A Witch in Love (31 page)

‘Don’t be soft. She put two good lads in hospital; it’s not her fault they weren’t killed. She’s got another running around after her like a chained dog frightened of a whipping, and she’s done more harm to Winter than a year’s worth of disasters. Storms, accidents, floods – all her.’

‘And her so young …’

‘So evil, you mean.’

‘
Faugh
, makes me sick.’ The voice hardened. ‘Lying there like butter wouldn’t melt.’

‘Evil like that, dressed up as innocence. It’s the most dangerous kind.’

‘I don’t understand why we couldn’t go after the other one – the other girl.’

I caught my breath – not … not Emmaline? Please God, don’t let me have dragged Emmaline down with me…

‘You know the rules,’ said the second voice. ‘They leave us alone, we leave them alone. But if they step over the line…’

‘Yeah. Fair game,’ the first man said. Then his voice dropped. ‘I heard her … You know, crying. But the book says they can’t weep.’

‘Faking,’ said the second voice with a sneer. ‘They’ll do anything for a bit of sympathy. She probably never met a situation she couldn’t wheedle her way out of. Like the book says:
If she be a witch she will not be able to weep: although she will assume a tearful aspect and smear her cheeks and eyes with spittle to make it appear that she is weeping; wherefore she must be closely watched by the attendants
.

‘Well, we’re watching.’ He banged on the grate, almost making me jump, though I managed to hold still, clenching my teeth around the bit of the bridle. ‘Do you hear that, witch? D’you hear that? We’re watching!’

There was the sound of laughter and then a scraping crunching sound, and they drew the cover over the grate and left me in darkness.

I woke thirsty and confused some hours later and for a moment just lay there. I stank. I literally stank. I’d been lying in the damp in the same clothes for days now and they were rank with the stench of fear and sweat and blood – and worse. They’d put a bucket in the corner of the room which was sometimes emptied, but I hated to think what had happened during the long hours of unconsciousness.

My hair itched; so did my skin beneath the bridle. I could feel sores starting to come up where the metal chafed my skin. But worst of all were my lips: dry and cracked and bleeding. In the end the feeling forced me to my knees and I crawled across the cell to the trickle of water.

The cold water seemed to help me shake off some of the lingering stupidity of the drugs and, when I’d drunk enough, I sat up and gathered my magic around myself like a warm blanket and tried to think. I needed to change to change into something that could get through that roof. The spaces were small and there was no foothold on the slimy stone. So it had to be something that could fly but not a crow, a crow could never fit. I thought of the house martins squeezing in and out of their nests under the eaves at Wicker House and a lump rose in my throat. Dad – oh, Dad … But I shoved the thought back down. Tears wouldn’t be any help. I had to be strong, practical.

I shut my eyes and pictured the house martins, slim and lithe, swooping through the dusk with their joyful exuberance. All of a sudden, something prickled at my wrists, across my cheek … I raised my fingers, and felt the down of feathers on my skin. Then, just as quickly, they were gone. But my heart was pounding with triumph. It was a start.

I was gathering my strength for another try when I heard voices approaching from along the corridor and hastily lay down, pretending to sleep.

‘Tomorrow, is that the plan?’

‘That’s right. The witnesses are arriving at dark.’

‘And she’s safe to go?’

‘What, the witch? The Inquisitor reckons so. She’s got precious little fight left in her, but we’ll keep a syringe of that stuff handy in case she pulls any tricks.
All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman
, as the book says.’

‘What’ll be the sentence, d’you reckon?’

‘Well, I’d say we burn her. House fire probably, to cover up the evidence. Her house is in the middle of nowhere so it shouldn’t be hard to arrange.’

I lay there, prickling with fear. Tomorrow. They were doing it tomorrow. That meant changing tonight. Could I do it? My power was coming back – but
tonight
? And such a big change. What if I had enough magic to change, but not enough to change back? But I had to – it was my only chance.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside and the man’s voice ringing out, sharp with alarm, ‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s me,’ said a third voice, crisp, clipped, with only a trace of the local accent; one I’d never heard.

‘Inquisitor!’ There was a shuffle, as of backs being straightened. ‘Any news?’

‘Unexpected development. Another witness has turned up. The boy. He wants to testify.’

‘Eh?’ There was surprise in the first man’s voice. ‘Him? There’s a turn up for the books.’

‘Quite. With evidence from Waters – well! All I’ll say, lads, is keep your torches alight. You’ll be needing them tomorrow.’

They moved off up the corridor, still talking, but I still lay, with my hands pressed over my mouth to stifle my sobs. If I’d been alone, I would have screamed.

Seth had turned against me. Nothing mattered any more.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I
 awoke with a start, sweating and shaking. The guard was in my cell, standing over me with his legs apart. His face was covered with a black hood and he was holding something in his hand – a kind of stick, about a foot long. It was yellow and if I hadn’t been so afraid I would have laughed; it looked like a toasting fork. But there was nothing funny in his stance, or the way he held the stick out towards me

‘You,’ he snapped. ‘Up.’

His voice was familiar – maddeningly, itchingly familiar. Why couldn’t I place it?

‘I know you,’ I said, the words coming thickly around the metal bit. ‘I know you – but who are you? Why are you doing this to me? Please—’

‘Shut it,’ the guard snarled. And he shoved the prongs of the stick against my bare leg.

Pain ripped through me, pulsing up from my leg as if I’d been stabbed with a red-hot knife. I arched and screamed, hearing the noise ricochet around the tiny cell, echoing up and down the long tunnels outside. Then, just as suddenly, the pain stopped, and I slumped to the floor, panting and gasping, my breath sobbing in my throat.

‘D’you know what this is now?’ He showed it to me again and I flinched and then managed a painful nod.

‘Right. A cattle prod. High voltage, low current. Maximum pain, for minimum damage. Now, here’s how I’m gonna use this. If you try any spells, you get this. Try to run, I’ll shock you. If you speak, except to answer questions, I’ll shock you. If I don’t like one single thing about your attitude, I’ll shock you. Understand?’

I opened my mouth to say yes and then thought better of it. Instead I nodded. When the man spoke again, he sounded like he was smiling beneath the hood.

‘Good.’ He kicked me with his boot and I flinched again. ‘Now, get up. We’re going to your trial.’

Suddenly I knew. I knew where I’d heard it before. It was the man on the quay – Greg. The one who’d told Seth to flemish his line. The one who’d picked a fight with a kid half his age and borne a grudge ever since.

But before I could think what to do, what to say, the cell door opened and two other men came in, both wearing hoods. In their hands were a collection of chains and manacles.

‘Undo the ropes,’ Cattle Prod instructed – I found it hard to think of him as anything else, while he was holding it out like a weapon – and the smaller of the two stepped forward, holding a knife. He sawed through the bindings and for a glorious moment my hands were free of the heavy itching rope and I could stretch and wriggle my fingers. But then, all too quick, the other man seized my ams and pulled them behind me. I felt metal cuffs close around my wrists and heard the clank of a chain. Greg – Cattle Prod – yanked on the chain, making me stagger and nearly fall, and the small man stifled a giggle with his hand.

They unlocked the cuff around my foot. Then the other man stepped forward with a black hood. This one was eyeless.

‘No,’ I said involuntarily, but Greg stepped forward threateningly. Then the bag closed over my head and everything was dark.

‘Come on,’ he said brusquely. ‘The Inquisitor’s waiting.’ He pulled my chain and I stumbled forward, out into the cold night air.

We walked, I don’t know how far. It felt like a long way. My feet were bare and I stumbled over stone cobbles, through puddles of water. I could smell the sea, a painful familiar smell that made my stomach twist, and I could feel sand and grit beneath my feet. Then a door opened, someone yanked viciously on my chain, jerking my wrists painfully, and I stumbled forwards into a room.

After the dark monotony of the pigsty, the smells, sounds and sensations were like an assault. The room was warm, hot even. Above my own stink I could smell the sweat of working men, woodsmoke, dust – and petrol. The crackle of a fire came from my right, the flames heating my side and casting little sparkling shards of orange through the coarse weave of the hood.

There was a flurry as I entered, breaths drawn, low guffaws. Then rough hands pushed and pulled me across a stone-flagged floor and up a wooden step, a door slammed and there was the clanking sound of chains being secured and the grinding noise of a padlock key turning.

‘The girl is secured, Inquisitor,’ said a guard in a formal, respectful tone.

‘Good.’ The voice was the cold, clipped one I recognized from my cell. ‘Let the trial begin.’ There was a shuffle of papers and he spoke again, suddenly formal, as though reading from a script. ‘Men of the jury, we are here today to decide on the guilt or innocence of the girl you see before you, Anna Winterson. Do you solemnly swear to judge her according to the evidence you will witness here today and give a true and faithful verdict before God?’

There was an answering rumble from my right.

‘Defendant, state your name for the court.’

For a long moment I said nothing and the Inquisitor repeated impatiently, ‘Are you Anna Winterson of Wicker House, Winter? Yes or no?’

For a brief, crazy moment I wondered what would happen if I said no – if I told them I was someone else entirely, some innocent bystander. But then sanity returned. The worst thing I could do would be to lie so obviously. My only chance lay in convincing them that I was telling the truth when I said I was innocent – perhaps not innocent of witchcraft, but innocent of any intent to harm.

‘Yes,’ I said thickly, trying to speak around the bit of the bridle.

‘You are here to answer the following charges: using black magic to summon storms, causing harm to the village of Winter and to your neighbours. Using black magic against two boys, Samuel Evans and Roger Flint, with intent to cause their deaths. Bewitching Seth Waters, with intent to cause him to break with his friends and love you against his will. Setting fire to a rival, one Zoe Eldwick, from jealousy. Using black magic to summon evil demons to your aid, to do your bidding. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

I swallowed. It sounded dreadful, piled crime upon crime like that. My head swam and the bridle bit into my skin viciously. But I gritted my teeth and held on to the wooden rail in front of me.

‘Not guilty.’

‘Not guilty to all charges?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let the girl’s plea be noted,’ the Inquisitor said with a heavy note of irony in his voice. Then he turned back to me. ‘Remember, if you plead guilty now, your sentence will likely be more merciful. You can’t escape death, but we can make it painless, drug you unconscious before we set fire to the house. If you persist in your lies and are still found guilty, then your death will be long and painful. We will chain you and leave you to burn. This is your last chance to change your plea.’

‘No,’ I said. But my voice cracked. There was a murmur and the Inquisitor banged something – a hammer by the sound.

‘Silence!’ he roared and the whispers subsided. ‘Call the first witness.’

I heard the sound of footsteps as someone entered the room and walked to the far side. My heart was thumping in my chest so hard that I could barely swallow, and bile rose in my throat. I was about to be sick.

But my body realized why I was so terrified before I did – with a rush of relief as I heard the voice giving the oath. My knees felt weak and I clutched at the wooden rail to hold myself up. It wasn’t Seth. It wasn’t Seth. I didn’t have to face the worst, not yet.

‘… the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.’

‘Very good. State your name.’

‘Samuel James Evans, Inquisitor.’

‘Tell us what happened on the twenty-first of December last year.’

‘Well, sir, my cousin Rog and me, we was walking home from the pub—’

‘What time?’

‘About elevenish, sir. And we took a wrong turn, down a blind alley. They was waiting for us.’

‘Who?’

‘The witch and a bloke. Youngish, with dark hair.’