Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sybil
The aroma of roasted meat lingered in the hallway of the prison. The savory fragrance carried toward Sybil like a dream. Like
a nightmare.
Matthew Hopkins awaited her, knowing she hadn’t eaten in almost a week.
Her stomach twisted, her need savage. The focus of her existence narrowed as she imagined gripping the greasy flesh in her
hand, sinking her teeth into the crisp skin to the tenderness beneath, savoring the salty, herbed juices exploding in her
mouth.
She was practically panting with desperation when the guards deposited her into the room for a second interrogation.
A massive platter sat before Hopkins, featuring a goose roasted to golden perfection and glistening in the candlelight. An
assortment of vegetables framed the bird: potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and string beans.
Sybil hadn’t thought there was moisture left in her body, but now, thick saliva flooded her mouth, and a sharp ache fisted her stomach.
“Have you had time to think?” Hopkins asked by way of greeting.
Sybil scarcely heard him over the vision of that roasted goose. A tremor rippled through her, an uncontrollable shudder of
need.
“Have you had time to think?” This time when he asked the question, he lifted a pewter mug. The liquid inside sloshed wetly.
The primitive part of Sybil redirected her focus to the contents of that mug. He brought it to his lips, drinking noisily,
the muscles of his neck squeezing as he swallowed.
Without realizing what she was doing, Sybil’s mouth parted, and her empty throat worked with each of his greedy gulps.
Ale.
It was ale.
The yeasty scent, the hint of sweetness from the malt, the smell unmistakable.
Hopkins set the mug down, and some of the contents splashed out over the desk in beaded droplets. “Do you have anything to
tell me?”
Sybil stared at those droplets, desperate enough to lap them up from the wooden surface.
She tried to swallow, but her parched throat clicked in protest. “I have nothing to say.” The laconic reply had to be forced
out. Her thoughts were thick as mud, her voice hoarse, her lips dry and splitting. The stink of her own breath was both evident
and appalling.
No doubt he could smell her, too. Not only the halitosis of starvation, but the filth of her unwashed body, her snarled, oily
hair.
“No confession then?” Hopkins took up an eating dagger and sliced into the goose. Rivulets of clear juice streamed from the incision and the golden skin peeled back to reveal tender white flesh.
A soft whimper rose unbidden from Sybil’s throat.
Hopkins paused in his task and looked at her, his brow quirking slightly. The corners of his mouth twitched.
He had heard.
Sybil hated how easily he’d witnessed her weakness.
“I imagine you are hungry.” He plucked the slice of meat with the tip of his dagger. “I would share my meal with you, if you
would have it.”
Her heart smacked against her ribs, throbbing with anticipation.
Hopkins tilted his head, his expression one of sympathy. “But first, you would have to confess.”
A twisting pain knifed through her stomach. Sybil shook her head rather than speak.
With a casual lift of his shoulders, he brought the goose to his mouth and peeled his lips back so she could watch his teeth
sink into the meat. He chewed noisily and tilted his head back, eyes closing in pleasure as he moaned.
“This might be the best goose I’ve ever tasted.” He licked his lips, leaving them wet, a smear of grease slick on his chin.
“I can’t say much for this town, but you do have fine cooks.” He sliced off another morsel, this time extending a hunk of
quivering meat to Sybil.
How she longed to snatch it, not caring if the dagger cut her fingers in the process. She wanted to shove the chunk in her
mouth and lean her head back in pleasure as he had done, groaning around the meat as it slid down her throat.
“Speak your confession.” He waggled the goose flesh, dripping flecks of juice upon the desk, where they puddled with an iridescent sheen.
“Say you’re a witch. Admit you took the Devil as your lover.
Admit you danced around the fire with him at the Sabbath, that you suckled familiars.
” Hopkins’s voice became louder with each declaration as he bade her speak.
“Admit you killed your husband with the powers the Devil gave you. Admit your sister is of the same pact with the Devil as you.”
Sybil’s focus snapped from the knife and the offering extended toward her. No longer did she think of food or drink, but of
protecting Jacinda.
And of justice.
Over any food in the world, she would choose her grimoire, that old text bequeathed to her by her mother. The one she had
left for Jacinda with a small spell that it should find its way to her should she have need of it.
In that moment, Sybil would employ any enchantment, sacrifice the last bit of her gifts, to see this man destroyed. To ensure
women remained safe.
But she could not have her grimoire.
She did not even have a whisper of the earth’s power.
All she had was the fortitude of a woman protecting what she loved.
And a vow to live long enough to see this man fall.
“No.” Her protest came out with finality. “I admit to nothing as I’ve done none of those things.”
Hopkins got to his feet and lifted the mug, carrying it as he approached. “I’ve had a witness say they hear you speaking with
the Devil at night, that he bids you harm others.” He stopped before her and drank deeply again, every gulp making her throat
scorch with a yearning unlike she’d ever known.
When he lowered the mug, his mouth wet, ale trickling down his chin. He held the cup to her, the scent sweet with raw temptation.
“No,” she said again.
His nose wrinkled, and he pulled back. “I would let you bathe as well.” He sneered down at her once fine gown, now stained and rumpled.
Through his eyes, she saw herself reduced to the inhuman prisoner he wanted her to be.
“I am no witch,” she said firmly.
He sighed, as if she were a recalcitrant child. “Very well.”
At his nod, rough hands snatched her up, dragging her backward.
That iron grip upon her body reminded her of the magistrate, of the assault.
Her body stiffened in preparation to fight, but the strength sapped away as soon as it had flared, weakened by her state of
extreme deprivation. They carried her to the prison, her feet bumping over uneven cobblestones, and deposited her in an unceremonious
heap on the filthy rushes.
She did not know how long she lay there. Edith reached through the bars between their cages, straining to comfort Sybil and
receiving a kick from the guards for her kindness.
Eventually, Sybil would be relocated as well, though she did not know when she would be moved. Or when she might eat again.
She let her head fall to her bent arms, made wholly feeble from the encounter.
Though she may be weak of body, she was determined to remain strong in spirit. In her helpless state, her fortitude was the
only power she possessed to keep Jacinda safe.