Chapter Thirty-Five
Sybil
Sybil remained on the floor of the cell, face pressed to the filthy rushes despite Edith’s tender cajoling. At some point,
Sybil’s body managed to produce several tears which leaked into the damp straw beneath her cheek.
“I think I gave them what they sought,” Sybil said miserably.
“Oh, lamb…” Edith stroked her back. “What did you say?” There was a hoarseness to her voice, exhaustion and defeat wearing
her to nothing.
“I know not.” Sybil shook her head, cheekbone rolling over the floor. “My exhaustion was so great, my dreams blurred into
wakefulness.”
Edith issued a pained exhale. “It was the same with me. As was likely their intent.”
“But what did I say?” Sybil’s chest blazed with a fire that could not be extinguished. One that grew greater as she whispered
her utmost fear. “What will they do to Jacinda if I am accused?”
“Sybil Brantham,” the guard called.
She shrank into herself, wishing to be small enough to disappear.
She couldn’t go back. Not yet. She needed strength and had none left to give.
The gate squealed open. “Sybil Brantham.”
“You saw to her mere hours ago,” Edith protested in as strong a voice as Sybil had ever heard, pushing to standing though
she wavered on her feet.
She knew what such defiance cost Edith.
“Quiet your mouth, hag.” The guard drew his fist back.
Sybil pushed herself to sitting. “I am here.” The room spun, but she remained upright.
“Don’t hit her.” Another guard nudged his elbow into the other. “That old witch is already ugly enough.”
Edith ignored the jeer, the same as she always did. But despite her seeming indifference, Sybil knew the cut of those sharp
words. She squeezed Edith’s hand as her friend helped her to standing.
Pain radiated through Sybil’s feet, as if the bones were shattered and the muscle shredded down to the nerves. She wobbled,
her weight shifting around agony.
“Be strong,” Edith mouthed.
Sybil closed her eyes in gratitude even as everything inside her shrank back in fear.
“Come on then,” the guard growled.
Sybil opened her eyes and stepped forward on soles that protested her weight. An unbidden cry came to her lips.
The guards, impatient with her slow movements, gripped her by the arms, setting the iron manacles at her hands clanking and
biting into her wrists.
Once more, she was dragged to that hated room. The one where so many had been broken with starvation, thirst, and sleep deprivation. And where only an hour before, she was made to walk.
“I’ll need your confession.” Hopkins held the quill in his hand in expectation as she was plunked into the chair across from
his desk.
Having the weight off her feet made them pulse in time with her rapidly beating heart.
“I said I did not kill my husband, and I have not cavorted with the Devil.” Sybil infused conviction into her voice.
Hopkins sighed. “We do have other ways to establish that you are indeed a witch if you do not confess.”
“More torture, I presume?” Sybil asked harshly.
Hopkins straightened, affronted. “My dear Mrs. Brantham, have you been subjected to thumbscrews? Have you had knives and hot
pokers implemented upon your person?”
“Is being starved and left to die of thirst not torture? And being walked without rest to the point that my feet feel broken?”
“A bit of hunger is a kindness compared to being bowed in the Scavenger’s Daughter.” Hopkins shook his head. “Truly, Mrs.
Brantham, your claims are nothing short of theatrical.”
Anger flashed like hot lightning. “You will get no confession from me,” she hissed. “I have had no dealings with the Devil,
nor did I kill my husband.”
Heedless of retribution, she continued. “There is a child in the prison downstairs, starving and filthy. She is innocent,
as is every soul beneath your feet, whom you torture with the intent to murder.” She locked eyes with him, allowing all the
rage coursing through her to radiate from her glare. “What you have wrought upon the innocents of this region should bring
you shame!”
Hopkins leaned back in his chair, his gaze hardening to ice.
A chill crawled over her flesh.
He addressed the guards behind her. “Bring in the searchers. Mrs. Brantham will be their first. Remove her stockings and shoes. Bind her feet.”
Sybil jerked upright, trying to stand, to escape, but the guards held her down. One of them tugged off her shoes, his efforts
hindered by her swollen feet. Days might pass before she could fit them on once more.
A guard’s hand went up her skirt. She flinched away, but another held her in place.
“Nothing I want to see up there,” the guard muttered indignantly.
Sybil turned her head, unable to watch as he pulled away the woolen stockings from her calves, leaving her skin bare in a
moment of brutal intimacy. A heavy clanking sounded from the floor and the chill of iron clasped around her skin, resting
sharp upon her jutting ankle bones.
But in securing her feet, they freed her hands, removing the manacles there and revealing torn, angry flesh at her wrists.
“The searchers will find the truth.” Matthew Hopkins grinned at her with a cold, unfeeling malice.
Despite her resolve, whatever they meant to discover made Sybil tremble to her core.