them." Paine cast a quick glance in the direction of Rachel and then hurried out.

Matthew had his quill in hand once more, and a fresh sheet of paper before him. "May I continue, sir?" he asked Woodward, who was pouring himself a cup of dark brown brew, and he received a slight nod as a signal to proceed. "Mr. Garrick?" Matthew said. "Think hard on this next question, if you will. Put the image of Satan's six gold buttons in your mind, and tell me if they were fixed on the cloak six in a straight line or three side by side?"

There was a sharp clatter of crockery. Matthew looked to his left to see that Woodward had spilled his tea. The magistrate was staring at him as if the clerk had taken leave of his senses.

"It is a pertinent question, sir," Matthew said. "I do think it deserves an answer."

"It's foolish," Woodward whispered, his gray face stern as a rock.

"Might you reserve your opinion until after the question is answered?"

"What kind of question is it?" Garrick asked, visibly agitated. "I thought I was brung here to tell you 'bout the witch, not about buttons!"

"You were brought here to tell us whatever is necessary for the magistrate to weigh his judgment," Matthew countered. "Remember, sir, that you hold a Holy Bible, and that you've vowed to speak only the truth. Remember that God is listening to your answer." He paused a few seconds to let Garrick reflect on that pronouncement. "Now: were the six buttons arranged in a single line, or were they three side by side?"

"They were . . ." Garrick suddenly stopped. His tongue flicked out again, wetting his lips. His fingers tightened on the Bible, his knuckles whitening. "They were . . ." Again he faltered. His face seemed threatened by conflicting currents that moved beneath the skin. He took a long breath, in preparation to make his decision. "Six gold buttons," he said. "On the black cloak. I seen 'em. Shine in the moonlight."

"Yes, sir," Matthew said. "But what arrangement were they in?" Garrick frowned; his mouth worked, but no sound emerged. His right hand began to rub in small circles on the Bible. He stared blankly at nothing, his eyes glazed and the pulse beating harder at his temple. Matthew realized that Woodward had leaned slightly forward and his expression had become keen.

"It was a silent town," Garrick said, in what was almost a whisper. A glaze of sweat glistened on his forehead. "Silent. The whole world, afeared to breathe."

Matthew had been taking down every word that the man uttered. He redipped his quill and held it ready. "It's a simple question, sir. Do you not have an answer?" Garrick slowly blinked, his jaw slack. "Sir?" Matthew prompted. "An answer, please?"

"The six gold buttons were . . . they . . ." He stared into nothingness for a moment longer, and then he shook his head. "I don't know."

"They caught your attention and were clearly defined by the moonlight, yes?"

"Yes."

"But you don't recall how they were arranged on the cloak?"

"No," Garrick said, his voice thick. "I . . . can see them buttons in my head. I see 'em shinin' in the moonlight, but ... I don't know if they was straight down or three by three."

"All right, then. Tell us what happened after Satan spoke to you."

"Yes sir." Garrick lifted a hand from the Good Book and wiped his damp forehead. "He . . . asked me if I liked what I was a'lookin' at. I didn't want to speak, but he made me say 'yes.' He made me. Then he laughed, and I was ashamed. He let me go. I ran home, and I got in bed beside my 'Becca. That next mornin' I went to see Mr. Paine and I told him the whole story."

"When you say he let you go, do you mean he held you spellbound?"

"Yes sir, I believe he did. I wanted to run, but I couldn't move."

"Did he release you with a word or a gesture?"

Again, Garrick frowned as he tried to assemble his thoughts. "I can't say. All I know is, he let me go."

"And your wife was still sleeping when you teturned to bed?"

"Yes sir, she was. She never waked up at all. I closed my eyes tight as I could, and next thing I knew I heard the cock crow and it was mornin'."

Matthew's eyes narrowed. "You mean after that experience you had no trouble falling asleep?"

"I don't know if I did or not. The cock crowed, and I waked up."

Matthew glanced quickly at the magistrate before he posed the following question: "Mr. Garrick, sir, is it possible—just possible— that you were never awake at all?"

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"I'm asking if what you thought was real may have been a dream. Is there any possibility of that?"

"No sir!" Garrick clutched the Bible tightly once more. "It all happened like I said! I woke up with stomach trouble and had to spew, and I went outside! I seen that devil and the witch there behind that barn sure as I'm lookin' at you! I swear before the Lord God I did!"

Matthew said quietly, "There's no need for such swearing. You hold the Bible and you've already vowed your story is the truth. You are a God-fearing man, aren't you?"

"Yes sir, I am. If I was lyin' to you, I'd be struck dead in an instant!"

"I'm sure you believe so. I have only one last question for you, and then—with the magistrate's approval, of course—you may go. My question is: how many buttons are on the coat you wore that night?"

"Sir?" Garrick tilted his head to one side, as if his ears hadn't quite caught the inquiry.

"You seem to be a highly observant individual," Matthew said. "Can you tell me how many buttons adorn the coat you put on before you went outside to spew?"

"Well. . . like I said, I don't recall puttin' my coat on."

"But you must know how many buttons it has. I presume you wear it quite a lot in cold weather. How many? Four? Five? Six, perhaps?"

"Five," Garrick answered. "No ... I think one of 'em broke off. It must be four."

"Thank you," Matthew said, and he put his quill aside. "Magistrate, I would suggest that Mr. Garrick be freed to go home."

"Are you sure?" Woodward whispered, not without some sarcasm.

"I'm sure Mr. Garrick has told us the truth, as far as he knows the truth to be. I don't think there's any use in keeping him here."

Woodward took a drink of tea and put the cup aside. "Good day," he told the farmer. "The court thanks you."

"I'm free to go, then?" Garrick stood up. He reluctantly relinquished his grip on the Bible and laid it back before the magistrate. "May I be bold to say, sir ... I hope I've helped send that witch to the fire. Reverend Grove was a right good man, and what I knew of Daniel he was a Christian too. But when Satan slips into a town, there ain't nothin' that follows but wickedness and tears."

"Mr. Garrick?" Matthew said as the man started to leave the cell. "In your opinion, was it Rachel Howarth or Satan who committed those murders?"

"Had to be Satan, I'd say. I seen Grove's body laid out in the church, and I seen Daniel's a'layin' in the field. A throat cut like those were . . . couldn't been a woman's hand that done it."

"In your opinion, as a God-fearing soul, would you believe that Satan could freely enter a church and murder a man of the Lord?"

"I would never have thought it. But it happened, didn't it?"

"Thank you," Matthew said. "You may go."

As soon as Garrick left the gaol Rachel said, "You understand it now, don't you? He was dreaming the whole thing!"

"That is a distinct possibility." Matthew looked at the magistrate, who was stroking his unshaven chin with his fingers. "Would you agree, sir?"

Woodward took his time in offering a reply It seemed to him that Matthew was awfully quick in his attempts to deflect Garrick's testimony The boy was very intelligent, yes; but it appeared to Woodward that Matthew was sharper and quicker now rhat he'd ever seen him to be. Of course, never before had Matthew been put into the position of commanding an interrogation, and perhaps his abilities had simply risen to the challenge, but . . . there was something a bit frightening in his desire to destroy Garrick's Bible-sworn sratements.

It was a fervor, Woodward decided, that bore careful watching. He sipped the bitter tea and whispered, "This court is not yet adjourned. Let us keep our opinions in rein."

"It seems to me, sir," Matthew plowed on, "that Mr. Garrick's testimony bears all the signs of being a dream. Some things he can recall quite vividly, while others—things he ought to be able to know—are lost to his memory."

"Though my voice is weak," Woodward said, "my ears are still in order. I heard exactly what you did."

"Yes, sir." Matthew decided he should retreat on this subject. "Pardon my manners."

"Pardon accepted. Now be quiet." Matthew took the time to clean his quill. Woodward poured himself a fresh cup and Rachel paced back and forth in her cage.

Nicholas Paine returned carrying a bundle wrapped with white cloth. Instantly Rachel stopped her pacing and came to the bars to watch. Paine placed the bundle on the desk before Woodward and started to open the cloth.

"A moment," Matthew said. "Was that how you originally found the objects?"

"The cloth is original, yes."

"It was not bound up?"

"It was just as you see it. And here are the poppets, just as they were." He opened the cloth and there were four small figures formed of straw, sticks, and what appeared to be red clay. The poppets were human-shaped, but bore no attempt at facial features; the red clay of their heads was smooth and unmarked. Two of the figures, however, had thin black ribbons tied around the sticks that would represent the human throat. On closer inspection, Woodward saw that the stick-throats had been gashed with a blade.

"I assume those two were meant to be Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth," Paine said. "The others must have been victims of enchantment, or maybe people who would've been murdered had we not captured the witch." Rachel made a sound of disgust, but was wise enough to hold her tongue.

"You can deny it all you please!" Paine turned toward her. "But I myself found these under a floorboard in your kitchen, madam! Under the very boards that your husband walked upon! Why did you murder him? Because he found you doing witchcraft? Or did he catch you servicing your master?"

"If they were hidden in my house, someone else put them there!" Rachel replied, with considerable heat. "Maybe you did! Maybe you murdered my husband, too!"

"I'm sure he had nothing I wanted!"

"But he did!" she said. "He had me."

Paine's face froze with the last vestige of a mocking smile on his mouth.

"I can think of a reason you might have fashioned those poppets and hidden them in my house," Rachel went on, her face pressed against the bars and her eyes afire. "Do you not think I noticed the way you looked at me, when you thought Daniel didn't see? Do you not think I felt you devouring me? Well, Daniel saw it too! He told me, less than a week before he was murdered, to beware of you because you had a hungry stare and you were not to be trusted! Daniel may have been a stern and quiet man, but he was a very good judge of character!"

"Obviously he was," Paine said. "He married a witch."

"Look at the magistrate," Rachel commanded, "and tell him about your affair with Lucretia Vaughan! Oh, everyone in Fount Royal knows it but Mr. Vaughan, and he knows it too in his heart but he's too much a mouse to make a squeak! Tell him about your affair with Blessed Pearson, and your dalliance with Mary Summers! Go on, look him in the face and admit it like the man you wish to be!"

Paine did not look at the magistrate. He continued to stare at Rachel even as he let out a laugh that—to Matthew's ears— sounded a bit strangled. "You're not only a damnable witch," he said, "but you're raving insane as well!"

"Tell us all why a handsome, healthy man like yourself has never married! Isn't it because you're only pleased to possess what belongs to other men?"

"Now I know you're insane! I've never married because I've spent my life in travelling! I also prize freedom, and a man's freedom is destroyed when he gives it up to a wife!"

"And while you have no wife, you are free to turn wives into wenches!" Rachel said. "Mary Summers was a respectable woman before you got your hands on her, and now where is she? After you killed her husband in that duel, she perished of sorrow within a month!"

"That duel," he answered coldly, "concerned a point of honor. Quentin Summers splashed wine in my face at the tavern and called me a card cheat. I had no choice but to call him out."

"He knew you were having your way with his wife, but he couldn't catch you! He was a farmer, not a duellist!"

"Farmer or not, he was given the first shot. He missed. If you'll recall, I only wounded him in the shoulder."

"A bullet wound in this town is a death sentence! He just took longer to die than if you'd shot him through the heart!"

"The subject of my visit here, I believe, is to display the poppets." Paine turned his gaze toward the magistrate. "Which I have done. Do you wish to keep them, sir?"

Even if Woodward's voice hadn't been so diminished, it would have been altogether stolen by the accusations and statements that had just flown like wild birds in a storm. It was going to take him a while to absorb all of this, but one thing stood out in clear relief in his mind.

He remembered Dr. Shields saying in regards to Paine: He was married, when he was a younger man. His wife perished from an illness that caused her to suffer fits until she died. Why, then, did Paine contend he had never been married?

"Magistrate? Do you wish to keep the poppets?" Paine repeated.

"Oh! Uh . . . yes, I do," Woodward answered, in his tortured whisper. "They shall become the court's property."

"Very well, then." He fired a look at Rachel that, were it a can-nonshot, might have cleaved through the hull of a warship. "I'd beware that one and her nasty tongue, sir! She holds such a grudge against me I'm surprised my murder wasn't on her list of crimes!"

"Face the magistrate and deny that what I've said is the truth!" Rachel all but shouted.

Woodward had endured enough of this discord. For want of a better instrument, he picked up the Bible and slapped it down against the desk's edge. "Hush!" he said, as loudly as he could; instantly he paid the price in pain, and tears welled up.

"Madam Howarth?" Matthew said. "I think it wise to be silent."

Paine added, "I think it wise to begin cutting the stake for her execution!"

This sarcastic remark bruised Matthew's sense of propriety, especially following on the heels of such heated wranglings. His voice tightened. "Mr. Paine, it would interest me to know if what Madam Howarth claims about you is true."

"Would it, now?" Paine put his hands on his hips. "You're overstepping your bounds, aren't you, clerk?"

"May I speak for you, sir?" Matthew asked Woodward, and the magistrate didn't hesitate to nod his assent. "There, Mr. Paine. My bounds are more clearly defined. Now: are these claims true or false?"

"I didn't know I was to be a witness today. I might've worn a better suit."

"Your delay in answering," Matthew said, "delays the outcome of this trial. Shall you be instructed to sit down and swear truth on the Bible?"

"You might instruct it, but I doubt you could enforce it."

"Yes, I'm sure you're correct. I'm no duellist, either."

Paine's face had taken on a reddish cast. "Listen to me! I didn't want to fight that man, and if he'd insulted me in private I would have let it go! But he had to test me in public, right there at Van Gundy's! What could I do but call him out? He had the choice of weapons, and the fool chose pistols instead of blades! I would've given him a single cut and called it done!" He shook his head, his expression taking on a hint of regret. "But no, Summers wanted heart's blood. Well, his pistol misfired and the ball hardly rolled out of the muzzle! Still, that was his shot. Then it was mine. I aimed for the meat of his shoulder, which I squarely hit. How would I know he was such a bleeder?"

"You might have fired at the earth," Matthew said. "Isn't that acceptable when the first shot misfires?"

"Not by my rules," came the chill reply. "If a man aims a weapon at me, whether it's a pistol or a dagger, he must account for it. I've been stabbed between the ribs before and shot through my leg; so I hold no sympathy for anyone who tries to do me harm! No matter if he is a farmer!"

"You suffered these wounds during your career at sea?" Matthew asked.

"The stab, yes. The shot . . . was a later incident." He stared at the clerk with fresh interest. "What do you know of my career at sea?"

"Just that you were a seaman aboard a brigantine. Mr. Bid-well told me. A brigantine is a fast ship, isn't it? In fact, brigantines are the vessels of choice by pirates, are they not?"

"They are. And they are also the vessels of choice by those who would hunt pirates in service of the trading companies."

"That was your profession, then?"

"Hardly a profession. I was sixteen years old, hot-tempered and eager to fight. I served one year and four months on a coastal patrol before a black-flagger's rapier laid me low. That was the end of my saltwater adventures."

"Oh," Matthew said quietly. "I see."

"What? Did you think me a pirate?"

"I wondered." Now that the subject had been opened, he had to ask the next question as well: "Might I inquire . . . who taught you to roll your tobacco in the Spanish fashion?"

"A Spaniard, of course," Paine said. "A prisoner aboard ship. He had no teeth, but he dearly loved his cigars. I think he was hanged with one in his mouth."

"Oh," Matthew repeated. His suspicions concerning the Spanish spy had just fallen to pieces like shattered mirrorglass, and he felt an utter fool.

"All right, I admit it! " Paine lifted his hands. "Yes, I have done the things the witch claims, but they were not all my doing! Lucretia Vaughan came after me like a shewolf! I couldn't walk the street without being near attacked by her! A match can only bear so much friction before it flames, and a single hot blaze is all I gave her! You know how such things happen!"

"Um ..." Matthew inspected the tip of his quill. "Well . . . yes, such things do happen."

"And perhaps—perhaps—my eye does wander. I did, at one point, feel an attraction to the witch. Before she was a witch, I mean. You must admit, she's a handsome piece. Is she not?"

"My opinion is of no consequence." Matthew blushed so furiously that his face hurt.

"You do admit it. You'd have to be blind if you did not. Well,

I may have looked in her direction once or twice, but I never laid a hand on her. I had respect for her husband."

"I'd be amazed if you had respect for anyone!" Rachel said sharply.

Paine started to fire off another volley at her, but he checked himself. After a pause in which he stared at the floor, he answered in what was almost a saddened tone, "You don't know me very well, madam, even though you imagine you do. I am not the beast you make me out to be. It is my nature to respect only those who respect themselves. As for the others, from them I feel free to take what is offered. Whether that makes me good or bad, I can't say, but that is how I am." He looked at the magistrate and lifted his chin high. "I did not put those poppets in the witch's house. I found them, according to a dream related to me by Cara Grunewald. It seems she had a vision—God-sent, if you want my opinion—in which a shining figure told her there was something of importance hidden beneath the floor of Rachel Howarth's kitchen. We knew not what we were searching for. But there the poppets were, beneath a loosened board."

"This was how long after Madam Howarth had been removed from her house?" Matthew asked.

"Two weeks, I believe. Not any longer."

"I presume her house wasn't guarded or watched in any way?"

"No. Why should it have been?"

"No reason. But two weeks was time enough for someone else to form the poppets and hide them under the floor, don't you think?"

Paine surprised Matthew by giving a short, sharp laugh. "You're jesting, of course!"

"Two weeks," Matthew repeated. "An empty, unguarded house. The poppets are made of common materials. Anyone might have placed them there."

"Have you lost your senses, clerk? No one put them there but the witch herself! You're forgetting that Madam Grunewald had a divine vision that directed us where to look!"

"I know nothing of divine visions. I only know two weeks passed and the house was open to all who might want to enter."

"No one wanted to enter," Paine argued. "The only reason I and the others who were with me entered is that we had a task to perform. When it was done, we didn't linger there!"

"Who discovered the loosened board? You or someone else?"

"I did, and if you like I'll vow on the Bible that I hadn't set foot in that house since the morning the witch was taken out of it!"

Matthew glanced at the magistrate. Woodward, who was looking dourly at him, shook his head. Matthew felt he'd come to the end of this particular road. He believed Paine. Why should the man have made the poppets and placed them there? Perhaps it had been a divine vision sent from God to Cara Grunewald; but then again, if he followed that track, he must come to the conclusion that Rachel was indeed performing witchcraft. He sighed heavily and said, "It's not necessary that you swear on the Bible, sir. Thank you for your candor in this matter. I believe you may go, if the magistrate desires it."

"Go," Woodward said.

Paine hesitated. "Are you thinking," he said to Matthew, "that someone other than the prisoner might have murdered Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth? If so, you'd best take care the witch is not casting a spell on your mind this very minute! She did those crimes, and she did the other sins she's been accused of too. Her ultimate purpose was the destruction of this town, which she nearly did—and still might do, if she's not soon ashes! Why should it be anyone else's purpose?"

To this question, Matthew had no answer. "Good afternoon, sir," Paine said, addressing the magistrate, and then he turned away and stalked out of the gaol.

Woodward watched through hooded eyes as the militia captain left. The magistrate had recalled something else Dr. Shields had said concerning the subject of Paine's deceased wife: // was a long time ago, and I'm sure Paine wouldn't care to speak about it. In fact, I know he would not. Had it been such a terrible experience that Paine had decided to deny to the people of Fount Royal that he ever had a wife? And if so, why had he confided it to Dr. Shields? It was a small thing, to be sure . . . but still, a point of interest.

On Matthew's mind was the imminent arrival of the final witness, the child Violet Adams. He cleaned his quill and prepared a fresh sheet of paper. Rachel returned to her bench and sat down, her head lowered. Woodward closely inspected one of the black-ribboned poppets, after which he closed his eyes and took the opportunity to rest.

In a short while the gaol's door was opened, and Violet Adams had arrived.

eighteen

EDWARD WINSTON ENTERED FIRST through the door, followed by a thin brown-haired man of about thirty years who wore a dark green suit and tan stockings. Close behind him—up under his arm, it would be more accurate to say—was the child, of eleven or twelve years. She, too, was slender. Her light brown hair was pulled severely back from her forehead under the constriction of a stiff white bonnet. She wore a smoke-gray cassock from throat to ankles, and sturdy black shoes that had recently been buffed. Her right hand gripped the left of her father's, while in the crook of her own left arm she held a battered Bible. Her blue eyes, set rather far apart on her long, sallow face, were wide with fear.

"Magistrate, this is Violet Adams and her father, Martin," Winston said as he led them in. The child balked at the entrance to the cell, but her father spoke quietly and firmly to her and she reluctantly came along.

"Hello," Woodward whispered to the little girl; the sound of his raw voice seemed to alarm her further, as she stepped back a pace and might have fled had not Martin Adams put his arm around her. "I'm having trouble speaking," Woodward explained. "Therefore my clerk will speak for me."

"Tell her to quit a'lookin' at us!" Adams said, his bony face damp with sweat. "She's castin' the evil eye!"

Matthew saw that Rachel was indeed staring at them. "Madam, in the interests of keeping everyone calm, would you refrain from looking at this father and child?"

She aimed her gaze at the floor. "Ain't good 'nuff!" Adams protested. "Cain't you put her somewheres else?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's impossible."

"Make her turn 'round, then! Make her put her back to us!" At this Matthew looked to the magistrate for help, but all Woodward could do was give a dismissive shrug.

Adams said, "We ain't stayin' here if she don't turn 'round! I didn't want to bring Violet to this place anyways!"

"Martin, please!" Winston held up a hand to quiet him. "It's very important that Violet tell the magistrate what she knows."

Violet suddenly jumped and her eyes looked about to burst from her skull. Rachel had risen to her feet. She pulled the bench away from the wall and then sat down upon it again, this time with her back toward them.

"There," Matthew said, much relieved. "Is that agreeable?"

Adams chewed his lower lip. "For now," he decided. "But if she looks at us again, I'll take my child out of here."

"Very well, then." Matthew smoothed out the fresh sheet of paper before him. "Mr. Winston, you may remove yourself." Winston's departure made the father and daughter even more nervous; now both of them looked liable to bolt at any instant. "Violet, would you care to sit down?" Matthew motioned toward the stool, but the little girl quickly and emphatically shook her head. "We shall have to swear you to truth on the Bible."

"What's the need for that?" Adams spoke up, in what was becoming an irritant to Matthew's ears. "Violet don't lie. She ain't never lied."

"It is a formality of the court, sir. You may use your own Good Book, if you please."

With sullen hesitation, the man agreed and Matthew administered the oath to his daughter, who made hardly a sound in her acceptance to tell only the truth in the sight of God. "All right,"

Matthew said after that hurdle had been cleared, "what is it that you have to offer in this case?"

"This thing she's 'bout to tell you happent near three week ago," came back that aural irritation. "It were of an afternoon. Violet was kept late to school, so when she was comin' home she was by herself."

"School? You mean she's a student?" Matthew had never heard of such a thing.

"She was. I never wanted her to go, myself. Readin' is a fool's way to waste time."

Now the knave had well and truly endeared himself to Matthew. He examined the child's face. Violet was not a particularly handsome little girl, but neither was she homely; she was simply ordinary, not being remarkable in any way except perhaps the wide spacing of her eyes and a slight tic of her upper lip that was becoming a bit more pronounced as it became time for her to speak. Still, the child carried herself with grace and seemed of a sturdy nature; Matthew knew it had taken quite a lot of courage to enter this gaol.

"My name is Matthew," he began. "May I call you Violet?"

She looked to her father for aid. "That'll do," Adams agreed.

"Violet, it's important that you answer my questions instead of your father. All right?"

"She will," Adams said.

Matthew dipped his quill in the inkwell, not because it needed ink but because he required a moment to compose himself. Then he tried it again, first offering Violet a smile. "Your bonnet is pretty. Did your mother sew it?"

"What's that got to do with the witch?" Adams asked. "She's here to tell her tale, not talk 'bout a bonnet!"

Matthew wished for a jolt of rum. He glanced at the magistrate, who had cupped his hand to his mouth to hide what was a half-smile, half-grimace. "Very well," Matthew said. "Violet, tell your tale."

The little girl's gaze slid over toward Rachel, registering that the accused still remained sitting with her face to the wall. Then Violet lowered her head, her father's hand on her shoulder, and said in a small, frightened voice, "I seen the Devil and his imp. Sittin' there. The Devil told me the witch was to be set loose. Said if the witch was kept in the gaol everybody in Fount Royal would pay for it." Again her eyes darted to mark if Rachel had moved or responded, but the prisoner had not.

Matthew said quietly, "May I ask where this sighting occurred?"

Of course Adams spoke up. "It were in the Hamilton house. Where the Hamiltons used to live 'fore they took up and went. On Industry Street, 'bout three houses shy of our'n."

"All right. I presume the Hamiltons had left before this sighting took place?"

"They was gone right after the witch murdered Dan'l. Abby Hamilton knowed it was that woman's doin'. She told my Constance that a dark woman's got dark in her."

"Hm," Matthew said, for want of any better response. "Violet, how come you to be in that house?"

She didn't answer. Her father nudged her. "Go on and tell it, child. It's the right thing to do."

Violet began in what was almost an inaudible voice, her face angled toward the floor. "I . . . was walkin' home. From the schoolhouse. I was goin' by where the Hamiltons used to live . . . and ... I heared somebody." She paused once more and Matthew thought he would have to urge her on, but then she said, "Somebody was callin' me. Said . . . 'Violet, come here.' Low and quiet, it was. 'Violet, come here.' I looked . . . and the door was open."

"The door to the Hamilton house," Matthew said.

"Yes sir. I knowed it was empty. But I heared it again. 'Violet, come here.' It sounded like . . . my papa was callin' me. That's why I went in."

"Had you ever been inside that house before?"

"No sir."

Matthew redipped his quill. "Please go on."

"I went in," Violet said. "There wasn't nary a noise. It was silent, like ... it was just me breathin', and that was the only sound. I near turned to run out. . . and then ... I heared 'Violet, look at me.' At first . . . 'cause it was so dark, I couldn't see nothin*. Then a candle was lit, and I seen 'em sittin' there in that room." Both Matthew and Woodward could see that her face, though turned downward, was agonized with the recollection. She trembled, and her father patted her shoulder for comfort. "I seen 'em," she repeated. "The Devil was sittin' in a chair . . . and the imp was on his knee. The imp . . . was holdin' the candle . . . and he was grinnin' at me." She made a soft, wounded gasp down in her throat and then was quiet.

"I know this is difficult," Matthew told her, as gently as he could, "but it has to be spoken. Please continue."

She said, "Yes sir," but offered nothing more for a space of time. Obviously the recounting of this incident was a terrible ordeal. Finally she took a long breath and let it go. "The Devil said, 'Tell them to free my Rachel.' He said, 'Let her out of the gaol, or Fount Royal is cursed.' After that ... he asked me if I could remember what he'd said. I nodded. Then the imp blowed out the candle, and it come dark again. I run home." She looked up at Matthew, her eyes shocked and wet. "Can I go now?"

"Soon," he said. His heart had begun beating harder. "I'm going to have to ask you some questions, and I want you to think carefully before you answer to make sure that—"

"She'll answer 'em," Adams interrupted. "She's a truthful child."

"Thank you, sir," Matthew said. "Violet? Can you tell me what the Devil looked like?"

"Yes sir. He . . . had on a black cloak . . . and a hood over his head, so I couldn't see no face. I remember ... on his cloak . . . was gold buttons. They was shinin' in the candlelight."

"Gold buttons." Matthew's mouth had gone dry; his tongue felt like a piece of iron. "May I ask ... if you know how many there were?"

"Yes sir," she said. "Six."

"What's this fool question for?" Adams demanded. "Six buttons or sixty, what does it matter?"

Matthew ignored him. He stared intently into the child's eyes. "Violet, please think about this: can you tell me how the buttons were arranged on the cloak? Were they six straight up and down, or were they three side by side?"

"Pah!" The man made a disgusted face. "She seen the Devil, and you're askin' 'bout his buttons?"

"I can answer, Papa," Violet said. "They was six straight up and down. I seen 'em shinin'."

"Straight up and down?" Matthew pressed. "You're absolutely certain of it?"

"Yes sir, I am."

Matthew had been leaning forward over his paper; now he sat back in his chair, and ink dripped upon the previous lines he'd quilled.

"Child?" Woodward whispered. He managed a frail smile. "You're doing very well. Might I ask you to describe the imp?"

Again Violet looked to her father, and he said, "Go on, tell the magistrate."

"The imp . . . was sittin' on the Devil's knee. It had white hair, looked like spider webs. It wasn't wearing no clothes, and . . . its skin was all gray and wrinkled up, like a dried apple. 'Cept for its face." She hesitated, her expression tormented; in that instant Woodward thought she more resembled a life-burned woman than an innocent child. "Its face . . . was a little boy," she went on. "And . . . while the Devil was talkin' to me . . . the imp stuck out its tongue . . . and made it wiggle 'round and 'round." She shuddered at the memory of it, and a single tear streaked down her left cheek.

Matthew couldn't speak. He realized that Violet Adams had just described perfectly one of the three grotesques that Jeremiah Buckner claimed he saw in the orchard, having unholy sexual relations with Rachel.

Add to that the child's description of Satan as seen by Elias Garrick, right down to the black cloak and six gold buttons, and— Dear God, Matthew thought. It couldn't be true! Could it?

"Violet?" He had to strain to keep his voice steady. "Have you heard anything of the other tales concerning the Devil and this imp that may have been told around town? What I mean to say is—"

"No sir, she ain't makin' up a lie!" Adams clenched his teeth at the very suggestion of it. "I done told you, she's a truthful child! And yes, them tales are spoken here and yon, and most like Violet's heard 'em from other children, but by God you didn't see her pale as milk when she come home that day! You didn't hear her sobbin' and wailin', near scairt to death! No sir, it ain't a lie!"

Violet had downcast her face again. When her father had ceased his ranting, she lifted it to look fully at Matthew. "Sir?" she said timorously. "It happened as I told it. I heared the voice and went in the house, and I seen the Devil and the imp. The Devil said them things to me, and then I run home quick as I could."

"You're positive—absolutely positive—that the figure in the black cloak said . . ." Matthew found the appropriate lines on the paper. '"Tell them to free my Rachel'?"

"Yes sir. I am."

"The candle. In which hand did the imp hold it?"

She frowned. "The right."

"Did the Devil have on shoes or boots?"

"I don't know, sir. I didn't see."

"Upon which knee did the imp sit? The left or right?"

Again, Violet frowned as she called up the memory. "The . . . left, I think. Yes sir. The left knee."

"Did you see anyone else on the street before you went inside?"

"No sir. I don't recall."

"And afterward? Was there anyone on the street when you came out?"

She shook her head. "I don't know, sir. I was cryin'. All I cared to do was get home."

"How come you to stay late at school?"

"It was 'cause of my readin', sir. I need help at it, and Master Johnstone had me stay late to do some extra work."

"You were the only student asked to stay late?"

"That day, yes sir. But Master Johnstone has somebody stay late most every day."

"What made you notice those gold buttons?" Matthew lifted his eyebrows. "How, with the Devil and the imp sitting there before you, did you have the presence of mind to count them?"

"I don't recall countin' 'em, exactly. They just caught my eye. I collect buttons, sir. I have a jar of 'em at home, and ever when I find one I put it up."

"When you left the schoolhouse, did you happen to speak to anyone on the—"

"Matthew." Though it had been only a whisper, Woodward had delivered it with stern authority. "That's enough." He glowered at his clerk, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed. "This child has spoken what she knows."

"Yes, sir, but—"

"Enough." There was no denying the magistrate's will; particularly not in this instance, since Matthew had for all intents and purposes run out of questions. All Matthew.could do was nod his head and stare blankly at what he'd scribed on the paper before him. He had come to the conclusion that, of the three witnesses who'd testified, this child's story sounded the most chillingly real. She knew what details she ought to know. What she couldn't recall was forgivable, due to the stress and quickness of the incident.

Tell them to free my Rachel, the Devil had said. That single statement, coupled with the poppets, was powerful enough to burn her even if there had been no other witnesses.

"I assume," Matthew said, his own voice somewhat diminished, "that the schoolmaster has heard this story?"

"He has. I told him myself the very next mornin'," Adams said.

"And he remembers asking Violet to stay late that afternoon?"

"He does."

"Well, then." Matthew licked his dry lips and resisted turning his head to look at Rachel. He could think of nothing more to say but the same again: "Well, then."

"You are very courageous," Woodward offered the child. "Very courageous, to come in here and tell us this. My compliments and gratitude." Though in pain, he summoned up a smile albeit a tight one. "You may go home now."

"Yes sir, thank you sir." Violet bowed her head and gave the magistrate a clumsy but well-meant curtsey. Before she left the cell, though, she glanced uneasily at the prisoner, who still sat backwards upon the bench. "She won't hurt me, will she?"

"No," Woodward said. "God will protect you."

"Well. . . sir, there's somethin' else I have to tell."

Matthew roused himself from his dismayed stupor. "What is it?"

"The Devil and that imp . . . they wasn't alone in the house."

"You saw another creature, then?"

"No sir." She hesitated, hugging her Bible. "I heared a man's voice. Singin'."

"Singing?" Matthew frowned. "But you saw no other creature?"

"No sir, I didn't. The singin' ... it was comin' from back of the house, seemed like. Another room, back there in the dark. I heared it just 'fore the candle went out."

"It was a man's voice, you say?" Matthew had put his quill aside. Now he picked it up again and began to record the testimony once more. "Loud or soft?"

"Soft. I could just hardly hear it. But it was a man's voice, yes sir."

"Had you ever heard that voice before?"

"I don't know, sir. I'm not sure if I had or hadn't."

Matthew rubbed his chin and inadvertently smeared black ink across it. "Could you make out anything of the song?"

"Well. . . sometimes I feel I'm near 'bout to know what song it is, that maybe I heared it before . . . but then it goes away. Sometimes it makes my head hurt thinkin' of it." She looked from Matthew to the magistrate and back again. "It's not the Devil cursin' me, is it, sir?"

"No, I think not." He stared at the lines on the paper, his mind working. If there was a third demonic creature in that house, why didn't it show itself to the child? After all, the idea had been to scare an alarm into her, hadn't it? What was the point of a demon singing in the dark, if the song and the voice were not loud enough to be fearful? "Violet, this may be difficult for you," he said, "but might you try to remember what the voice was singing?"

"What does it matter?" Adams had held his peace long enough. "She done told you 'bout the Devil and the imp!"

"My own curiosity, Mr. Adams," Matthew explained. "And it seems to me that the memory of this voice troubles your daughter, or she would not have brought it to light. Don't you agree?"

"Well..." The man made a sour face. "Mayhaps I do."

"Is there anything further?" Matthew asked the girl, and she shook her head. "All right, then. The court thanks you for your testimony." Violet and her father withdrew from the cell. Just before they left the gaol, the child looked back fearfully at Rachel, who was sitting slumped over with a hand pressed to her forehead.

When the two were gone, Woodward began to wrap the poppets back up in the white cloth. "I presume," he whispered, "that all other witnesses have fled town. Therefore . . ." He paused to try to clear his throat, which was a difficult and torturous task. "Therefore our trial is ended."

"Wait!" Rachel stood up. "What about my say? Don't I get a chance to speak?"

Woodward regarded her coldly. "It is her right, sir," Matthew reminded him.

The magistrate continued wrapping the poppets. "Yes, yes," he said. "Of course it is. Go on, then.

"You've made your decision, have you not?" She came to the bars and gripped them.

"No. I shall first read over the transcript, when I am able."

"But that's only a formality, isn't it? What can I possibly say to convince you I am not guilty of these lies?"

"Bear in mind," Matthew said to her, "that the witnesses did swear on the Bible. I would be wary in calling them liars. However ..." He paused.

"However what?" Woodward rasped.

"I think there are some omissions of detail in the testimonies of Mr. Buckner and Mr. Garrick that ought to be taken into account. For instance—"

Woodward lifted a hand. "Spare me. I shall not discuss this today."

"But you do agree, don't you, sir?"

"I am going to bed." With the bundle tucked under his arm, Woodward pushed the chair back and stood up. His bones ached and his head grew dizzy, and he stood grasping the desk's edge until the dizziness abated.

Instantly Matthew was on his feet too, alert to preventing the magistrate from falling. "Is someone coming to help you?"

"I trust there's a carriage waiting."

"Shall I go out and see?"

"No. Mind you, you're still a prisoner." Woodward felt so drained of strength he had to close his eyes for a few seconds, his head bowed.

"I demand my right to speak," Rachel insisted. "No matter if you have decided."

"Speak, then." Woodward feared his throat was closing up again, and his nostrils seemed all but sealed.

"It is a wicked conspiracy," she began, "to contend that I murdered anyone, or that I have made spells and poppets and committed such sins as I am accused of. Yes, I know the witnesses swore truth on the Bible. I can't understand why or how they could create such stories, but if you'll give me the Bible I'll swear truth on it too!"

To Matthew's surprise, Woodward picked up the Holy Book, walked unsteadily to the bars, and passed the volume through into her hands.

Rachel clasped it to her bosom. "I swear upon this Bible and every word in it that I have done no murders and I am not a witch!" Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of trepidation and triumph. "There! You see? Did I burst into flame? Did I scream because my hands were scorched? If you put such value on Bible-sworn truth, then will you not also value my denial?"

"Madam," the magistrate whispered wearily, "do not further profane yourself. Your power to confuse is very strong, I grant you."

"I am holding the Bible! I have just sworn on it! Would you have me kiss it?"

"No. I would have you return it." He held out his hand. Matthew saw the bright fire of anger leap into Rachel's eyes, and for an instant he feared for the magistrate's safety. But then Rachel stepped back from the bars, opened the Holy Book, and began to methodically rip the parchment pages from it, her expression all but dead.

"Rachel!" Matthew cried out, before he could think better of it. "Don't!"

The torn pages of God's Writ drifted to the straw around her feet. She stared into the magistrate's eyes as she did her blasphemous damage, as if daring him to prevent her.

Woodward held her gaze, a muscle clenching in his jaw. "Now," he whispered, "I see you clearly."

She yanked out another page, let it fall, and then shoved the Bible between the bars. Woodward made no move to capture the mutilated Book, which dropped to the floor. "You see nothing," Rachel said, her voice trembling with emotion though her face was held under tight control. "Why did God not strike me dead just now?"

"Because, madam, He has given me that task."

"If I were truly a witch, God would never have allowed such an act!"

"Only a vile sinner would have committed it," Woodward said, showing admirable composure. He leaned down and retrieved the volume, the back of which had been broken.

Matthew said, "She's distraught, sir! She doesn't know what she's doing!"

At that, Woodward turned toward his clerk and managed to say heatedly, "She knows! Dear God, Matthew! Has she blinded you?"

"No, sir. But I think this action should be excused on the grounds of extreme mental hardship."

Woodward's mouth fell agape, his gray face slack. He seemed to feel the entire world wheel around him as he realized that, indeed, this woman had beguiled the very fear of God out of his clerk.

The magistrate's shocked expression was not lost on Matthew. "Sir, she is under difficult circumstances. I hope you'll weigh that in your consideration of this incident."

There was only one response Woodward could make to this plea. "Get your papers. You're leaving."

Now it was Matthew's turn to be shocked. "But ... I have one more night on my sentence."

"I'll pardon you! Come along!"

Matthew saw that Rachel had moved back into the shadows of her cage. He was torn between the desire to rid himself of this dirty hovel and the realization that once he left the gaol he would most likely not see Rachel again until the morning of her death. There were still so many questions to be asked and answered! He couldn't let it go like this, or he feared he might be haunted for the rest of his days. "I'll stay here and finish my sentence," he said.

"What?"

"I'll stay here," Matthew repeated calmly. "One more night will be of no consequence."

"You forget yourself!" Woodward felt near collapse. "I demand you obey!"

Even though this demand had been delivered in such a frail voice, it still carried enough power to offend Matthew's sense of independence. "I am your servant," he answered, "but I am not your slave. I elect to stay here and finish my sentence. I will take my lashes in the morning, and that will be the end of it."

"You've lost your reason!"

"No, sir, I have not. My being pardoned would only cause further problems."

Woodward started to argue the point, but neither his voice nor his spirit had the strength. He stood at the cell's threshold, holding the violated Bible and the bundled poppets. A glance at Rachel Howarth showed him that she'd retreated to the far wall of her cage, but he knew that as soon as he left she would begin to work her mind-corrupting spells on the boy again. This was like leaving a lamb to the teeth of a bitch wolf. He tried once more: "Matthew ... I beg you to come with me."

"There's no need. I can stand one more night."

"Yes, and fall for eternity," Woodward whispered. Woodward laid the Holy Book down atop the desk. Even so desecrated, the volume might serve as a shield if Matthew called upon it. That is, if Matthew's clouded vision would allow him to recognize its power. He damned himself for letting the boy be put in this place; he might have known the witch would leap at the opportunity to entrance Matthew's mind. It occurred to Woodward that the court records were in jeopardy as well. There was no telling what might befall them during this last night they'd be within the witch's reach. "I will take the papers," he said. "Box them, please."

This was not an unreasonable request, as Matthew assumed the magistrate would want to begin his reading. He immediately obeyed.

When it was done, Woodward put the box under one arm.

There was nothing more he could do for Matthew except offer a prayer. He cast a baleful glare upon Rachel Howarth. "Beware your acts, madam. You're not yet in the fire."

"Is there any doubt I shall be?" she asked.

He ignored the question, turning his eyes toward Matthew. "Your lashing ..." It seemed his throat was doubly swollen now, and speaking took a maximum of effort. "... will be at six o'clock. I shall be here . . . early as possible. Be alert to her tricks, Matthew." Matthew nodded but offered no opinion on the validity of the statement.

The magistrate walked out of the cell, leaving the door wide open. He steeled himself not to look back, as the sight of Matthew voluntarily caged and in mortal danger of witchcraft might tear his heart asunder.

Outside the gaol, in the dim gray light and with a mist hanging in the air, Woodward was relieved to see that indeed Goode had brought the carriage for him. He pulled himself up into one of the passenger seats and set the bundled poppets at his side. As soon as Woodward was settled, Goode flicked the reins and the horses started off.

Shortly after the magistrate had departed, Green came to the gaol to deliver the evening meal, which was corn soup. He locked Matthew's cell and said, "I trust you sleep well, boy. Tomorrow your hide belongs to me." Matthew didn't care for the way Green laughed; then the gaol-keeper removed the lantern, as was his nightly custom, and left the prisoners in darkness.

Matthew sat on his bench and tipped the foodbowl to his mouth. He heard a rat squeaking in the wall behind him, but their numbers had dwindled dramatically in the wake of the ratcatcher's visit and they seemed not nearly so bold as before.

Rachel's voice came from the dark. "Why did you stay?"

He swallowed the soup that was in his mouth. "I intend to serve out my sentence."

"I know that, but the magistrate offered you a pardon. Why didn't you take it?"

"Magistrate Woodward is ill and confused right now."

"That doesn't answer my question. You elected to stay. Why?"

Matthew busied himself in eating. At last he said, "I have other questions to ask of you."

"Such as?"

"Such as where were you when your husband was murdered? And why is it that someone other than you found the body?"

"I remember Daniel getting out of bed that night," Rachel said. "Or perhaps it was early morning. I don't know. But he often rose in the dark and by candlelight figured in his ledger. There was nothing odd in his rising. I simply turned over, pulled the blanket up, and went back to sleep as I always did."

"Did you know that he'd gone outside?"

"No, I didn't."

"Was that usual also? That he should go out in the cold at such an early hour?"

"He might go out to feed the livestock, depending on how near it was to sunrise."

"You say your husband kept a ledger? Containing what?"

"Daniel kept account of every shilling he had. Also how much money was invested in the farm, and how much was spent on day-to-day matters such as candles, soap, and the like."

"Was money owed to him by anyone in town, or did he owe money?"

"No," Rachel said. "Daniel prided himself that he was his own master."

"Admirable, but quite unusual in these times." Matthew took another swallow of soup. "How did your husband's body come to be found?"

"Jess Maynard found it. Him, I mean. Lying in the field, with his throat . . . you know." She paused. "The Maynards lived on the other side of us. Jess had come out to feed his chickens at first light when he saw . . . the crows circling. He came over and that's when he found Daniel."

"Did you see the body?"

Again, there was a hesitation. Then she said quietly. "I did."

"I understand it was the throat wound that killed him, but were there not other wounds on his body? Bidwell described them, I recall, as claw or teeth marks to the face and arms."

"Yes, there were those."

"Forgive my indelicacy," Matthew said, "but is that how you would describe them? As teeth or claw marks?"

"I . . . remember . . . how terrible was the wound to his throat. I did see what appeared to be claw marks on his face, but ... I didn't care at the moment to inspect them. The sight of my husband lying dead, his eyes and mouth open as they were ... I remember that I cried out and fell to my knees beside him. I don't recall much after that, except that Ellen Maynard took me to her house to rest."

"Are the Maynards still living there?"

"No. They moved away after ..." She gave a sigh of resignation. "After the stories about me began to fly."

"And who began these stories? Do you know of any one person?"

"I would be the last to know," Rachel said dryly.

"Yes," Matthew agreed. "Of course. People being as they are, I'm sure the stories were spread about and more and more embellished. But tell me this: the accusations against you did not begin until your husband was murdered, is that correct? You were not suspected in the murder of Reverend Grove?"

"No, I was not. After I was brought here, Bidwell came in to see me. He said he had witnesses to my practise of witchcraft and that he knew I—or my 'master,' as he put it—was responsible for the calamities that had struck Fount Royal. He asked me why I had decided to consort with Satan, and what was my purpose in destroying the town. At that point he asked if I had murdered the reverend. Of course I thought he'd lost his mind. He said I was to cease all associations with demons and confess myself to be a witch, and that he would arrange for me to be immediately banished. The alternative, he said, was death."

Matthew finished his soup and set the bowl aside. "Tell me," he said, "why you didn't agree to banishment. Your husband was dead, and you faced execution. Why didn't you leave?"

"Because," she answered, "I am not guilty. Daniel bought our farm from Bidwell and we had both worked hard at making it a success. Why should I give it up, admit to killing two men and being a witch, and be sent out into the wilds with nothing? I would have surely died out there. Here, at least, I felt that when a magistrate arrived to hear the case I might have a chance." She was silent for a while, and then she said, "I never thought it would take so long. The magistrate was supposed to be here over a month ago. By the day you and Woodward arrived, I had suffered Bidwell's slings and arrows many times over. I had almost lost all hope. In fact, you both looked so . . . well, unofficial. . . that I at first thought Bidwell had brought in two hirelings to goad a confession out of me."

"I understand," Matthew said. "But was there no effort to discover who had murdered the reverend?"

"There was, as I recall, but after Lenora Grove left, the interest faded over time, as there were no suspects and no apparent motive. But the reverend's murder was the first incident that caused people to start leaving Fount Royal. It was a grim Winter."

"I can imagine it was." Matthew listened to the increasing sound of rain on the roof. "A grim Spring, as well. I doubt if Fount Royal could survive another one as bad."

"Probably not. But I won't be here to know, will I?"

Matthew didn't answer. What could he say? Rachel's voice was vety tight when she spoke again. "In your opinion, how long do I have to live?"

She was asking to be told the truth. Matthew said, "The magistrate will read thoroughly over the records. He will deliberate, according to past witchcraft cases of which he has knowledge." Matthew folded his hands together in his lap. "He may give his decision as early as Wednesday. On Thursday he might ask for your confession, and on that day as well he might require me to write, date, and sign the order of sentencing. I expect . . .

the preparations would be made on Friday. He would not wish to carry out the sentence on either the day before the Sabbath or the Sabbath itself. Therefore—"

"Therefore I burn on Monday," Rachel finished for him.

"Yes," Matthew said. A long silence stretched. Though he wished to ease her sorrow, Matthew knew of no consolation he could offer that would not sound blatantly foolish.

"Well," she said at last, her voice carrying a mixture of courage and pain, and that was all.

Matthew lay down in his accustomed place in the straw and folded himself up for warmth. Rain drummed harder on the roof. He listened to its muffled roar and thought how simple life had seemed when he was a child and all he had to fear was the pile of pig dung. Life was so complicated now, so filled with strange twists and turns like a road that wandered across a wilderness no man could completely tame, much less understand.

He was deeply concerned for the magistrate's failing health. On the one hand, the sooner they got away from Fount Royal and returned to the city, the better; but on the other hand he was deeply concerned as well for the life of the woman in the next cell.

And it was not simply because he did think her beautiful to look upon. Paine had been correct, of course. Rachel was indeed—as he had crudely put it—a "handsome piece." Matthew could understand how Paine—how any man, really—could be drawn to her. Rachel's intelligence and inner fire were also appealing to Matthew, as he'd never met a woman of such nature before. Or, at least, he'd never met a woman before who had allowed those characteristics of intelligence and fire to be seen in public. It was profoundly troubling to believe that just possibly Rachel's beauty and independent nature were two reasons she'd been singled out by public opinion as a witch. It seemed to him, in his observations, that if one could not catch and conquer an object of desire, it often served the same to destroy it.

The question must be answered in his own mind: was she a witch or not? Before the testimony of Violet Adams, he would have said the so-called eyewitness accounts were fabrications or fantasies, even though both men had sworn on the Bible. But the child's testimony had been tight and convincing. Frighten-ingly convincing, in fact. This was not a situation where the child had gone to bed and awakened thinking that a dream had been reality; this had happened when she was wide awake, and her grasp of details seemed about right considering the stress of the moment. The child's testimony—especially concerning the black cloak, the six gold buttons, and the white-haired dwarf, or "imp," as she'd called it—gave further believability to what both Buckner and Garrick had seen. What, then, to make of it?

And there were the poppets, of course. Yes, anyone might have made them and hidden them under the floorboards. But why would anyone have done so? And what to make of Cara Grunewald's "vision" telling the searchers where to look?

Had Rachel indulged in witchcraft, or not? Had she murdered or wished the murders of Reverend Grove and her husband, the actual killings having been committed by some demonic creature summoned from the bullypit of Hell?

Another thought came to him while he was on this awful track: if Rachel was a witch, might she or her terrible accomplices have worked a spell on the magistrate's health to prevent him from delivering sentence?

Matthew had to admit that, even though there were puzzling lapses of detail in the accounts of Buckner and Garrick, all the evidence taken together served to light the torch for Rachel's death. He knew the magistrate would read the court documents carefully and ponder them with a fair mind, but there was no question the decree would be guilty as charged. So: was she a witch, or not?

Even having read and digested the scholarly volumes that explained witchcraft as insanity, ignorance, or downright malicious accusations, he honestly couldn't say, which frightened him far more than any of the testimony he'd heard.

But she was so beautiful, he thought. So beautiful and so alone. If she was indeed a servant of Satan, how could the Devil himself let a woman so beautiful be destroyed by the hands of men?

Thunder spoke over Fount Royal. Rain began to drip from the gaol's roof at a dozen weak joints. Matthew lay in the dark, huddled up against the chill, his mind struggling with a question inside a mystery within an enigma.

nineteen

JUST BEFORE THE STORM had broken, Mrs. Nettles had answered the front door bell to admit Schoolmaster Johnstone, who inquired if the magistrate was able to see him. She took his black coat and tricorn and hung them near the door, then escorted him into the parlor, where Woodward—still bundled up in coat and scarf as he'd been at the gaol—sat in a chair that had been pulled up close to the fireplace. A tray across Woodward's knees held a bowl of steaming, milky pap that was near the same grayish hue as the color of his face, and Woodward had been stirring his dinner with a spoon to cool it.

"Pardon me. For not rising," Woodward whispered.

"No pardon necessary between Oxford brothers, sir."

"Mr. Bidwell is in his study with Mr. Winston," Mrs. Nettles said. "Shall I fetch 'im?"

"No, I won't disturb their work," Johnstone said, leaning on his cane. Woodward noted he was wigless this evening, his light brown hair shorn close to the scalp. "I have business with the magistrate.

"Very well, sir." She bowed her head in a gesture of respect and left the parlor.

Johnstone watched the magistrate stirring his pap. "That doesn't look very appetizing.

"Doctor's orders. All I can swallow."

"Yes, I had a talk with Dr. Shields this morning and he told me you'd been suffering. I'm sorry you're in such a condition. He bled you, I understand."

Woodward nodded. "More bleeding. Yet to be done."

"Well, it is helpful to drain the corrupted fluids. Might I sit down?" He motioned toward a nearby chair, and Woodward whispered, "Yes, please do." Johnstone, with the aid of his cane, eased himself into the chair and stretched his legs out toward the crackling fire. Rain began to beat at the shuttered windows. Woodward took a taste of the pap and found it just the same as what he'd eaten at midday: entirely tasteless, since his nostrils were so clogged he could not smell even the smoke from the burning pinewood.

"I won't take much of your time," Johnstone said. "I did wish to ask how the trial was coming."

"Over. The last witness has been heard."

"Then I presume your decision will be forthcoming? Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"Not tomorrow. I must review the testimony."

"I see. But your decision will be made by the end of the week?" Johnstone waited for Woodward to nod his assent. "You have a responsibility I do not envy," he continued. "Sentencing a woman to death by fire is not a kind job."

"It is not," Woodward answered between swallows of pap, "a kind world."

"Granted. We have come a long way from Oxford, the both of us. I imagine we began our careers as shining lamps. It is unfortunate that life has a way of dirtying the glass. But tell me this, Magistrate: can you in good conscience sentence Rachel Howarth to death without yourself seeing evidence of her supposed witchcraft?"

Woodward paused in bringing another spoonful of pap to his mouth. "I can. As did the magistrates of Salem."

"Ah, yes. Infamous Salem. But you're aware, of course, that since the incident in Salem there has been much written concerning questions of guilt and innocence." His right hand settled on the misshapen knee and began to massage it. "Thete are some who believe the incident in Salem resulted in the execution of persons who were either mentally unbalanced or falsely accused."

"And some who believe," Woodward hesitated to get a breath, "Christ was served and Satan vanquished."

"Oh, Satan is never vanquished. You know that as well as anyone. In fact, one might say that if a single innocent person died at Salem, the Devil's work was well and truly done, for the souls of the magistrates themselves were corrupted." Johnstone stared into the flames. "I have to confess something," he said at length. "I consider myself a man of the here-and-now, not a man whose opinions are rooted in the beliefs and judgments of the past. I believe in God's power and I trust in the wisdom of Christ . . . but I have difficulty with this question of witchcraft, sir. It seems to me a highly doubtful thing."

"Doubtful?" Woodward asked. "You doubt the witnesses, then?"

"I don't know." The schoolmaster shook his head. "I can't understand why such elaborate lies should be produced against Madam Howarth—whom I always thought to be, by the way, a very dignified and intelligent woman. Of course she did—and does—have her enemies here. A beautiful, strong-spirited woman as she is could not fail to have enemies. Constance Adams is one of them. Granny Lawry was another who spoke with a vehement tongue, but she passed away in late March. A number of citizens were outraged when Madam Howarth attended church, she being Portuguese and of such dark coloring. They wanted her to go worship in the slave quarters."

"The slaves have a church?"

"A shed that serves the purpose. Anyway, since the day Madam Howarth set foot in church, she was the object of bitter resentment. The citizens were looking for a reason to openly despise her. The nature of her heritage—and the fact that she'd married a much older and reasonably wealthy man—had made her a target of scorn since she and Daniel arrived here."

"Howarth was wealthy?" Woodward asked, his pap-loaded spoon poised near his mouth.

"Yes. Though not in the sense of Bidwell's wealth, of course. The Howarth land is larger than most of the other farms. He did have some money, as I understand."

"Money from what source?"

"He was a wine merchant in Virginia. From what I heard, he'd suffered some bad luck. A shipment was lost at sea, another shipment was delivered foul, and evidently there was a continuing problem with a tax collector. As I understand, Daniel simply sickened of laboring beneath the threat of losing his business. He was married to another woman at that point, but I don't know if she died or returned to England. Some women can't stand the New World, you know."

"Your own wife being an example?" Woodward whispered before he slid the spoon of pap into his mouth.

"Yes, my own Margaret." Johnstone offered a thin smile. "Ben told me you'd been asking questions. He said that somehow—he couldn't quite recall—you had wandered onto that field where Margaret lies buried. Figuratively speaking, of course. No, Margaret lives with her family now, south of London." He shrugged. "I suppose she does, if they haven't locked her up in Bedlam yet. She was—to be kind—mentally unstable, a condition that the rigors of life in Fount Royal made only worse. Unfortunately, she sought balance in the rum barrel." Johnstone was silent, the firelight and shadows moving on his thin-nosed, aristocratic face. "I expect Ben—knowing Ben as I do—has told you also of Margaret's . . . um . . . indiscretions?"

"Yes."

"The one in particular, with that Noles bastard, was the worst. The man is an animal, and for Margaret—who when I married her was a virgin and comported herself as a proper lady—to have fallen to his level was the final insult to me. Well, she had made no secret of hating Fount Royal and everyone in it. It was for the best that I took her where she belonged." He looked at Woodward with a pained expression. "Some people change, no matter how hard one tries to deny it. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes," Woodward answered, in his fragile voice. His own face had taken on some pain. He stared into the fire. "I do understand."

The schoolmaster continued to rub his deformed knee. Sparks popped from one of the logs. Outside, the sound of rain had become a dull roar. "This weather," Johnstone said, "plays hell with my knee. Too much damp and I can hardly walk. You know, that preacher must be getting his feet wet. He's camped up on Industry Street. Last night he gave a sermon that I understand sent a few people into spasms and separated them from their coins as well. Of course, the subject of his speech was Rachel Howarth, and how her evil has contaminated the whole of Fount Royal. He mentioned you by name as one of those so afflicted, as well as your clerk, Nicholas Paine, and myself."

"I'm not surprised."

"At the risk of verifying the preacher's opinion of me," Johnstone said, "I suppose I'm here to plead for Madam Howarth. It just makes no sense to me that she would commit two murders, much less take up witchcraft. I'm aware that the witnesses are all reliable and of good character, but . . . something about this is very wrong, sir. If I were you, I'd be wary of rushing to pass sentence no matter how much pressure Bidwell puts upon you."

"I am not rushing," Woodward replied stiffly. "I set my own pace."

"Surely you do, and forgive me for stating otherwise. But it appears there is some pressure being put upon you. I understand how Bidwell feels Fount Royal is so endangered, and it's certainly true that the town is being vacated at an alarming rate. These fires we've been suffering don't help matters. Someone is trying to paint Madam Howarth as having the power of destruction beyond the gaol's walls."

"Your opinion."

"Yes, my opinion. I'm aware that you have more experience in these matters than do I, but does it not seem very strange to you that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? And it seems to me quite peculiar that a woman who can burn down houses at a distance can't free herself from a rusty lock."

"The nature of evil," Woodward said as he ate another spoonful of the tasteless mush, "is never fully understood."

"Agreed. But I would think Satan would be more cunning than illogical. It appears to me that the Devil went to great pains to make certain everyone in town knew there was a witch among us, and that her name was Rachel Howarth."

After a moment of contemplation, Woodward said, "Perhaps it is strange. Still, we have the witnesses."

"Yes, the witnesses." Johnstone frowned, his gaze fixed upon the fire. "A puzzle, it seems. Unless . . . one considers the possibility that—as much as I might wish to deny it—Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be."

Woodward had been about to eat the last swallow of his pap, but he paused in lifting the spoon. This idea advanced by Johnstone had never occurred to him. Still, it was only an idea, and the witnesses had sworn on the Bible. But what if the witnesses had been themselves entranced, without knowing it? What if they had been led to believe they were viewing Madam Howarth, when indeed it was not? And when Satan had spoken Madam Howarth's name to Violet Adams, was he simply attempting to shield the identity of the true witch?

No! There was the evidence of the poppets found in Madam Howarth's house! But, as Matthew had pointed out, the house was empty for such a period of time that someone else might have secreted them there. Afterward, Satan might have slipped the vision into Madam Grunewald's dreams, and thereby the poppets were discovered.

Was it possible—only by the slimmest possibility—that the wrong person was behind bars, and the real witch still free?

"I don't wish to cloud your thinking," Johnstone said in response to the magistrate's silence, "but only to point out what damage a rush to execute Madam Howarth might do. Now, that being said, I have to ask if you have progressed any in your search for the thief."

"The thief?" It took Woodward a few seconds to shift his thoughts to the missing gold coin. "Oh. No progress."

"Well, Ben also informed me that you and your clerk had questions about my knee, and if I was able to climb the staircase or not. I suppose I could, if I had to. But I'm flattered that you would consider I could move as quickly as the thief evidently did." The schoolmaster leaned forward and unbuttoned his breeches leg at the knee. "I wish you to judge for yourself."

"Uh ... it isn't necessary," Woodward whispered.

"Oh, but it is! I want you to see." He pulled the breeches leg back and then rolled his stocking down. A bandage had been secured around the knee, and this Johnstone began to slowly unwrap. When he was finished, he turned his leg so as to offer Woodward a clear view of the deformity by the firelight. "There," Johnstone said grimly. "My pride."

Woodward saw that a leather brace was buckled around Johnstone's knee, but the kneecap itself was fully exposed. It was the size of a knotty fist, gray-colored and glistening with some kind of oil. The bone itself appeared terribly misshapen, bulging up in a ghastly ridge along the top of the kneecap and then forming a concavity at the knee's center. Woodward found himself recoiling from the sight.

"Alan! We heard the bell, but why didn't you announce yourself?" Bidwell had just entered the parlor, with Winston a few steps behind him.

"I had business with the magistrate. I wished to show him my knee. Would you care to look?"

"No, thank you," Bidwell said, as politely as possible.

But Winston came forward and craned his neck. He wrinkled up his nose as he reached the fireside. "My Lord, what's that smell?"

"The hogsfat ointment Ben sells me," Johnstone explained. "As the weather is so damp, I've had to apply it rather liberally tonight. I apologize for the odor." Woodward, because his nostrils were blocked, could smell nothing. Winston came a couple of steps closer to view the knee but then he retreated with as much decorum as he could manage.

"I realize it's not a pretty sight." Johnstone extended his index finger and moved it along the bony ridge and down into the concavity, an exploration that made the magistrate's spine crawl. Woodward had to look away, choosing to stare into the fire. "Unfortunately, it is part of my heritage. I understand my great-grandfather—Linus by name—was born with a similar defect. In good weather it has decent manners, but in such weather as we've been enduring lately it behaves rather badly. Would you care for a closer inspection?"

"No," Woodward said. Johnstone gave his knee an affectionate pat and wrapped the bandage around it once more.

"Is there a point to this, Alan?" Bidwell asked.

"I am answering the magistrate's inquiry as to whether my condition would allow me to take your staircase at any speed."

"Oh, that." Bidwell came over to the fireplace and offered his palms to the heat, as the schoolmaster pulled his srocking back up and rebuttoned the breeches leg. "Yes, the magistrate's clerk advanced one of his rather dubious theories concerning your knee. He said—"

"—that he wondered if my knee was really deformed, or if I were only shamming," Johnstone interrupted. "Ben told me. An interesting theory, but somewhat flawed. Robert, I've been in Fount Royal for—what?—three years or thereabouts? Have you ever seen me walk without the aid of my cane?"

"Never," Bidwell said.

"If I were shamming, what would be the reason for ir?" Johnstone was addressing this question to Woodward. "By God's grace, I wish I could run down a staircase! I wish I could walk without putting my weight on a stick!" Heat had crept into the schoolmaster's voice. "I cut a fine figure at Oxford, as you can imagine! There the prizes always belonged to the young and the quick, and I was forced to carry myself like a doddering old man! But I proved myself in the classroom, that's what I did! I could not throw myself down the playing field, but I did throw myself into my studies, and thereafter I became president of my social club!"

"The Hellfires, I presume?" Woodward asked.

"No, not the Hellfires. The Ruskins. We emulated the Hell-fires in some things, but we were rather more studious. Quite a bit more timid, to be truthful." Johnstone seemed to realize he had displayed some bitterness at his condition, and his voice was again under firm control. "Forgive my outburst," he said. "I am not a self-pitier and I wish no pity from anyone else. I enjoy my profession and I feel I am very good at what I do."

"Hear, hear!" Winston said. "Magistrate, Alan has shown himself to be an excellent schoolmaster. Before he came, school was held in a barn and our teacher was an older man who didn't have near Alan's qualifications."

"That's right," Bidwell added. "Upon Alan's arrival here, he insisted a schoolhouse be built and regular lessons begun in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic. He's taught many of the farmers and their children how to write their own names. I must say, though, that Alan's opening of the schoolhouse to the female children is a bit too liberal for my tastes!"

"That is liberal," Woodward remarked. "Some might even say misguided."

"Females are becoming more educated in Europe," Johnstone said, with the slightly wearied sound of someone who has defended a position time and again. "I believe at least one member of every family should be able to read. If that is a wife or a female child, then so be it."

"Yes, but Alan's had to pry some of these children away from their families," Winston said. "Like Violet Adams, for one. Education goes against the grain of these rustics."

"Violet approached me wanting to learn to read the Bible, as neither of her parents were able. How could I refuse her? Oh, Martin and Constance at first were set against it, but I convinced them that reading is not a dishonorable exercise, and thereby Violet would please the Lord. After the child's experience, however, she was forbidden to attend school again. A pity, too, because Violet is a bright child. Well. . . enough of this horn blowing." The schoolmaster braced himself with his cane and stood up from the chair. "I should be on my way now, ere this weather gets any worse. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Magistrate. I hope you're soon feeling better."

"Oh, he shall!" Bidwell spoke up. "Ben's coming by tonight to tend to him. It won't be long before Isaac is as fit as a racehorse!"

Woodward summoned a frail smile. Never in his life had he been a racehorse. A workhorse, yes, but never a racehorse. And now he was Isaac to the master of Fount Royal, since the trial had ended and sentencing was imminent.

Bidwell walked with Johnstone to get his coat and tricorn before he braved the rain. Winston came forward to stand before the fire. The flames reflected off the glass of his spectacles. "A chill wind in May!" he said. "I thought I'd left such a thing behind in London! But it's not so bad when one has a house as grand as this in which to bask, is it?" Woodward didn't know whether to nod or shake his head, so he did neither.

Winston rubbed his hands together. "Unfortunately, my own hearth smokes and my roof will be leaking tonight like an oar-boat. But I shall endure it. Yes, I shall. Just as Mr. Bidwell has said at times of business crisis: whatever tribulations may come, they mold the character of the man."

"What say, Edward?" Bidwell had entered the parlor again, after seeing Johnstone off.

"Nothing, sir," Winston replied. "I was thinking aloud, that's all." He turned from the fire. "I was about to point out to the magistrate that our sorry weather is one more evidence of the witch's spellcraft against us, as we've never been struck with such damp misery before."

"I think Isaac is already well aware of Witch Howarth's abilities. But we won't have to endure her but a day or two longer, will we, Isaac?"

Bidwell was waiting for a response, his mouth cracked by a smile but his eyes hard as granite. Woodward, in order to keep the peace and thereby get to his bed without an uproar, whispered, "No, we won't." Instantly he felt shamed by it, because indeed he was dancing to Bidwell's tune. But at the moment he was too sick and tired to give a damn.

Winston soon said good night, and Bidwell summoned Mrs. Nettles and a servant girl to help the magistrate upstairs. Woodward, ill as he was, protested against the girl's efforts to disrobe him and insisted on preparing himself for bed. He had been under the sheet for only a few minutes when he heard the doorbell ring. Presently Mrs. Nettles knocked at his door, announcing the arrival of Dr. Shields, and the doctor came in armed with his bag of potions and implements.

The bleeding bowl was readied. The hot lancet bit true and deep through the crusted wounds of the morning's bloodletting. As Woodward lay with his head over the edge of the bed and the sound of his corrupted fluids pattering into the bowl, he stared up at the ceiling where Dr. Shields's shadow was thrown by the yellow lamplight.

"Not to fear," the doctor said, as his fingers worked the cuts to keep the blood running. "We'll banish this sickness."

Woodward closed his eyes. He felt cold. His stomach had clenched—not because of the pain he was suffering, but because he'd thought of the three lashes that would soon be inflicted upon Matthew. At least, though, after the lashing was done Matthew would be free to go from that filthy gaol; and thankfully he would be free also from Rachel Howarth's influence.

The blood continued to flow. Woodward felt—or imagined he felt—that his hands and feet were freezing. His throat, however, remained fiery hot.

He entertained himself for the moment with musings on how wrong Matthew had been in his theory concerning the Spanish spy. If indeed there was such a spy, Alan Johnstone was not the man. Or, at least, Johnstone was not the thief who'd taken Matthew's coin. Matthew was so cocksure of his theories that sometimes the boy became insufferable, and this was a good opportunity to remind him that he made mistakes just like the rest of mankind.

"My throat," he whispered to Dr. Shields. "It pains me."

"Yes, we'll tend it again after I've finished here."

It was bad fortune to become so ill without benefit of a real hospital, Woodward thought. A city hospital, that is. Well, the task here would be soon finished. Of course he didn't look forward with great relish to that trip back to Charles Town, but neither would he care to remain in this swamphole more than another week.

He hoped Matthew could bear the lashes. The first one would be a shock; the second would likely tear the flesh. Woodward had seen hardened criminals break into tears and cry for their mothers after the whip had thrice bitten their backs. But soon the ordeal would be over. Soon they could both take leave of this place, and Satan could fight the mosquitoes for its ruins as far as he cared.

Does it not seem very strange to you, Johnstone had said, that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? Woodward squeezed his eyes shut more tightly. . . . consider the possibility that Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be.

No! Woodward thought. No! There were the witnesses, who had sworn truth on the Bible, and the poppets that were even now sitting atop the dresser! To consider that there was some other witch would not only delay his decision in regards to the prisoner but would also result in the complete abandonment of Fount Royal. No, Woodward told himself. It was sheer folly to march down that road!

"Pardon?" Dr. Shields said. "Did you say something, Isaac?" Woodward shook his head. "Forgive me, I thought you did. A bit more in the bowl and we'll be done."

"Good," Woodward said. He could sleep now, if his throat were not so raw. The sound of his blood dripping into the bowl was nearly a strange kind of lullaby. But before he gave himself up to sleep he would pray for God to endow strength to Matthew, both to resist that woman's wiles and to endure the whip with the grace of a gentleman. Then he would add a prayer to keep his own mind clear in this time of tribulation, so that he might do what was right and proper in the framework of the law.

But he was sick and he was troubled, and he had also begun to realize that he was afraid: of sinking into deeper illness, of Rachel Howarth's influence over Matthew, of making a mistake. Afraid on a level he hadn't known since his last year in London, when his whole world had been torn asunder like a piece of rotten cloth.

He feared the future. Not just the turn of the century, and what a new age might bring to this strife-burnt earth, but tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. He feared all the demons of the unknown tomorrows, for they were creatures who destroyed the shape and structure of yesterday for the sake of a merry fire.

"A little more, a little more," Dr. Shields said, as the blood continued to drip from the lancet cuts.

WHILE WOODWARD WAS BEING SO ATTENDED, Matthew lay in the dark on his pallet of straw and grappled with his own fears. It would not be seemly if tomorrow morning, at the delivering of the lashes, he should lose control and disgrace himself before the magistrate. He had seen criminals whipped before, and knew that sometimes they couldn't hold their bodily functions, so great was the pain. He could stand three lashes; he knew he could. Rather, he hoped he could. If that giant Mr. Green put his strength into the blows . . . well, it was best not to think about that right now, or he'd convince himself that his back would be split open like a ripe melon.

Distant thunder sounded. The gaol had taken on a chill. He wished for a coat to cover himself, but of course there was nothing but these clothes that were—from the smell and stiffness of them—fit to be boiled in a kettle and cut into rags. Instantly he thought how petty were his own discomforts, as Rachel's sackcloth robe was surely torment to her flesh by now and the punishment she faced was far more terrible—and more final—than a trio of whipstrikes.

So much was whirling through his mind that it seemed hot as a hearth, though his body was cold. He might wish for sleep, but he was his own hardest taskmaster and such relief was withheld. He sat up, folding his arms around himself, and stared into the dark as if he might see some answer there to the questions that plagued him.

The poppets. The testimony of Violet Adams. The three Devil's familiars who could not have sprung from the rather simple mind of Jeremiah Buckner. And how to explain the dwarf-creature—the "imp"—that both Buckner and Violet Adams had seen at different times and locales? What also of the cloak with six buttons? And the Devil's commandment to the child to "tell them to free my Rachel"? Could there be any more damning a decree?

But another thing kept bothering Matthew: what the child had said about hearing a man's voice, singing in the darkness of another room at that house. Was it a fragment of nothing? Or was it a shadow of great importance?

"You're awake." It had been a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Matthew said.

"I can't sleep either."

"Little wonder." He listened to the noise of rain dripping from the roof. Again there came the dull rumble of thunder.

"I have remembered something," Rachel said. "I don't know how important it is, but at the time I thought it was unusual."

"What is it?" He looked toward her shape in the darkness.

"The night before Daniel was murdered ... he asked me if I loved him."

"This was an unusual question?"

"Yes. For him, I mean. Daniel was a good man, but he was never one to speak of his feelings ... at least not where love was concerned."

"Might I ask what was your reply?"

"I told him I did love him," she answered. "And then he said that I had made him very happy in the six years of our marriage. He said ... it made no matter to him that I had never borne a child, that I was his joy in life and no man could change that fact."

"Those were his exact words, as best you recall?"

"Yes."

"You say he was not normally so concerned with emotions? Had anything occurred in the previous few days that might have made him wish to express such feelings? A quarrel, perhaps?"

"I recall no quarrel. Not to say that we didn't have them, but they were never allowed to linger."

Matthew nodded, though he realized she couldn't see it. He laced his fingers around his knees. "You were both well matched, would you say? Even though there was such a difference in ages?"

"We both desired the same things," Rachel said. "Peace at home, and success for our farm. As for the difference in our ages, it mattered some at the beginning but not so much as the years passed."

"Then he had no reason to doubt that you loved him? Why would he ask such a question, if it was against his usual nature?"

"I don't know. Do you think it means anything?"

"I can't say. There's so much about this that begs questions. Things that should fit don't, and things that shouldn't fit do. Well, when I get out of here I plan on trying to find out why."

"What?" She sounded surprised. "Even after the child's testimony?"

"Yes. Her testimony was—pardon my bluntness—the worst blow that could have been dealt to you. Of course you didn't help your case by violating the Holy Book. But still. . . there are questions that need answers. I can't close my eyes to them."

"But Magistrate Woodward can?"

"I don't think he's able to see them as I do," Matthew said. "Because I'm a clerk and not a jurist, my opinions on witchcraft have not been formed by court records and the articles of de-monology."

"Meaning," she said, "that you don't believe in witches?"

"I certainly do believe in the power of the Devil to do wickedness through men—and women. But as for your being a witch and having murdered Reverend Grove and your husband ..." He hesitated, knowing that he was about to throw himself into the flames of commitment. "I don't believe it," he said.

Rachel said something, very quietly, that gave him a twinge deep in his stomach. "You could be wrong. I could be casting a spell on you this moment."

Matthew considered this point carefully before he answered. "Yes, I could be wrong. But if Satan is your master, he has lost his grip on logic. He wishes you released from the gaol, when he personally went to great lengths to put you here. And if his aim is to destroy Fount Royal, why doesn't he just burn the whole town in one night instead of an empty house here and there? I don't think Satan would care if a house was empty before it burned, do you? And what are these tricks of bringing the three demons out to parade them as if in a stageplay? Why would you appear to Jeremiah Buckner and invite him to view a scene that would certainly send you to the stake?" He waited for a response but there was none. "Buckner may have sworn truth on the Bible, yes. He may believe that what he saw was the truth. But my question is: what is it that two men—and a little girl—may see that appears to be true but is in reality a cunning fiction? It must be more than a dream, because certainly Violet Adams was not dreaming when she walked into that house in the afternoon. Who would create such a fiction, and how could it possibly be disguised as the truth?"

"I can't see how any man could do it," Rachel said.

"I can't either, but I believe it has somehow been done. My task is to find out first of all how. Then to find out the why of it. I hope from those two answers will come the third: who."

"And if you can't find them? What then?"

"Then . . ." Matthew paused, knowing the reply but unwilling to give it, "that bridge is best crossed when it is reached."

Rachel was silent. Even the few rats that had returned to the walls after Linch's massacre had stilled themselves. Matthew lay down again, trying to get his thoughts in order. The sound of thunder was louder; its power seemed to shake the very earth to its deepest foundations.

"Matthew?" Rachel said.

"Yes?"

"Would you . . . would you hold my hand?"

"Pardon?" He wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.

"Would you hold my hand?" she asked again. "Just for a moment. I don't like the thunder."

"Oh." His heart was beating harder. Though he knew full well that the magistrate would look askance on such a thing, it seemed wrong to deny her a small comfort. "All right," he said, and he stood up. When he went to the bars that separated them, he couldn't find her.

"I'm here." She was sitting on the floor.

Matthew sat down as well. Her hand slipped between the bars, groping, and touched his shoulder. He said, "Here," and grasped her hand with his. At the intertwining of their fingers, Matthew felt a shock of heat that was first intense and then softened as it seemed to course slowly up his forearm. His heart was drumming; he was surprised she couldn't hear it, as surely a military march was being played next to her ear. It had occurred to him that his might be the last hand ever offered her.

The thunder again announced itself, and again the earth gave a tremble. Matthew felt Rachel's grip tighten. He couldn't help but think that in seven days she would be dead. She would be bones and ashes, nothing left of her voice or her touch or her compelling presence. Her beautiful tawny eyes would be burnt blind, her ebony hair sheared by the flames.

In seven days.

"Would you lie with me?" Rachel asked. "What?"

"Would you lie down with me?" Her voice sounded very weary, as if now that the trial had ended her strength of spirit had been all but overwhelmed by the evidence arrayed against her. "I think I might sleep, if you were to hold my hand."

"Yes," he answered, and he eased down onto his back with his hand still gripping hers. She also reclined alongside the bars, so near to him that he felt the heat of her body even through the coarse and dirty sackcloth.

The thunder spoke, closer still and more powerful. Rachel's hand squeezed his, almost to the point of pain. He said nothing, as the sound of his heartbeat made speech impossible.

For a while the thunder was a raging young bully above Fount Royal, but at last it began to move away toward the sea and became aged and muttering in its decrease. The hands of the two prisoners remained bound together, even as sleep took them in different paths. Matthew awakened once, and listened in the quiet dark. His mind was groggy, but he thought he'd heard a sound that might have been a hushed sobbing.

If the sound had been real or not, it was not repeated. He squeezed Rachel's hand. She gave an answering pressure.

That was all.

twenty

MATTHEW EMERGED FROM SLEEP before the first rooster crowed. He found his hand still embracing Rachel's. When Matthew gently tried to work his hand free, Rachel's eyes opened and she sat up in the gray gloom with bits of straw in her hair.

The morning of mixed blessings had arrived; his lashing and his freedom were both soon to be delivered. Rachel made no statement to him, but retreated to the other side of her cage for an illusion of privacy with her waste bucket. Matthew moved to the far side of his own cell and spent a moment splashing cold water upon his face, then he too reached for the necessary bucket. Such an arrangement had horrified him when he'd first entered the gaol, but now it was something to be done and over with as quickly as possible.

He ate a piece of stale bread that he'd saved from last night, and then he sat on his bench, his head lowered, waiting for the sound of the door opening.

It wasn't a long wait. Hannibal Green entered the gaol carrying a lantern. Behind him was the magistrate, bundled in coat and scarf, the bitter reek of liniment around him and his face more chalky now than gray, with dark purplish hollows beneath his swollen eyes. Woodward's ghastly appearance frightened Matthew more than the expectation of the lashes, and the magistrate moved with a slow, painful step.

"It's time." Green unlocked Matthew's cell. "Out with you." Matthew stood up. He was afraid, but there was no use in delay. He walked out of the cell.

"Matthew?" Rachel was standing at the bars. He gave her his full attention. "No matter what happens to me," she said quietly, the lantern's light reflecting in her amber eyes, "I wish to thank you for listening." He nodded. Green gave him a prod in the ribs to move him along. "Have courage," she said.

"And you," he replied. He wanted to remember her in that moment; she was beautiful and proud, and there was nothing in her face that betrayed the fact she faced a hideous death. She lingered, staring into his eyes, and then she turned away and went back to her bench, where she eased down and shrouded herself in the sackcloth gown once more.

"Move on!" Green rumbled.

Woodward grasped Matthew's shoulder, in almost a paternal gesture, and led him out of the gaol. At the doorway, Matthew resisted the desire to look back again at Rachel, for even though he felt he was abandoning her, he knew as well that, once free, he could better work for her benefit.

It occurred to him, as he walked out into the misty, meager light of morning, that he had accepted—to the best of his ability—the unfamiliar role of champion.

Green closed the gaol's door. "Over there," he said, and he took hold of Matthew's left arm and pulled him rather roughly away from Woodward, directing him toward the pillory that stood in front of the gaolhouse.

"Is there need for that, sir?" Woodward's voice, though still weak, was somewhat more able than the previous day.

Green didn't bother to answer. As he was being led to be pilloried, Matthew saw that the novelty of a lashing had brought a dozen or so citizens out of their homes to be entertained. Among them were Seth Hazelton, whose grinning face was still swaddled by a dirty bandage, and Lucretia Vaughan, who had brought along a basket of breads and teacakes that she was in the process of selling to the assembly. Sitting in his carriage nearby was the master of Fount Royal himself, come to make sure justice was done, while Goode sat up front slowly whittling on a piece of wood.

"Tear his back open, Green!" Hazelton urged. "Split it like he done split my face!"

Green used a key from his ring to unlatch the top half of the pillory, which he then lifted up. "Take your shirt off," he told Matthew. As Matthew did Green's bidding, he saw with a sick jolt to his stomach that coiled around a hitching-post to his right was a braided leather whip perhaps two feet in length. It certainly was not as formidable as a bullwhip or a cat-o'-nine, but the braid could do considerable damage if delivered with any sort of srrength—and Green, at the moment, resembled nothing less than a fearsome, red-bearded Goliath.

"In the pillory with you," the giant said. Matthew put his arms into the depressions meant for them and then laid his neck against the damp wood. Green closed the pillory and locked it, trapping Matthew's head and arms. Matthew now was bent into a crouch, his naked back offered to the whip. He couldn't move his head to follow Green, but he heard the noise of the braid as it slithered off the hitching-post.

The whip cracked as Green tested it. Matthew flinched, the skin crawling across his spine. "Give it to 'im good!" Hazelton yelled. Matthew was unable to either lift or lower his head to any great degree. A feeling of dreadful helplessness swept over him. He clenched his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut.

"One!" Green said, and by that Matthew knew the first strike was about to be made. Standing close by, the magistrate had to turn away and stare at the ground. He felt he might have to spew at any second.

Matthew waited. Then he sensed rather than heard Green drawing back. The onlookers were silent. Matthew realized the whip was up and about to—

Crack!

—across his shoulders, a hot pain that grew hotter, a flame, an inferno that scorched his flesh and brought tears to his sealed eyes. He heard himself gasp with the shock of it, but he had enough presence of mind to open his mouth lest he bite into his tongue. After the whip had been withdrawn, the strip of skin it had bitten continued to burn hotter and hotter; it was the worst physical pain Matthew had ever experienced—and the second and third strikes were yet to fall.

"Damn it, Green!" Hazelton bawled. "Show us some blood!"

"Shut your mouth!" Green hollered back. "This ain't no ha'penny circus!"

Again, Matthew waited with his eyes tightly closed. Again he sensed Green drawing back the whip, sensed the man putting his strength into the lash as it hissed down through the sodden air. "Two!" Green shouted.

Crack! it came once more, exactly upon the same strip of blistered flesh.

For an instant Matthew saw bright crimson and deepest ebony swirling in his mind like the colors of war flags, and then the truest, keenest, most savage pain under the sky of God gnawed into him. As this pain bloomed down his back and up his neck to the very top of his skull, he heard himself give an animal-ish groan but he was able to restrain the cry that fairly leapt from his throat.

"Three!" Green announced.

Here came the whip's hiss. Matthew felt tears on his cheeks. Oh God, he thought. Oh God oh God oh—

Crack! This time the braid had struck a few inches lower than the first two lashes, but its bite was no less agonizing. Matthew trembled, his knees about to give way. So fierce was the pain that he feared his bladder might also empty itself, so he concentrated solely on damming the flow. Thankfully, it did not. He opened his eyes. And then he heard Green say something that he would remember with joy the rest of his life: "Done, Mr. Bidwell!"

"No!" It was Hazelton's angry snarl. "You held back, damn you! I seen you hold back!"

"Watch that tongue, Seth, or by God I'll blister it!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Bidwell had stepped down from his carriage, and made his way to the pillory. "I think we've had violence enough for this morning." He leaned down to peer into Matthew's sweat-slick face. "Have you learned your lesson, clerk?"

"Green held back!" the blacksmith insisted. "It ain't fair to go so easy on that boy, when he done scarred me for life!"

"We agreed on the punishment, Mr. Hazelton," Bidwell reminded him. "I believe Mr. Green applied the lash with proper consideration. Wouldn't you say, Magistrate?"

Woodward had seen the red welts that had risen across Matthew's shoulders. "I would."

"I pronounce the punishment correctly administered and the young man free to go. Release him, Mr. Green."

But Hazelton was so enraged he was nearly dancing a jig. "I ain't satisfied! You didn't draw no blood!"

"I could remedy that," Green warned, as he coiled the braid and then went about unlocking the pillory.

Hazelton took two strides forward and thrust his ugly face at Matthew. "You set foot on my land again, and I'll strop your hide myself! I won't hold back, neither!" He drew himself up again and cast a baleful stare at Bidwell. "Mark this as a black day for justice!" he said, and with that he stalked away in the direction of his home.

The latch was opened. Matthew stood up from the pillory's embrace and had to bite his lip as a fresh wave of pain coursed through his shoulders. If Green had indeed held back, Matthew would have hated to be on the receiving end of a whip that the giant put his full power behind. He felt light-headed and stood for a moment with one hand grasping the pillory.

"Are you all right?" Woodward was standing beside him.

"Yes, sir. I shall be, I mean."

"Come along!" Bidwell was wearing a smirk that was not very much disguised. "You look in need of some breakfast!"

Matthew followed Bidwell to the carriage, with the magistrate walking at his side. The onlookers were going away to their daily business, the small excitement over. Suddenly a woman stepped in front of Matthew and said brightly, "My compliments!"

It took Matthew a few seconds to register that Lucretia Vaughan was offering him a teacake from her basket. "Please take one!" she said. "They're freshly baked!" He felt numbed of mind and scorched of shoulders, but he didn't wish to offend her so he did accept a teacake.

"The lashing wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked.

"I'm gratified it's over."

"Madam, we have breakfast to attend to!" Bidwell had already secured his seat in the carriage. "Would you let him pass, please?"

She kept her eyes locked on Matthew's. "You will come to dinner on Thursday evening, will you not? I have made plans for it."

"Dinner?" He frowned.

"My mistake," Woodward said to the woman. "I neglected to inform him."

"Oh? Then I shall make the invitation myself. Would you come to dinner on Thursday evening? At six o'clock?" She gave Woodward a brief, rather tight smile. "I would invite you also, Magistrate, but seeing as how you are so feeble I fear an evening out might only worsen your health." She turned her rapacious attention upon Matthew once more. He thought that the shine of her blue eyes was glassy enough to indicate fever. "May I count on your arrival?"

"Well ... I thank you," he said, "but I—"

"You will find my home very hospitable," she plowed on. "I do know how to set a table, and you might ask anyone as to the quality of my kitchen." She leaned her head forward, as if offering to share a secret. "Mr. Green is quite fond of my onion bread. He told me that the loaf I presented to him yesterday afternoon was the finest he'd ever set eyes on. The thing about onion bread," and here she lowered her voice so that Bidwell might not hear, "is that it is a great persuader. A meal of it, and mercy follows."

What the woman was saying wasn't lost on Matthew. If indeed Green had held back in his delivery of the whip—which Matthew, in severe pain, found difficult to believe—it was likely due to Madam Vaughan's influence on his behalf. "I see," he said, though his view was not entirely clear.

"Come along!" Bidwell said impatiently. "Madam, good day!"

"Might you favor my home with your presence on Thursday evening?" Madam Vaughan was obviously not one to buckle before pressure, though she certainly knew how to apply it. "I can promise you will find it of interest."

He surely didn't feel in need of dinner company at the moment, but by Thursday he knew the pain would be a bad memory. Besides that, the woman's manipulations intrigued him. Why had she desired to intercede in his punishment? He nodded. "Yes, I'll be there."

"Excellent! Six o'clock, then. I shall send my husband to fetch you." She gave a quick curtsey and withdrew, after which Matthew pulled himself up into the carriage.

Bidwell watched Matthew try to keep his shoulders from rubbing the seatback as the carriage creaked along Peace Street. Try as he might, Bidwell couldn't wipe the smirk of satisfaction off his face. "I hope you're cured of your malady!"

Matthew had to bite at the offered hook. "What malady might that be?"

"The sickness of sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong. You got off very lightly."

"I suppose I did."

"I know you did! I've seen Green whip a man before. He did hold back. If he hadn't, you'd be bleeding and blubbering right now." He shrugged. "But Green doesn't care much for Hazelton, so there you have it. Magistrate, might I hope you'll pass sentence today?"

"Not today," came the hoarse reply. "I must study the records."

Bidwell scowled. "I don't for the life of me see what you have to study!"

"It's a matter of being fair," Woodward said.

"Being fair?" Bidwell gave a harsh laugh. "Yes, this is why the world's in its current shape!"

Matthew couldn't remain quiet. "Meaning what, sir?"

"Meaning that some men mistake hesitation for fairness, and thus the Devil runs rampant over the heads of good Christians!" Bidwell's eyes had a rapier glint and dared Matthew to disagree. "This world will be burnt to a cinder in another fifty years, the way Evil is allowed to prosper! We'll be barricading our doors and windows against Satan's soldiers! But we'll be fair about it, won't we, and therefore we'll leave a battering ram on our doorsteps!"

Matthew said, "You must have attended one of Preacher Jerusalem's speeches."

"Pah!" Bidwell waved a hand at him in disgust. "What do you know of the world? Much less than you think! Well, here's a laugh on you, clerk: your theory about Alan Johnstone is just as crippled as he is! He came to the house last night and showed us his knee!"

"He did?" Matthew looked to Woodward for confirmation.

The magistrate nodded and scratched a fresh mosquito bite on his gray-grizzled chin. "I saw the knee at close quarters. It would be impossible for Johnstone to be the man who stole your gold coin."

"Oh." Matthew's brow knitted. His pride had taken a blow, especially following Nicholas Paine's reasonable explanation of his career as a pirate-hunter and how he came to roll his tobacco in the Spanish fashion. Now Matthew felt himself adrift at sea. He said, "Well ..." but then he stopped, because there was nothing to be said.

"If I were half as smart as you think yourself to be," Bidwell said, "I could build ships in my sleep!"

Matthew didn't respond to this taunt, preferring instead to concentrate on keeping his injured shoulders from making contact with the seatback. At last Goode drew the carriage up in front of the mansion and Matthew was the first to step down. He then aided the magistrate, and in doing so discovered that Woodward was warm and clammy with fever. He also for the first time caught sight of the crusted wounds behind Woodward's left ear. "You've been bled."

"Twice. My throat is still pained, but my breathing is somewhat better."

"Ben's due to bleed him a third time this evening," Bidwell said as he descended from the carriage. "Before then, might I suggest that the magistrate attend to his studying?"

"I plan on it," Woodward said. "Matthew, Dr. Shields would have something to ease your discomfort. Do you wish to see him?"

"Uh . . . beg pardon, suh," Goode spoke up from the driver's seat. "I have an ointment to cool the sting some, if he cares to use it."

"That would be helpful." Matthew reasoned that a slave would indeed have an able remedy for a whip burn. "Thank you."

"Yes suh. I'll fetch it to the house directly I barn the carriage. Or if you please you can ride along with me."

"Goode, he doesn't care to visit the slave quarters!" Bidwell said sharply. "He'll wait for you in the house!"

"One moment." Matthew's hackles had risen at the idea of Bidwell telling him what he cared to do or not to do. "I'll come along."

"You don't want to go down there, boy! The place smells!"

"I am not so fragrant myself," Matthew reminded him, and then he climbed back up into the carriage. "I would like a warm bath after breakfast. Is that possible?"

"I'll arrange it for you," Bidwell agreed. "Do what you please, but if you go down there you'll regret it."

"Thank you for your consideration. Magistrate, might I suggest you return to bed as soon as convenient? You do need your rest. All right, Goode, I'm ready."

"Yes suh." Goode flicked the reins, said a quiet, "Giddup," and the team started off again.

Peace Street continued past Bidwell's mansion to the stable and the slave quarters, which occupied the plot of land between Fount Royal and the tidewater swamp. It interested Matthew that Bidwell had referred to the quarters as being "down there" but in fact the street never varied in its elevation. The stable itself was of handsome construction and had been freshly whitewashed, but in contrast the ramshackle, unpainted houses of the servants had an impermanent quality.

Peace Street passed through the village of shacks and ended, Matthew saw, in a sandy path that led across a belt of pines and moss-draped oaks to the watchman's tower. Up at the tower's summit, a man sat under a thatched roof facing out to sea, his feet resting on the railing. A more boring task, Matthew could not imagine. Yet in these times of pirate raids and with the Spanish territory so close, he understood the need for caution. Beyond the tower, the bit of land that Matthew was able to see—if indeed it could be called something so solid—looked to be waist-high grass that surely hid a morass of mud and swamp ponds.

Smoke hung low over the house chimneys. A strutting rooster, his hens in close attendance, flapped out of the carriage's way as Goode steered the team toward the stable, beside which was a split-rail fence that served as a corral for a half-dozen fine-looking horses. Presently Goode reined the team in at a water trough and dismounted. Matthew followed. "My house be there, suh," Goode said, as he aimed a finger at a structure that was neither better nor worse than the other shacks around it, but might have fit within Bidwell's banquet room with space to spare.

On the short walk, Matthew noted several small plots of cornstalks, beans, and turnips between the houses. A Negro a few years younger than Goode was busy chopping firewood, and he paused in his labor to stare as Goode led Matthew past. A lean woman with a blue scarf wrapped around her head had emerged from her house to scatter some dried corn for her chickens, and she too stared in open amazement.

"They got to looksee," Goode said, with a slight smile. "You doan' come here so much."

By you Matthew realized he meant the English, or possibly the larger meaning of white skins in general. From around a corner peeked a young girl, whom Matthew recognized as one of the house servants. As soon as their eyes met, she pulled herself out of view again. Goode stopped in front of his own door. "Suh, you can wait here as you please. I'll fetch the balm." He lifted the latch. "But you can step in, as you please." He pushed the door open and called into the house, "Visitah, May!" He started across the threshold but then paused; his ebony, fathomless eyes stared into Matthew's face, and Matthew could tell the old man was trying to make a decision of sorts. "What is it?" Matthew asked.

Goode seemed to have made up his mind; Matthew saw it, in a tightening of the jaw. "Suh? Would you favor me by steppin' inside?"

"Is something wrong?"

"No suh." He offered no further explanation, but stood waiting for Matthew to enter. Matthew decided there was more to this than hospitality. Therefore he walked into the house, and Goode entered behind him and shut the door.

"Who is that?" asked the heavyset woman who stood at the hearth. She had been stirring the contents of a cooking-pot that was placed in the hot ashes, but now the revolutions of the wooden spoon had ceased. Her eyes were deep-set and wary, her face crisscrossed with lines, under a coarse brown cloth scalp-wrapping.

"This be Mastuh Matthew Corbett," Goode said. "Mastuh Corbett, this be my wife May."

"Pleased to meet you," Matthew said, but the old woman didn't respond. She looked him head to toe, made a little windy sound with her lips, and returned to her labors at the pot.

"Ain't got on no shirt," she announced.

"Mastuh Corbett got hisself three lashes today. You 'member, I told you they was gon' whip him."

"Hm," May said, at the pittance of three whipstrikes.

"Will you set y'self here, suh?" Goode motioned toward a short bench that stood before a roughly constructed table, and Matthew accepted the invitation. Then, as Goode went to a shelf that held a number of wooden jars, Matthew took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. The examination did not take long, as the house only had the single room. A pallet with a thin mattress served as the bed, and apart from the bench and table the only other furnishings were a highbacked chair (which looked as if it had once been regal but was now sadly battered), a clay washbasin, a crate in which was folded some clothing, and a pair of lanterns. Matthew noted a large tortoise shell displayed on the wall above the hearth, and a burlap-wrapped object (the violin, of course) had its own shelf near the bed. Another shelf held a few wooden cups and platters. That seemed to be the end of the inventory of Goode's belongings.

Goode took one of the jars, opened it, and came around behind Matthew. "Suh, do you mind my fingers?"

"No."

"This'll sting some." Matthew winced as a cool liquid was applied to his stripes. The stinging sensation was quite bearable, considering what he'd just endured. Within a few seconds the stinging went away and he had the feeling that the potion was deadening his raw flesh. "Ain't too bad," Goode remarked. "Seen terrible worse."

"I appreciate this. It does soothe the pain."

"Pain," the woman said, as she stirred the pot. It had been spoken with an edge of mockery. "Ain't no pain in three lashes. Pain don't start 'til they gets to thirty."

"Now, now, keep that tongue still," Goode said. He finished painting the stripes and corked the jar. "Ought to do you, suh. Doubt you'll sleep so well tonight, though, 'cause whipburns get hotter 'fore they start to healin'." He walked back to the shelf and returned the jar to its proper place. "Pardon my speakin'," he said, "but Mastuh Bidwell don't care for you, do he?"

"No, he doesn't. The feeling, I have to say, is mutual."

"He thinks you're standin' up for Mistress Howarth, don't he?" Goode carefully lowered the burlap-wrapped violin from the shelf and began to unwind the cloth. "Pardon my speakin', but be you standin' up for her?"

"I have some questions concerning her."

"Questions?" Goode laid the wrapping aside. In the smoky yellow lanternlight, the violin took on a soft, buttery sheen. He spent a moment running his slim fingers up and down the neck. "Suh, can I ask a question of my own?"

"Yes."

"Well, it 'pears to me that Mistress Howarth's near bein' burnt. I don't know her so good, but one mornin' she picked up a bucket and helped Ginger carry water when Ginger 'as child-heavy."

"He don't know who Ginger be!" May said. "What're you goin' on for?"

"Ginger be May's sister," Goode explained. "Live right 'cross the way. Anyhows, it was a kind thing. You see, it's peculiar." Goode plucked a note, listened, and made an adjustment by tightening the string. "Why ain't no slaves heard nor seen nothin'." He plucked another string, listened and adjusted. "No, only them English seen things. An' y'know, that's kinda peculiar too."

"Peculiar? In what way?"

"Well suh, when this first start up we had us a good many tongues bein' spoke in Fount Royal. Had them Germans, had them Dutchmen too. They all gots scairt and gone, but nary a one of 'em seen or heard nothin' to mark Mistress Howarth. No suh, just them English." A third string was plucked, but he found this one satisfactory. He looked into Matthew's face. "See what I'm sayin', suh? My question be: how come Satan don't talk German nor Dutch and he don't talk to us darks neither?"

"I don't know," Matthew said, but it was a point worth consideration.

"Thought Satan knew ever' tongue there was," Goode went on. "Just peculiar, that's all." He finished tuning the violin and his fingers plucked a quick succession of notes. "Mastuh Bidwell don't care for you," he said, '"cause you askin' such questions. Mastuh Bidwell want to burn Mistress Howarth quick and be done with it, so's he can keep Fount Royal from dyin'. Pardon my spielin'."

"That's all right," Matthew said. He dared to try to put his shirt back on, but his shoulders were still too tender. "I know your master has ambitious plans."

"Yes suh, he do. Heard him talk 'bout bringin' in more darks to drain that swamp. Hard job to be done. All them skeeters and bitin' things, got gators and snakes out there too. Only darks can do that job, y'see. You English—pardon my speakin'—ain't got the backs for it. Used to I did, but I got old." Again, he played a fast flurry of notes. May poured some water from a bucket into the cooking-pot, and then she turned her efforts to a smaller pot that was brewing near the firewall. "Sure never thought I'd live to see such a world as this," Goode said quietly, as he caressed the strings. "Sixteen hundred and ninety-nine, and the cent'ry 'bout to turn!"

"Ain't got long," May offered. "World's gone be 'stroyed in fire come directly."

Goode smiled. "Maybe so, and maybe not. Could be 'stroyed in fire, could be a cent'ry of wonders."

"Fire," May said sharply. Matthew had the thought that this difference of opinion was a bone of contention between them. "Everythin' burnt and made new 'gain. That's the Lord's vow."

'"Spect it is," he agreed gently, displaying his gift of diplomacy. '"Spect it is."

Matthew decided it was time to be on his way. "Thank you again for the help." He stood up. "I do feel much—"

"Oh, not to be leavin' just yet!" Goode insisted. "Please favor me, suh! I brung you here to show you somethin' I think you might find a' interest." He put aside the violin and went once more to the shelf that held the wooden jars. When he chose the one next to the jar that had held the potion, May said with alarm in her voice, "What're you doin', John Goode?"

"Showin' him. I want him to see." This jar had a lid instead of a cork and Goode lifted it.

"No! They ain't to be seen!" On May's wrinkled face was an expression that Matthew could only define as terror. "Have you lost your mine?"

"It's all right," Goode said, calmly but firmly. "I done decided it." He looked at Matthew. "Suh, I believe you be a decent man. I been wantin' to let somebody see this, but . . . well, I was feared to." He peered into the jar, and then lifted his gaze back to Matthew. "Would you promise me, suh, that you will not speak to anyone about what I'm gon' show you?"

"I don't know that I can make such a promise," Matthew said. "What is it?"

"See? See?" May was wringing her hands. "All he's gon' do is steal 'em!"

"Hush!" Goode said. "He ain't gone steal 'em! Just calm y'-self, now!"

"Whatever they are, I do promise not to steal them." Matthew had spoken this directly to May, and now he sat back down on the bench again.

"He say!" May appeared close to tears.

"It's all right." Goode put his hand on his wife's shoulder. "I want him to see, 'cause it's a thing needs answerin' and I figure he would care to know, 'specially since he got thieved hisself." Goode came to the table and upended the jar in front of Matthew. As the items inside tumbled out, Matthew caught his breath. On the table before him were four objects: a broken shard of light blue pottery, a small and delicate silver spoon, a silver coin, and . . .

Matthew's hand went to the fourth item. He picked it up and held it for close examination.

It was a gold coin. At its center was a cross that separated the figures of two lions and two castles. The letters Charles II and Dei Grat were clearly visible around the rim.

At first he thought it was the coin that had been stolen from his room, but it took only a brief inspection to tell him that— though it certainly was Spanish gold—it was not the same coin. The stamping on this piece was in much fresher condition, and on the other side was an ornately engraved E and a faint but discernible date: 1675.

Matthew picked up the silver coin, which was obviously old and so worn that most of the stamping had been wiped clean. Still, there was the barest impression of a Dei Grat.

He looked up at Goode, who stood over him. "Where did these come from?"

"Turtle bellies," Goode said.

"Pardon?"

"Yes suh." Goode nodded. "They come from turtle bellies. The spoon and silver piece came out of one I caught last year. The blue clay came out of one I got . . . oh . . . must'a been two month ago."

"And the gold coin?"

"The first night you and the magistrate was here," Goode explained, "Mastuh Bidwell asked me to catch a turtle for your supper the next night. Well, I caught a big one. There's his shell hangin'. And that gold piece was in his belly when I cut it open."

"Hm," Matthew grunted. He turned the gold coin between his fingers. "You caught these turtles out of the spring?"

"The fount. Yes suh. Them turtles like to be eatin' the reeds, y'see."

Matthew put the coins down upon the table and picked up the silver spoon. It was tarnished dark brown and the stem was bent, but it seemed remarkably preserved to have spent any length of time in a turtle's stomach. "Very strange, isn't it?" he said.

"I thought so too, suh. When I found that gold piece, and hearin' that yours was thieved a few days after'ard . . . well, I didn't know what to think."

"I can understand." Matthew looked again at the gold coin's date, and then studied the fragment of blue pottery before he replaced it and the other items in the wooden jar. He noted that May appeared very much relieved. "And I do promise not to tell anyone. As far as I'm concerned, it's no one's business."

"Thank you, suh," she said gratefully.

Matthew stood up. "I have no idea why turtles should have such things in their bellies, but it is a question that begs an answer. Goode, if you catch a turtle and happen to find anything else, will you let me know?"

"I will, suh."

"All right. I'd best return to the house. No need taking the carriage up, I'll be glad to walk." He watched as Goode put the lid back on the jar and returned it to the shelf.

"Let me ask you a question now, and please answer truthfully: do you think Rachel Howarth is a witch?"

He responded without hesitation. "No suh, I don't."

"Then how do you account for the witnesses?"

"I can't, suh."

"That's my problem," Matthew confided. "Neither can I."

"I'll walk you out," Goode said. Matthew offered a goodbye to May, and then he and the old man left the house. On the walk back toward the stable, Goode shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown breeches and said quietly, "May's got it in her mind we're gon' run to the Florida country. Take them gold and silver pieces and light out some night. I let her think it, 'cause it eases her. But we're long done past our runnin' days." He looked at the muddy earth beneath his shoes. "Naw, I come over when I was a boy. First mastuh was Mastuh Cullough, in V'ginia. Seen eight children sold. Seen my brother whipped to death for kickin' a white man's dog. I seen my little daughter's back branded, and her beggin' me to make 'em stop. That's why I play that fiddle Mastuh Bidwell give me; it be the only sound keep me from hearin' her voice."

"I'm sorry," Matthew said.

"Why? Did you brand her? I ain't askin' nobody to be sorry. All I'm sayin' is, my wife needs to dream 'bout the Florida country, just like I need to play my music. Just like anybody needs anythin' to give 'em a reason to live. That's all. Suh," he added, remembering his place.

They had reached the stable. Matthew noticed that Goode's pace had slowed. It seemed to him that there was something else the slave wanted to express, but he was taking his time in constructing it. Then Goode cleared his throat and said in a low, wary voice, "I don't believe Mistress Howarth is a witch, suh, but that ain't to say not some strange goin's-on here'bouts."

"I would certainly agree."

"You may not know the half of it, suh." Goode stopped walking, and Matthew did the same. "I'm speakin' of the man who goes out to the swamp now and again, after it's long past dark."

Matthew recalled the figure he'd seen here in the slave quarters that night the lightning had been so fierce. "A man? Who is it?"

"Couldn't see his face. I heard the horses cuttin' up one night and come out here to ease 'em. On the way back, I seen a man walkin' out to the swamp. He was carryin' a lantern, but it weren't lit. Walkin' quick, he was, like he had somewheres to go in a hurry. Well, I was spelt by it so I followed him. He slip past the watchman there and go on out through them woods." Goode motioned toward the pines with a tilt of his head. "The man that Mastuh Bidwell has watchin' at night does poorly. I've had call to wake him up m'self come dawn."

"The man who went out to the swamp," Matthew said, much intrigued. "Did you find out what his business was?"

"Well suh, nobody with right business to do would go out there, seein' as how that's where the privy wagon gets carted to and dumped. And it's a dangerous place, too, full a' mucks and mires. But this man, he just kept on goin'. I did follow him a ways, though, but it's hard travel. I had to turn 'round and come on home 'fore I seen what he was up to."

"When was this?"

"Oh . . . three, four month past. But I seen him again, near two week ago."

"He walked out to the swamp again?"

"I seen him on his way back. Both Earlyboy and me seen him, 'bout run right into him as we come 'round a corner. Bullhead—he's Ginger's man—has got some cards. We was over at his house, playin' most the night, and that's why it was such a small hour. We seen the man walkin', but he didn't see us. This time he was carryin' a dark lantern and a bucket."

"A bucket," Matthew repeated.

"Yes suh. Must'a been sealed, though. It was swingin' back and forth, but nothing was spillin' out."

Matthew nodded. He'd remembered that he had also seen something in the man's possession that might have been a bucket.

"Earlyboy was scairt," Goode said. "Still is. He asked me if we'd seen the Devil, but I told him I thought it was just a man." He lifted his thick white eyebrows. "Was I right, suh?"

Matthew paused to consider it. Then he said thoughtfully, "Yes, I think you were. Though it might have been a man with some Devil in him."

"That could be any man under the sun of creation," Goode observed. "I swear I can't figure why anybody would go out to that swamp, particular at night. Ain't nothin' out there a'tall."

"There must be something of value. Whatever it is, it can be carried in a bucket." Matthew looked back toward the watch-tower for a moment; the watchman still had his feet up on the railing, and even now appeared to be sleeping. He doubted that anyone who wanted to get past at night would have much difficulty, especially if they weren't showing a light. Well, he felt in dire need of breakfast and a hot bath to wash off the gaol's filth. "Thank you again for the liniment," he told Goode.

"Yes suh, my pleasure. Luck to you."

"And you." Matthew turned away and walked along Peace Street, leaving the slave quarters behind. He had more things to think about now, and less time to sort them all out if indeed they could be sorted. He felt that someone—perhaps more than one person—had woven a tangled web of murder and deceits in this struggling, rough-hewn town, and had gone to great and inexplicable lengths to paint Rachel as the servant of Satan. But for what purpose? Why would anyone go to such labors to manufacture a case of witchcraft against her? It made no sense.

But then again, it must make sense—somehow, to someone.

And it was up to him to use his mind and instincts to uncover the sense of it, because if he did not—and very soon—then he could bid Rachel farewell at the burning pyre.

Who was the man who ventured at night into the swamp, carrying a dark lantern and a bucket? Why was a coin of Spanish gold in the belly of a turtle? And Goode's question: How come Satan don't talk German nor Dutch and he don't talk to us darks neither?

Mysteries within mysteries, Matthew thought. Unravelling them would be a task fit for a far greater champion than he—but he was all Rachel had. If he did not answer these questions, then who would? The answer to that was simple: no one.

twenty-one

THE WARM BATH—taken in a tub room beside the kitchen—had turned out to be chilly and his shaving razor had nicked his chin, but otherwise Matthew found himself to be invigorated as he dressed in clean clothes. He had consumed a breakfast of eggs, sausage, and salted ham, put away two cups of tea and a jolt of rum, and so was eager to get out and about as the morning progressed.

His knock on the magistrate's door was not answered, but the door was unlatched. When he looked in, he saw Woodward asleep with the box of court papers beside him on the bed. The magistrate had obviously begun reading through them, as there were some papers lying in disarray near his right hand, but his illness had stolen him away. Matthew quietly entered the room and stood at the bedside, staring at Woodward's pallid yellow-tinged face.

The magistrate's mouth was open. Even in sleep he suffered, for his breathing was a harsh, painful wheeze. Matthew saw the brown stains on the pillowcase under his left ear. The room had a thick, sickly smell, an odor of dried blood and wet pus and . . . death? Matthew thought.

Instantly his mind recoiled. Such a thought should not be allowed. No, no, neither allowed nor dwelt upon! He looked down at the scuffed floorboards for a moment, listening to the magistrate's struggle with the very air.

At the orphanage, Matthew had seen boys grow sick and wither away in such a fashion. He suspected Woodward's illness might have begun with the cold rain that had pelted them on their flight from Shawcombe's tavern, the thought of which made him again damn that murderous villain to the innermost fires of Hell. And now Matthew was tormented by worry, because the magistrate's condition was only likely to worsen if he was not soon gotten back to Charles Town; he presumed Dr. Shields knew what he was doing—he presumed—but by the doctor's own admission the town of Fount Royal and its cemetery were becoming one and the same. Also, Matthew kept thinking about something the magistrate had said concerning Dr. Shields: What prompted him to leave what was probably a well-established urban practise for a task of extreme hardship in a frontier village?

What, indeed?

Woodward made a noise, a combination of a whisper and a groan. 'Ann," he said.

Matthew lifted his gaze to the man's face, which appeared fragile as bone china in the light of the room's single lamp.

"Ann," Woodward spoke again. His head pressed back against the pillow. "Ohhhhhh." It was an exclamation of heart-wrenching agony. "... hurting . . . he's hurting, Ann . . . hurting . . ." The magistrate's voice dwindled away, and his body relaxed once again as he fell into a deeper and more merciful realm of sleep.

Carefully Matthew came around the bed and straightened the papers into a neat stack, which he left within reach of Woodward's right hand.

"Sir? Are ye in need of anythin'?" Matthew looked toward the door. Mrs. Nettles stood on the threshold, and had spoken quietly so as not to disturb the sleeper. He shook his head.

"Very well, sir." She started to withdraw, but Matthew said, "A moment, please," and followed her out into the hallway after closing the door behind him.

"Let me say I did not mean to accuse you of stealing my coin," he told her. "I was only pointing out that a woman might have done the job as equally as a man."

"You mean, a woman a' my size, do ye not?" Mrs. Nettles's ebony eyes bored holes through him.

"Yes, that's exactly right."

"Well, I did nae steal it, so think what ye please. Now, if you'll pardon me, I ha' work to do." She turned away and walked toward the stairs.

"As do I," Matthew said. "The work of proving Rachel Howarth innocent."

Mrs. Nettles halted in her advance. She looked back at him, her face mirroring a confusion of amazement and suspicion.

"That's right," Matthew assured her. "I believe Madam Howarth to be innocent and I plan on proving it so."

"Proviri it? How?"

"It would be improper for me to say, but I thought you might like to know my intentions. Might I now ask you a question?" She made no response, but neither did she walk away. "I doubt much goes on here that escapes your attention," he said. "I'm speaking of Fount Royal as well as this house. You certainly heard the tales concerning Madam Howarth's supposed witchcraft. Why is it, then, that you so adamantly refused to believe her to be a witch, when the majority of the citizens are convinced she is?"

Mrs. Nettles glanced toward the stairs, marking that no one was close enough to overhear, before she offered a guarded reply. "I ha' seen the evil done by misguided men, sir. I saw it takin' shape here, long ere Mistress Howarth was accused. Oh yes sir, it was a thing waitin' to happen. After the rev'rend was laid low, it was bound an' sealed."

"You mean that a scapegoat was found for the murder?"

"Aye. Had to be Mistress Howarth, y'see. Had to be someone different—someone who was nae welcomed here. The fact that she's dark-skinned and near a Spaniard ... it jus' had to be her accused of such crimes. And whoever murdered the rev'rend killed Mr. Howarth, too, and hid those poppets in the house to make sure Mistress Howarth fell to blame. I nae care what Cara Grunewald said about visions from God and th' like. She was ha' crazy and the other ha' dumb. How the tricks were done, I canna' say, but there's a true fox in our coop. Do y'see, sir?"

"I do," Matthew said, "but I'd still like to know why you believe Rachel to be innocent."

The woman's mouth was set in a tight, grim line. Again, she checked the staircase before she spoke. "I had an elder sister by the name a' Jane. She married a man named Merritt and come over here, settled in the town a' Hampton, in the Massachusetts colony. Jane was a wonderful spinner. She could sit at the wheel and spin most anythin'. She could read the weather by the clouds, and foretold storms by the birds. She took to bein' a midwife, as well, after Mr. Merritt died of fever. Well, they hanged her in 1680 up there in Hampton, for bein' a witch an' spellin' a woman to give birth to a Devil's baby. So they said. Jane's own son—my nephew—was accused of evils and sent to prison in Boston, and he passed away there a year later. I've tried to find their graves, but no one knows where they're lyin'. No one cares where they're lyin'. You know what my sister's great sin was, sir?" Matthew said nothing, but simply waited.

"She was different, do y'see?" Mrs. Nettles said. "Her readin' of the clouds, her spinnin', and her midwifery made her different. In Hampton they put her neck in a noose for it, and when our father read the letters and found out how she'd died, he fell sick too. Our mother and me worked the farm, best we could. He got better, and he lived another four year, but I canna' say I ever saw him smile ag'in, 'cause Jane's hangin' was always there in that house. It was always there that she had been killed as a witch, when we all knew she had a sweet, Christian soul. But who was there to defend her, sir? Who was there to be her champion of justice?" She shook her head, a bitter smile pinching her mouth.

"Nae, not a single man nor woman stood up for her, for they must'a feared the same thing as we fear in this town: anyone who speaks up in defense must be also bewitched and fit for the hangin' tree. Yes sir, he knows that, too." Mrs. Nettles again stared through Matthew with fierce intensity. "The fox, I mean. He knows what happened in Salem, and in a dozen other towns. No one's gonna speak out for Mistress Howarth, for fear of their own necks. They'd rather quit this town and drag a guilty shadow. I'd quit it m'self, if I had the courage to turn my back on Mr. Bidwell's coin . . . but 1 do not, and so there you have it."

"The witnesses insist that what they've seen is neither dream nor phantasm," Matthew said. "How would you account for that?"

"If I could account for it—and could prove it—I would make sure it was brought to Mr. Bidwell's attention."

"Exactly what I'm trying to do. I understand that Rachel was not well liked here, and was forced away from the church, but can you think of anyone who might have held such a grudge against her that they would wish to paint her as a witch?"

"No sir, I canna'. As I say, there were plenty who disliked her for bein' dark and near Spaniard. Disliked her for bein' a handsome woman, too. But no one I can think of who had that much hate in 'em."

"What about Mr. Howarth?" Matthew asked. "Did he have enemies?"

"A few, but as far as I know they've all either died or left town."

"And Reverend Grove? Did anyone display ill feelings toward him?"

"No one," Mrs. Nettles said flatly. "The rev'rend and his wife were fine people. He was a smart man, too. If he was still alive, he'd be the first to defend Mistress Howarth and that's the truth."

"I wish he were alive. I'd much rather Reverend Grove calm the crowd than Exodus Jerusalem work them into a frenzy."

"Yes sir, he's a right loose cannon," Mrs. Nettles agreed. "May I ask if I should set a plate for you at the midday meal?"

"No, it's not necessary. I have some places to go. But would you please look in on the magistrate from time to time?"

"Yes sir." She glanced quickly toward the closed door. "I'm feared he's doin' poorly."

"I know. All I can hope is that Dr. Shields tends him adequately until we can return to Charles Town, and that he doesn't grow any worse."

"I ha' seen this sickness before, sir," she said, after which she was silent but Matthew grasped what was left unspoken.

"I'll return in the afternoon," he told her, and then he walked by Mrs. Nettles and descended the stairs.

The day continued gloomy, befitting Matthew's state of mind. He trudged past the spring on his way to the conjunction of streets, where he turned west onto Industry. A sharp eye had to be kept ready for the blacksmith, but Matthew put Hazelton's property behind him without incident. He did, however, receive a generous spattering of mud from the wheels of a wagon that creaked past, freighted with the belongings of a family—father, mother, three small children—who evidently had chosen this as the day to abandon Fount Royal.

Indeed, the town under this murky gray sky appeared all but deserted, with only a few citizens in evidence. Matthew saw on both sides of Industry Street the fallow fields and forlorn dwellings that were the results of wretched weather, ill fate, and the fear of witchcraft. It seemed to him that the further he ventured along Industry, in the direction of the orchards and farmland that should have been the pride of Fount Royal, the worse became the sense of desolation and futility. Piles of animal manure littered the street, among them more than a few nuggets of human waste as well. Matthew saw the wagon and campsite of Exodus Jerusalem but the preacher was not in view. When Matthew came upon the carcass of a pig, its bulk having been gnawed open and the innards being ravaged by a couple of desperate-looking mongrels, he thought that the days of Fount Royal were numbered—no matter what Bidwell did to save the place—simply because the lethargy of the doomed had settled here like a funeral shroud.

He did spy an elderly man who was outside his barn lathering a saddle, and from him he inquired as to the home of Martin Adams. "House is up the way. Got blue shutters," the aged gent answered. Then, "Seen you take the lash this mornin'. You done good not to holler. When's that witch gonna burn?"

"The magistrate is debating," Matthew said, starting to move along.

"Hope it's in a day or two. I'll be there, you can mark it!"

Matthew kept going. The very next house—whitewashed but losing its paint in large, ugly splotches—looked to be long vacant and its front door was partway open but all the shutters sealed. Matthew suspected this was the Hamilton place, where Violet had experienced her encounter. Three more houses, and there stood the one with blue shutters. He walked to the door and knocked.

When the door was opened, Violet herself stood before him. Her eyes widened and she started to retreat but Matthew said, "Hello, Violet. May I speak with you?"

"No sir," she said, obviously overcome by his presence and the memory it stirred. "I have to go, sir." She made a motion to close the door in his face.

"Please." Matthew put his hand against the door. "Just one moment."

"Who is that?" came a woman's rather shrill voice from within. "Violet, who's there?"

"The man who asked me questions, Mama!" Almost at once Violet was pulled aside none too gently and a woman who was as thin and rawboned as her husband stepped upon the threshold. Constance Adams wore a drab brown dress and white bonnet, a stained and frayed apron, and held a broom. She was older than her husband, possibly in her late thirties, and might have been a handsome woman but for the length of her pointed chin and the unrestrained anger in her pale blue eyes.

"What do you want?" she snapped, as if biting off a piece of beef jerky.

"Pardon my intrusion," he said. "I wanted to ask your daughter another question pertaining to—"

"No," she interrupted. "Violet's answered enough questions.

That woman is a curse and a plague on us, and I wish her dead. Now go away!"

Matthew kept his hand on the door. "One question," he said firmly. He saw the little girl standing behind her mother, about to bolt like a scared deer. "Violet told me that in the Hamilton house she heard the voice of a man singing. I asked her to think about it further, and try to remember what she heard."

"You're painin' her, don't you see that? All these questions are like to make her head split open, she's hurtin' so bad!"

"Mama?" Violet said, close to tears. "Don't yell, Mama!"

"Hush!" The woman laid the broom's handle against Matthew's chest. "Violet can't sleep at night, her head aches so! Dr. Shields can't even help her! All this thinkin' and remem-berin' of such evil things is drivin' us all to madness!"

"I can understand your difficulty, but I have to—"

"You don't have to do nothin' but turn around and go!" she said, all but shouting. "If the witch had been put to death three month past, this town would be all right, but look at it now! She's near killed it, just like she killed the reverend and her own husband! Just like she's killed Sarah Davis and James Lathrop, Giles Geddy and Dorcas Chester and all the rest of 'em laid down in them graves! And now she's tryin' to kill my Violet by a knife to the brains!" Spittle had spewed from the woman's mouth and glistened on her chin. The expression in her eyes, wild to begin with, now had taken on a frightening fever. "I told 'em she was no good! I told 'em all along, but they didn't care to hear me! No, they let her walk in that church, just walk in and her a black nigger from Hell!"

"Mama! Mama!" Violet was crying, and had clasped her hands to her ears.

"She will damn us all before she's done!" Constance Adams continued to rave, her voice now risen to a dreadful, piercing pitch. "I've begged him to leave! By Christ I've begged him, but he says we ain't runnin'! She's tainted his mind, too, and she'll have him dead a'fore long!"

Matthew presumed she meant her husband. It was obvious that the woman was in danger of losing her last tattered rag of sanity. And obvious as well that no good was being done here. He backed away from the door as the distraught wretch went on jabbering, "She killed Phillip Beale! Choked him on blood in his sleep! I told 'em to run her out of this town! I told 'em she was evil, and Abby Hamilton knew it too! Lord God protect and save us! Burn her, for the love of Almighty God, burn her!" The door slammed shut, and from beyond it Matthew heard Constance Adams wailing like an injured, terrified animal caught in a cage.

He turned around and walked away from the house, going eastward along Industry Street. His heart was pounding, his stomach seemingly twisted into a knot by his encounter with the madwoman. He understood, though, the power of fear to distort and destroy. Perhaps Constance Adams had been long balanced on a precarious edge, and this situation had pushed her over. In any case, he could expect no further help from woman or child. This he found extremely unfortunate, because the matter of a man's singing voice in the demon-inhabited Hamilton house was so strange that he felt it might have great bearing on the truth.

In a few moments he came once again to the house itself. There was nothing particularly forbidding about it, other than the fact that it had the air of abandonment, but Matthew thought that on this grim day it was like an ugly fist clenched around a secret. It was made of the same pine timbers as the other houses and was the same small size—two or three rooms, at the most—yet this house was indeed different for it had been chosen, if one believed the child, as the site of Satan's warning against the citizens of Fount Royal.

He decided to see the interior for himself, and particularly find the back room from whence the man's voice had come. The door was already open wide enough to admit him, and Matthew recalled Violet saying that the door was open when she entered as well. He doubted that anyone had set foot here since the child's experience, and so he thought there might be some evidence of interest. Possibly the imp's candle, or the chair upon which Satan had been sitting?

Matthew approached the door, not without some trepidation. Because all the shutters were closed, the interior was as dark as the gaol at midnight. He was greeted at the threshold by a damp, putrid, altogether unsavory odor. He called on the sternest stuff he had and entered the house.

His first task was to make his way to the nearest window and open the shutters wide, which he did. Now, with the aid of feeble though welcome light, his courage grew. He went to the other window and opened those shutters also, allowing God's illumination into the refuge of Satan.

When he turned to survey the room in which he stood, there were three things he noted in rapid succession: the Hamil-tons had evidently carried everything away in a wagon, for there was not a stick of furniture remaining; the floor was littered with what appeared to be dog droppings, some of them relatively fresh; and a skeleton lay in the corner.

The skeleton, of course, secured his attention. Matthew approached it for a closer inspection.

It had been at one time a medium-sized dog, obviously aged because its teeth were so worn down. The skeleton lay on its right side on a mat of its own grayish-brown hair, its bones picked clean by the flies that even now buzzed around the fresher mounds of excrement. The smell in this corner of the room was not pleasant, as the boards beneath the dead animal had been stained by the liquids of decay. Matthew wondered how long this carcass had been lying here, being whittled down to its foundations by scavenging insects.

He remembered what Martin Adams had said before Violet had related her story: This thing she is 'bout to tell you happent near three week ago.

Surely, to have been so completely consumed, the dead dog had been lying in this room for at least that long, he thought. The smell must have been sickening. It must have struck a person in the face as soon as that threshold was crossed, and indeed must have been quite apparent even before the entry was reached. Yet it had not stopped Violet Adams from entering the house, and indeed she'd not noticed it even when she was well within.

One might say the Devil had masked the odor, or that Violet had been too entranced to let it wrinkle her nose, but still ... Of course, the dog could have died here two weeks ago rather than three. But still. . .

Matthew turned his mind to the fact that there were no furnishings in the room. No chair, no bench, nothing upon which the Devil might have been sitting with the imp upon his knee. Of course Satan might have conjured a chair from thin air, but still. . .

He heard a noise from the rear of the house.

It was a slight sound, just a whisper of a noise, but it was enough to make the small hairs stir on the back of his neck. He stood very still, his mouth gone dry. He stared into the darkness that held reign back there, beyond the spill of meager light.

The sound—whatever it was—was not repeated. Matthew thought it had been the creaking of a board, or the slow shifting of something that would not be seen. He waited, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes trying to pierce the gloom. A fly landed on his forehead, and he quickly brushed it away.

The room back there. From where the child had said she'd heard a man's voice, singing.

Matthew was terrified by the thought of what might be lurking just beyond his range of vision. Or, indeed, lying in wait for him. But, God help him, he had come to this house to ascertain the truth and therefore he must go back into that dark room, for who would go if he would not?

Still, his feet had grown roots. He looked around for a weapon of some kind—of any kind—but found nothing. No, that was not quite correct: amid the ashes of the hearth he saw two items that had been left by the Hamiltons—a broken clay tankard and a small iron cooking pot. He picked up the pot, which had been so used its bottom was burned black, and again faced the gathered dark.

Matthew would have traded two teeth for a sword and a lantern, but a cooking pot was at least substantial enough to strike a blow with, if need be. He sincerely hoped there would be no need. And now came the test of his own mettle. To go or not to go, that was the question. If he slinked out, would it not be an admittance that the Devil really might be back in that room awaiting him? And had he heard a noise, or had it been only his fevered imagination?

It could have been a rat, of course. Yes, a rat. That was all.

He took one step toward the dark and stopped, listening. There was no sound other than the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. One more step, and then another. He could now make out an open doorway, beyond which might have been a bottomless pit.

Slowly, slowly, Matthew approached the room and winced as his weight made a board groan. He peered inside, all his senses alert for any hint of motion or threat of attack from a spectral fiend. He saw the barest crack of daylight back there: the seam of closed shutters.

Again his courage faltered. To have a view of the room meant he must cross it and unlatch the shutters. A cold hand might grip the back of his neck before he could get there.

No, it was ridiculous! he thought. His very reticence here was giving weight to the notion—absurd, in his belief—that indeed Satan had visited this house and might still be a presence in its darkness. The longer he tarried on the threshold, the more claws and teeth Satan bared. There was nothing to do but enter the room, go straight to the shutters, and throw them open.

And, of course, while doing so keep a tight grip on the iron pot.

Matthew took as much of a deep breath as he could stand, as the smell was less than fragrant. Then he gritted his teeth and walked into the room.

He felt the darkness take him. His spine crawling, he went the ten feet or so to the opposite wall, found the shutter latch, and lifted it with a quick—one might say frantic—motion. As he opened the shutters the blessed gray light rushed in, and never had he been so glad to see a skyful of ugly clouds.

At the instant of Matthew's relief, a groan came from behind him that rose in volume and power and quite near sent him hurtling through the window. This sound of a vengeful demon all but lifted Matthew out of his shoes. He twisted around with his face frozen into a terrified rictus and the iron pot lifted to strike a blow against a horned skull.

It was difficult to say who was more frightened, the wild-eyed young man or the wild-eyed brown mongrel that cowered in a corner. But it was definitely Matthew's fear that passed first, as directly he saw on the floor the six pups that had been suckling at their mother's swollen teats. He gave a reflexive, strangled laugh, though his testicles were yet to descend from the height they had risen.

The bitch was trembling, but now she began to show her teeth and mutter a growl, therefore Matthew felt it prudent to take his leave. He had a look around the room, which was quite bare except for the animals, their excrement, and a couple of tattered chicken carcasses. He lowered the cooking pot and backed out, and was on his way to the door when the master of the house suddenly arrived.

It was one of the dogs that had been pulling the entrails from the dead pig in the street. It came in bloody-mouthed, carrying between its jaws a hunk of something dark red and dripping. As soon as its glinting eyes took sight of Matthew, the animal dropped its gory prize and crouched down in an attitude of attack, its husky growl indicating that Matthew had intruded upon a territory off-limits to the humans of Fount Royal. The beast was about to jump for Matthew's throat, that much was dangerously clear. Matthew wasted no time in making his decision; he flung the pot to the floor in front of the dog, causing it to leap backward and issue a fusillade of indignant barks, and then he immediately turned to the nearest window, climbed up over the sill, and jumped out.

Up on his feet again, he made haste in an easterly direction.

He glanced back, but the dog did not follow. Matthew kept his pace brisk until he'd left the Hamilton house well in his wake, and then he stopped to take account of a scraped right shin and a number of splinters in the palm of his right hand. Otherwise, he was none the worse for his venture.

As he continued to walk toward the conjunction of streets, he reflected on the meaning of this experience. Possibly the dogs had belonged to the Hamiltons and had been left behind months ago, or possibly they were curs abandoned by some other fleeing family. The question was: how long had the dogs been living there? More or less than three weeks? Was it reasonable to assume they had been there when Violet Adams had entered the house?

If she had entered the house. There had been no chair. No candle or candlestick. Bidwell and Exodus Jerusalem would say that those items had been spectral and of course had vanished with the demons, but Matthew needed to see them to believe they had been there at all. And what of the dog's skeleton? The decaying carcass would have filled that room with a repulsive odor, yet Violet had not noticed it nor been hesitant in entering the house. Matthew doubted very much if he would have gone into a deserted house that had the smell of death wafting from its front door, no matter who'd been calling to him. Therefore, what to make of the child's testimony?

Had she really been in there, or not? The strangest thing about this was that, as far as he could tell, Violet—like Buckner and Garrick—was not lying. She fervently—and fearfully—believed in the truth of what she'd witnessed. It was her truth, perhaps, just as what had happened to Buckner and Garrick were truths to them . . . but was it the whole and actual truth?

But what kind of truth was it, that might be both true and false at the same time?

He felt he was venturing onto philosophical ground, worthy of intense thought and debate yet not very helpful to Rachel's cause. He'd been planning on asking directions to Dr. Shields's infirmary, in order to more thoroughly understand the magistrate's illness, but somehow he did not approach the next person he saw, which was a man mending a wagon's wheel, nor did he approach the next two men who were standing together smoking pipes and conversing. Perhaps he didn't wish to answer questions concerning the magistrate's health or the fate of the witch, but in any case he kept walking from Industry Street onto Truth Street and therefore in the direction of where he knew he'd been heading all along: the gaol.

The door was still left unsecured. The sight of the pillory standing beside the gaol did nothing for his fond memories of this morning, yet he realized—and would be loath to admit it to anyone, especially Bidwell or the magistrate—that he missed Rachel's presence. And why was that? He asked himself that question, as he stood just outside the door.

Because she needed him. That was it, in an acorn's shell.

He went inside. A lantern burned and the roof's hatch had been opened, courtesy of Mr. Green, therefore the gloom had been somewhat conquered. Upon seeing who her visitor was, Rachel stood up from the bench and pushed the hood of her coarse cloak back from her face. She allowed as much of a smile as she was able to muster—so feeble it was hardly worth the effort—and she came to the bars to meet him.

He approached her cell. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to explain his return. So he was relieved when Rachel spoke first, "I heard the whip strike. Are you all right?"

"I am."

"It sounded painful."

He felt suddenly very shy in her company. He didn't know whether to look at the floor or into Rachel's eyes, which caught the yellow lamplight and gleamed like gold coins. Though her smile had been weak, her eyes still held remarkable strength, and Matthew had the sensation that she could see through his frame of flesh and bones, into the depths of his guarded soul. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. What she might see there, he knew, was his own desire to be needed, which had always been true in his relationship with the magistrate but was now a bright, hot bonfire. It was that he had seen her naked, he thought: not the moment of her being physically unclothed, but the moment in which she had exposed her own need and reached for his hand through the bars to seek comfort.

He'd realized he was all the hope she had left in the world. Whatever aid and comfort would be given to her for the rest of her short days, it would come from him. How could he banish her from his mind and soul? Woodward was in dire need as well, but he had the care of Dr. Shields. This woman—this beautiful, tragic woman standing before him—had no one on earth to care for her but himself.

"Has Green brought your meal yet?" he asked.

"I've just now finished it."

"Do you need fresh water? I could go fetch you some."

"No," she said. "I have enough water. But thank you."

Matthew looked around at the dirty hovel. "This place should be swept out and fresh straw laid down. It's abysmal that you should have to endure such filth."

"I imagine it's a late hour for that," she replied. "May I ask how goes the magistrate's deliberations?"

"He has issued no word yet."

"I know there can be no other decree but that of guilty," she said. "The evidence against me is too strong, particularly after what the child said. I know also I didn't help myself by violating the Bible, but I lost my senses. So . . . Bidwell will have his witch-burning before long." There was pain in her face, but she lifted her chin. "When the time comes, I shall be ready. I will have made my preparations. When I am led out of this place I will be glad, because I know that though I am banished from earth I shall be received in Heaven."

Matthew started to protest her surrender, but words failed him.

"I am very, very tired," Rachel said quietly. She pressed the fingers of her right hand to her forehead and closed her eyes for a few seconds. "I will be ready to fly this cage," she said. "I did love my husband. But I have so long felt alone . . . that death must be better." Her eyes opened, and she lowered her hand. "Will you attend it?"

Matthew realized what she meant. "No," he said.

"Will I be buried near my husband? Or somewhere else?"

There was no use in telling her anything but the truth. "Probably outside the town."

"I thought as much. They won't behead me, will they? I mean . . . after I'm burned, will my body be violated?"

"No." He would make sure not even a fingerbone was cleaved off to be shown for two pence at Van Gundy's tavern. Of course, what some graverobber did to her skeleton after he and Woodward had departed was beyond his control and beyond his wish to think about.

Rachel's expression of concern told Matthew this thought had entered her mind as well, but she didn't give it voice. She said, "I'll have only one regret: that whoever murdered Daniel and Reverend Grove will never be brought to justice. That's not fair, is it?"

"No, it certainly is not."

"But by then I won't care, will I?" She looked up at the clouded sky through the roof hatch. "I thought—I hoped—I would die of old age, in bed in my own home. I never dreamed my life would end like this, and that I'd not even be allowed to lie beside my husband! That's not fair either, is it?" She breathed in and let go a long sigh, and finally she lowered her gaze, her mouth drawn into a tight line.

The gaol's door opened, and instantly upon seeing who had arrived Rachel stepped back from the bars.

"Ah ha!" Exodus Jerusalem tilted his head to one side, smiling slyly. "What doth go on here?"

Matthew turned to confront him. "May I ask what your business is?"

"Whatever I do, wherever I goeth, 'tis the business of my Lord God." Jerusalem, clad in his black tricorn and black suit, came forward within an arm's length of Matthew. "I should wager thy business doth not be so holy."

"Your presence is not wanted here, sir."

"Oh, I am sure of that. But I hath come to speak to the witch, not to her cock-a-doodler."

Matthew felt the blood burn in his cheeks. "I don't think Madam Howarth has anything to say to you."

"She might, as without my influence her tongue should be forever silent." The preacher directed his next statement to Rachel: "Witch Howarth, thy hourglass is near empty. I have heard it said the tree hath been selected from which thy stake shall be cut. Even now, the axes are being sharpened. I sincerely hope thou hast given some thought to the offer I made thee on my last visit."

"What, the offer to be your travelling doxy?" Rachel asked sharply.

"To be my travelling disciple," he answered, his voice a smooth adagio, so leisurely that Matthew felt sure Jerusalem had proposed this arrangement so many times it was second nature. Or perhaps first nature. "And companion in study and prayer," Jerusalem added.

"The study of sin and prayer that you find another woman whom you can pluck from a gaol?" On Rachel's face was an expression of sheer disgust that might have curdled a pail of milk. "I would rather kiss the flames."

"Thy wish shall become reality," Jerusalem said. "And thy dark beauty shall be burnt from thy skull and crushed beneath the foot of God, and where thou dost lie the beasts shall come and tear thy very bones asunder."

The anger was rising up in Matthew like a floodtide. "I wish you to leave."

"Boy, this a public place, and I have just as much right to enter it as thyself." His eyes narrowed. "At least I entered here to bring salvation to the witch, not to receive her vile blessings."

"Madam Howarth and I are both aware of your purpose."

"Oh, thou and the witch are coupled now, is that it? Yes, I knew it was only a matter of time." He lifted his right hand and inspected his fingernails. "I hath seen witches at work before. I hath seen them promise all manner of pleasures to young boys. Tell me this, then: how did she propose thou should ride her? From the north or the south?"

Matthew swung at him. It was so fast he hardly knew what he was doing, but the blood roared in his ears and his right fist came up and cracked across the preacher's prominent jaw. Jerusalem staggered back two steps but found his balance; he blinked, touched his lower lip, and then regarded the smear of crimson on his fingertips. Instead of offering a wounded and angry countenance, as Matthew had thought he would, the preacher only smiled, but there was some wicked triumph in it. "Thou nicked me, boy. Yet I think I drew first blood."

"I should apologize, but I will not." Matthew rubbed his stinging knuckles.

"Oh, don't apologize! This action speaks for itself, and therefore should be reported to thy master."

"As you please. The magistrate trusts my judgment."

"Really?" Jerusalem's smile broadened. He licked his injured lip. "What shall Woodward say, upon report that his clerk was caught in intimate conversation with the witch, and that his clerk is so bewildered in the mind that he hath struck a proper man of God? And look here! 'Tis the damage to prove it!"

"Tell what you like, then." Matthew feigned indifference, but he knew this would not go over very well with the magistrate.

"When a right Christian boy is entranced by a witch, who knoweth where such actions may lead? Thou may find thyself sharing the fire with her, and thereafter thou may fornicate in Hell to thy eternal delight."

Matthew shouted, "Get out! By God, I'll strike you again!"

"And blasphemous as well!" Jerusalem crowed. "This is a sorry day for thee, that I can promise!" His gaze slid toward Rachel. "Then burn, witch!" His voice, at the fullest of its power, seemed to shake the walls. "I offered thee salvation, and thou hast spurned the last hope of a Godly life! Yes, burn, and call upon me with thy last tortured breath but thou—"

Rachel reached to the floor. "Move!" she told Matthew, who saw what she had picked up and so dodged the oncoming deluge.

"—shall call in vain, for Exodus Jerusalem shall not ans— ohhhhh!" he bellowed, as Rachel threw the contents of her waste bucket through the bars at him, and he danced backward to avoid as much as possible a meeting between the sacred and the profane. For the most part he was lucky, but his shoes received a washing.

Matthew couldn't help it; he burst out laughing at the preacher's whirligigging, and thus called upon himself Jerusalem's blackest regards.

"You'll be damned too, you young bastard!" It was amazing how a bucket of pee could knock the thees and thous out of a man. "I'll call the wrath of Heaven down on both your heads!"

"Call away, then!" Rachel said. "But do it somewhere else!"

Matthew was still grinning. Then he saw a fleeting look in Jerusalem's eyes that should only be described as terror; in that moment he realized that ridicule was the sharpest sword that could pierce the preacher's swollen pride, and thereafter Jerusalem spun around and fled the gaol like a cat with a burning tail.

Rachel threw the emptied bucket aside and viewed the wet floor. "Mr. Green will have a few choice words to say about this, I'm sure."

Matthew's grin faded away, as did the hilarity that had for a brief time lightened his soul. "I'll tell the magistrate what happened."

"Jerusalem will be there before you." She sank down on her bench. "You will have some explaining to do."

"I'll take care of it."

"The magistrate won't understand why you came here. I don't fully understand why, either."

"I wished to see you," he said, before he could ponder his choice of words.

"Why? Your business is finished here, is it not?"

"Magistrate Woodward's business is finished," he corrected. "I intend to continue working at this puzzle."

"I see. Is that what I've become, then? A puzzle to be worked at?"

"Not entirely."

Rachel looked at him, but said nothing for a stretch of time. Then she spoke in a quiet voice, "Are you becoming interested in me?"

"Yes." He had to pause to swallow. "In your situation, I mean to say."

"I'm not speaking of my situation, Matthew. I mean: are you interested in me?" He didn't know what to say, therefore he did not answer.

Rachel sighed and stared at the floor. "I am flattered," she said. "Honestly. You are a bright and kind young man. But . . . though you're twenty and I am twenty-six, I am fifty years older than you. My heart is used up, Matthew. Can you understand that?"

Again, words failed him. He had never in his life felt so confused, timid, and utterly strange, as if his powers of self-control had melted away like a lump of butter set on a forge. He might have preferred three more lashes than wearing this simpleton's suit.

"As I said, I will be ready to die when the time comes," Rachel continued. "It will come soon, I know. I thank you for your help and care . . . but please don't make my death any more difficult than it has to be." She sat for a moment, her hands clasped together in her lap, and then she lifted her head. "How is the magistrate's health?"

Matthew forced himself to speak. "Not well. I was on my way to see Dr. Shields. Where is the infirmary from here?"

"On Harmony Street, toward the gate."

Matthew knew it was time to go. His presence seemed to be sinking Rachel into deeper gloom. "I won't give up," he vowed.

"Give what up?"

"Trying to find an answer. To the puzzle. I won't give up, because . . ." He shrugged. "I can't."

"Thank you," she replied. "I think—if you ever do find an answer—it will come much too late to save my life, but I thank you just the same."

He went to the door, where he felt the need to look back at Rachel once again. He saw her lift her hood over her head and face, as if to block out everything possible of this treacherous world.

"Goodbye," he said. There was no response. He left the gaol, but he had the most compelling sensation that part of himself did not follow.

twenty-two

MRS. NETTLES CAUGHT MATTHEW at the staircase when he returned to the mansion after his visit with Dr. Shields. "The magistrate asked that you see him directly ye arrived. I ha' to tell you that the preacher's been here, and he was might loud."

"I expected it. Thank you." He braced himself for what was ahead and started up the stairs.

"Oh, sir!" Mrs. Nettles said before he'd gotten more than halfway up. "I recalled somethin' I thought you might find of interest. About Rev'rend Grove."

"Go on," Matthew urged.

"Well, sir . . . you asked if the rev'rend had any enemies, and I said he had none I knew of. But I was thinkin' over it some, and I recall a strange thing happened—oh, I'd say it was three or four days 'fore he was killed."

"What was it?"

"He'd come for dinner," she said. "Had some business 'bout the church to talk over with Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Winston, so his wife had stayed home. I remember they were talkin' there in the parlor, with the fire goin'." She nodded toward that room. "Mr. Bidwell had walked with Mr. Winston out to the carriage. I had come in to ask the rev'rend if I could refresh his cup, and he said no, that he was fine as he was. I turned my back and started to leave, and he says, 'Mrs. Nettles? What would you do if you knew a thing, and tellin' it might be right but it would serve no good purpose?' That's what he said."

"Did you ask what he meant?"

"No sir, that would not have been proper. I told him I was nae one to be givin' advice to a man a' God, but that it depended on what it was he knew."

"And what was the reverend's response?"

"He just sat there, lookin' at the fire. I started out again, on my way to the kitchen, and then I heard him say, 'No Latin.' That was all, and he'd said it so quiet I hardly heard it. But I said, 'Sir?' 'cause I didn't know what he meant. He didn't answer; he was just sittin' there, lookin' at the fire and thinkin'."

"Hm," Matthew grunted. "You're sure he spoke those words, and not something else?"

"I heard him say, 'No Latin.' At least, it sounded like that to me. Then Mr. Bidwell came back in, and I went about my business."

"And you say Reverend Grove was killed three or four days afterward?"

"Yes sir, he was. His wife found him, lyin' there on the church floor." She frowned. "What do ye think he meant?"

"I have no idea," Matthew said, "but his question to you may mean that someone of physical rather than spectral nature had cause to wish him harm. I'd very much like to find out what it might have been he knew. May I ask why you've not brought this up before?"

"I'd forgot it, 'til this mornin'. Bein' who he was, the rev'rend knew a lot of things about a lot of people," she said. "But like I told ye, he had no enemies."

"Obviously he did," Matthew corrected. "Only it was someone who might have worn the disguise of being a friend."

"Yes sir, I suppose so."

"Thank you for telling me this." Matthew decided to store this information away and pursue it at a later date. Right now there was the magistrate to deal with. "I'd better go up." He ascended the stairs, his face grim.

He had spoken to Dr. Shields at length concerning the magistrate's condition, and had been informed that though the sickness appeared serious it was well under control. The doctor said more bleeding would have to be done and there would be times when the magistrate would feel both better and then worse before he improved. But, said Dr. Shields, the road to recovery was never easy, especially from a malady such as this coastal fever. The magistrate was a strong specimen and otherwise in good health, Dr. Shields had said, therefore there was no reason he shouldn't respond to the bleeding and put this sickness behind him within a week or two.

Matthew reached the magistrate's door and tentatively knocked. "Who is it?" came his voice: a weary but serviceable croaking.

"It's me, sir."

There was a pointed silence. Then, "Come in." Matthew entered. Woodward was still in bed, propped up by two pillows. The box of documents lay beside him, a sheaf of the papers on the blanket that covered his lap. Three candles burned on the bedside table. He didn't look up from his reading. "Please close the door," he said, and Matthew obeyed. Woodward let his clerk stand there for a while; his throat was agonizing him again, his nostrils were swollen, his head ached, and he had a hellish mixture of chills and fever, so when Exodus Jerusalem had told him what Matthew had done it did no good to his nerves or temper. But Woodward kept himself calm and continued reading, unwilling yet to display one iota of anger.

"Sir?" Matthew said. "I know you had a visit from—"

"I'm involved at the moment," Woodward interrupted. "Allow me to finish this page."

"Yes, sir." He stared at the floor, his hands clasped behind him. Finally, he heard the magistrate put aside the documents and clear his throat with what sounded to be painful difficulty.

"As usual," Woodward began, "you have done an admirable job. The papers are excellent."

"Thank you."

"I should finish reading them tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest. Oh, I'll be glad to get out of this place!" He lifted a hand and massaged his tender throat; his shaving mirror had told him how bad he appeared—pasty-faced, dark hollows under the eyes, and a sheen of fever sweat on his cheeks and forehead. He was extremely tired as well, weakened by both the ravages of his illness and the bleeding lancet, and all he really cared to do was lie back in this bed and sleep. "I'm sure you shall be glad too, won't you?"

A trick, Matthew thought. So obvious it was hardly worth dodging. "I'll be glad when justice is done, sir."

"Well, justice is about to be done. I shall deliver my decree tomorrow."

"Pardon me," Matthew said, "but usually you spend at least two days reviewing the documents."

"Is it etched in stone? No, I hardly need to read these papers."

"Does it matter at all that I feel—very strongly—that Rachel Howarth is neither a murderess nor a witch?"

"Evidence, Matthew." Woodward tapped the sheaf of papers. "The evidence is right here. You heard it, and you recorded it. There are the poppets on the dresser over there. Tell me what evidence refutes the testimony?" Matthew remained silent. "None," Woodward said. "Your opinion, and your opinion only."

"But do you agree that some of the testimony is questionable?"

"I find the witnesses to be credible. How do you explain that all their stories have overlapping elements?"

"I can't."

Woodward swallowed and winced at the pain. He had to speak, though, while his voice had at least a minimum of strength. "You know what will be best for this town, just as I do. I don't relish it. But it has to be done."

"Will you not allow me time to ask some more questions, sir? I believe that Violet Adams may—"

"No," came the firm answer. "Leave that child alone. And I want you to stay away from the gaol, from this minute on."

Matthew took a deep breath. He said, "I believe I should be able to go where I please, sir." He saw the fire jump into Woodward's eyes, even as sick as the magistrate was. "If you are basing your restrictions on what Exodus Jerusalem told you, I might inform you that the preacher has filthy designs on Madam Howarth. He wants her to confess and throw herself at your mercy, whereupon he will step in and vouch for her newfound Christian soul. His aim is to recruit her as his travelling doxy."

Woodward started to speak, but his voice cracked and so he had to pause until he regained it. When he was able, he said, "I don't give a damn about Exodus Jerusalem! Of course he's a scoundrel. I knew that the minute I saw him. My concern is your soul."

"My soul is well protected," Matthew answered.

"Is it? Really?" Woodward stared up at the ceiling for a time, composing his thoughts. "Matthew," he said, "I fear for you. That woman . . . she can do you some harm, if she pleases."

"I can take care of myself."

At that Woodward had to laugh, though it fiercely pained him. "The famous last words of a million sons to their fathers!"

"I am not your son," Matthew said, a muscle clenching in his jaw. "You are not my father. We have a professional relationship, sir, and that is all."

Woodward didn't reply, but simply closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillows. His breathing was slow and steady, if somewhat ragged-sounding. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Matthew. "The time has come," he said.

"Sir?"

"The time," Woodward repeated, "has come. To tell you things . . . that perhaps should already have been told. Sit down, if you like." He nodded toward the chair that was placed close beside the bed, and Matthew sat down upon it.

"Where to begin?" It was a question the magistrate had posed to himself. "The beginning, of course. When I was a prosperous attorney, I lived in London with my wife, Ann. We had a very fine house. A garden in the back, with a fountain. Oxford had prepared me well." He gave Matthew a slight, sad smile, and then it went away. "We had been wed two years when we had a son, whom we named Thomas, after my father."

"A son?" This was an amazement to Matthew.

"Yes. A good boy he was. Very intelligent, very . . . serious, I suppose. He loved for me to read to him, and he loved to hear his mother sing." Woodward heard in his mind the woman's sweet soprano and saw shadows on the green Italian tiles that graced the fountain. "Those were the finest days of my life," he said as softly as his tortured voice would allow. "On our fifth anniversary, I presented Ann with a silver music box, and she gave me the gold-striped waistcoat. I remember the moment I opened the wrapping. I recall thinking . . . that no man on earth had ever been so fortunate. So privileged to be alive. There I was, with my loved ones before me, my house, my possessions, my career. I had tasted the full fruit of life and I was a rich man. Rich in so many ways."

Matthew said nothing, but now he more fully understood the magistrate's anguish at leaving the treasured garment in Shawcombe's hands.

"Four years later," Woodward continued after a painful swallow, "Ann and my partners encouraged me to pursue the robe. I passed the necessary examinations . . . became a jurist apprentice. In time I was informed I would advance when the next appointments were made." He drew a long, suffering breath and let it go. "I didn't have long to wait. That summer the plague came. Many openings were created."

Woodward lapsed into silence as the memories came up around him like so many whispering ghosts. "The plague," he said, his gaze fixed on nothing. "Summer ended. A wet and nasty autumn, and the plague remained. It was a visitation of blisters on the flesh, followed by fits and terrible agonies until death. I saw my closest friend die that September. He withered from a sturdy athlete into a weeping skeleton in the space of two weeks. And then . . . one morning in October . . . the maidservant screamed in Thomas's bedchamber. I rushed in. Knowing already. And fearing what I would find."

His voice had dwindled to a mere whisper and his throat was a burning hellpit, yet he felt the necessity to go on. "Thomas was twelve years old. The plague cared not for age, nor social position, nor riches nor . . . anything. It set in on Thomas ... as if determined to destroy not only him, but his mother and myself. The best the doctors could do was sedate him with opium. It was not enough to make him stop hurting. Not nearly enough."

He had to halt once more to swallow, and felt the scum of infection ooze down his throat.

"May I get you something to drink?" Matthew asked, standing up.

"No. Sit down. I must speak while I can." He waited for Matthew ro settle himself again. "Thomas fought it," he said. "But of course ... he could not win. His skin was so raw he couldn't turn over in bed. Once . . . when a fit struck him, he thrashed so much that the flesh . . . peeled from his back like wet bark from a rotten tree. And everything was blood and pestilence and that smell . . . that smell . . . that death-reeking, hideous smell."