Chapter Sixty-Two
Sybil
Even as Sybil was dragged toward the pyre, she could not pull her gaze from Jacinda. She stood at the front of the mob, absent
her iron bracelet, wide hazel eyes brimming with tears.
Of all people to watch Sybil burn, Jacinda was the last person who should be there.
While Sybil had never been to a burning herself, she heard the horrific stories of how quickly clothing singed away, how long
the flames licked at flesh before death finally prevailed. The strongest spirits were broken in such ways, resulting in terrified
cries of anguish.
These could not be Jacinda’s last memories of her.
“You have been charged as a witch,” a booming voice announced.
Sybil turned to find the magistrate alight with the force of his wrath.
He held a torch in his hand, the flame flickering in the wind.
“You have used your evil to kill your husband. May Henry Brantham rest in peace.” The magistrate looked out at the crowd, playing for his audience as he announced, “And now you will burn for your sins.”
The crowd roared their approval and icy fear coiled in Sybil’s stomach.
The clouds blackened and swirled overhead, thick and ominous.
Sybil wanted to shake her head at Jacinda in a silent plea. This risk was not worth the danger.
The guards grabbed Sybil by the arms and hauled her toward the pyre, her progress hampered by the shackles at her feet, the
chain dragging behind, catching first grass and then logs. Their boots did not feel the jagged, uneven surface of splintered
wood, but Sybil’s did. Every scrape of rough bark and sharp edge, every miserable splinter across her battered feet.
She clenched her teeth to keep from wincing. How ridiculous to worry about the pain in her feet when she would soon be burned
alive?
Her hands were unbound just long enough to lash together once more around a stake driven into the ground.
Sybil’s heart crashed in her chest like a clap of thunder, her entire body quaking with anticipation.
These were moments she ought to cherish, and yet, the wind was too hard to snatch into her overactive lungs, her thoughts
too frantic to settle on any one thing.
She would never feel the power of the earth again.
She would never see her daughter again.
She would die knowing she had lost so much time. So much wasted time.
A sob choked up her throat.
The rain came then, droplets cast from the swollen, angry clouds.
The efforts of a daughter of the earth whose gifts were waning. The cost of enlisting the forbidden.
But Jacinda’s efforts would not be enough to put out the flames.
Sybil would burn that day.
All she could do was beg the earth that her daughter would not be next.