"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 have decided." 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 me the Bible I'll swear truth on it too!" 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 pa.s.sed 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 holding the Bible! I have just sworn on it! Would you have me the Bible! I have just sworn on it! Would you have me kiss kiss it?" 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 G.o.d'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," nothing," Rachel said, her voice trembling with emotion though her face was held under tight control. "Why did G.o.d not strike me dead just now?" Rachel said, her voice trembling with emotion though her face was held under tight control. "Why did G.o.d not strike me dead just now?"

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

"If I were truly a witch, G.o.d 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! knows! Dear G.o.d, Matthew! Has she blinded you?" Dear G.o.d, 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 G.o.d out of his clerk.

The magistrate's shocked expression was not lost on Matthew. "Sir, she is is under difficult circ.u.mstances. I hope you'll weigh that in your consideration of this incident." under difficult circ.u.mstances. 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 b.i.t.c.h 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 d.a.m.ned 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.senger 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." 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 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, 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." 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 a.s.sociations 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... unofficial... that I at first thought Bidwell had brought in two hirelings to goad a confession out of me." 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 very 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 m.u.f.fled 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. Frighteningly 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 b.u.t.tons, 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 h.e.l.l?

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 doc.u.ments carefully and ponder them with a fair mind, but there was no question the decree would be guilty as charged. guilty as charged. So: was she a witch, or not? 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.