Chapter Twenty-Two
Lilith
Bury St. Edmunds blurred past as Lilith rushed up Abbeygate Street toward Moyse’s Hall. Even in her haste, she couldn’t help
but notice the abundance of Tudor era homes leaning on their centuries-old frames with the telltale second floor jutting above
the first. All far older than what she was used to in Savannah.
And yet, the medieval grid street tugged at her with the same eerie familiarity as the land around Brackenmere Manor.
She passed quaint shops and restaurants as people wove around with shopping bags and strollers.
Suddenly, a surge of dread slammed into her. Her breath came short and fast, her head spinning with the same sensation she’d
experienced at Brackenmere Manor.
She did not want to faint again. Not here.
Desperate to stay upright, she pressed her palms to the gritty bricks, grounding herself.
Her heart rate slowed. Breathing came easier.
Please let this be jet lag. Or dehydration. Or something normal.
Still recovering, she pushed forward on shaky legs. But even as she continued the upward climb of Abbeygate’s sloping street,
ice threaded through her veins.
Fear.
Horror.
Death.
A little girl skipped by with a bear dangling from her fingertips and two women passed, laughing.
Clearly, Lilith was alone in her terror while the rest of the world moved on, oblivious. She turned right onto Skinner Street
and the awful sensations abated.
Pausing to recover fully, she tilted her face toward the sun, letting its warmth and strength wash over her. Tension bled
from her body and whatever gripped her finally let go completely.
What had she been walking toward that affected her so deeply?
No sooner had she asked herself the question than a vision flashed in her mind’s eye. A prison, crumbling with age, murky
with darkness, the air wet and dank, the fetid odor of people crammed into cages meant for a fraction of the number of prisoners.
The thought was visceral, more like a memory than something imagined.
If she had continued up Abbeygate Street, she would have come to that prison.
If it even still existed.
She hoped it did not.
A tall sandstone brick manor house at the end of Skinner Street caught her attention.
Moyse’s Hall.
An older gentleman with a thick head of white hair spoke to a group outside the museum. His blue vest indicated he was one of the Bury St. Edmunds tour guides, which she’d noticed when picking up a town map.
“If you’re looking for history, it doesn’t get much older than this.” He nodded up at the building. “Moyse’s Hall is almost
nine hundred years old.”
Lilith gazed up at the building with renewed appreciation. Nine hundred years was such a wealth of history. The sum of countless
lives, layered upon one another like sediment. The births and burials, love affairs and celebrations, nights swollen with
worry that felt so important at the time—all moments bright with life now reduced to the embers of time.
The tour group funneled inside. Lilith stepped forward to join them when the door slammed in her face.
She jerked back with a start and pushed inside.
The museum employee blinked at her, as if in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
A chill tingled over her skin.
You will cease to exist.
The warning rose unbidden in her mind.
She was being paranoid. It was just an accident.
Still, Lilith’s hand trembled as she accepted a glossy brochure of recent exhibits and beelined toward the witch trials.
Chipped clay pots mottled with age were displayed in glass cases, charms once used to discourage witches from entering one’s
home. There were more artifacts on display, including an armoire with deep burns and daisy-shaped carvings, also meant to
keep witches away.
There was an irony to the fact that every charm on display was used not by witches, but to repel them.
Another glass case prominently displayed the pamphlet of a trial dating back to 1664. Lilith hesitated, running her fingertips
over her birthmark.
It remained cool and unfeeling under her touch.
No, that wasn’t what she needed.
A digital archive drew her over. She scrolled through the options, stopping instinctively on a trial set during 1645.
The year nudged at something in her mind.
Yes. This.
The largest execution of witches in England, where eighteen victims were convicted of witchcraft and hung, with an additional
one who had been burned alive.
The hair stood on Lilith’s arms.
The names were listed—so many Annes and Marys and Margarets.
Almost all were women, convicted by men. Lilith recalled the line she’d once read in The Scarlet Letter by a male character casting his judgment on Hester Prynne. “Is there no virtue in woman, save what springs from a wholesome fear of the gallows?”
Likely the jury of men who condemned these women ascribed to the same thought.
There was one final name, the victim who had been burned alive.
Sybil Brantham.
The name shot through Lilith like a jolt of lightning, making her birthmark burn.
Breathless, she scrolled down on the screen.
All nineteen victims were put to death on Thingoe Hill on August 27, 1645.
Lilith’s birthmark blazed.
A warning.
This date was of great importance.
She searched the remainder of the exhibit and though her birthmark remained hot to the touch, it did not flare with the same
spark as before.
Moyse’s had given her a key, now she had to figure out how to unlock the mystery. Likely the rest of what she needed was at Brackenmere Manor.
A knot of unease curled in her stomach.
She couldn’t keep sneaking around behind Asher’s back. The man might be grumpy as all get out, but he’d shown her kindness.
He didn’t deserve to be lied to. And if she was being entirely honest with herself, she hated the idea of disappointing him.
Lord help her.
Much as she was dreading it, she had to ask Asher to let her back in the manor. After all, it was the whole reason she’d come
to England.
And the reason suddenly seemed more important now than ever before.