Page 66 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

“Ah, but now we know that she died in the Marian persecutions.” Their uncle hastened over to a glass-fronted bookcase. “Bloody Mary—you’ll remember she was Catherine of Aragon’s daughter—executed almost three hundred people during her reign, trying to turn England back to Catholicism.”

“Burning people seems an odd way of wooing back disbelievers,” Thisbe commented drily.

“Religion can be a frightful thing in the hands of zealots,” Bellard responded. “The burnings were all over the country. In London, they were carried out in Smithfield.”

“Where the market is?” Olivia asked.

“Yes. In front of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. It was one of the few large open spaces, just outside the old city walls.”

Ice trickled down Thisbe’s spine. She thought of the wide expanse where the woman in her dream had walked past the spectators to her execution. “Where crowds could gather.”

“Yes, the mob was always eager to witness such a spectacle.”

“How did they get there? The prisoners, I mean. Did they walk?” Thisbe asked, hoping for an answer that would negate her dream.

But Uncle Bellard nodded. “Yes, it was quite close to Newgate Prison—not the present one, of course. The old one burned down in the Great Fire of 1666, but it stood in the same location. Just a short walk down Giltspur Street to the place of execution.”

Thisbe felt queasy. “The old Newgate—did it have a tower on each side?”

“Why, yes.” He smiled at her display of knowledge. “Here. Let me see.” He looked over the shelves beside him. “Ah, yes. Here it is.” He opened a book and flipped through the pages, then held it out to Thisbe. “This is a drawing of Newgate at that time.”

It was the building she had seen behind the woman in her nightmare. Thisbe’s hands shook as she handed the book back to her uncle. He was already pulling out another old volume, and said happily, “Now, this should tell us something. It’s Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.” He shoved aside some papers on a table to lay the book on it.

“What’s Foxe’s Book of Martyrs?” Olivia came over to join them.

“It’s a recounting of Christian martyrs starting from the very beginning—an enormous task. John Foxe wrote it early in Elizabeth’s reign. It was a very influential book at the time. There were few books, you understand, and this one had great appeal. Even those who couldn’t read could look at the drawings of various gruesome tortures and deaths.” He flipped through the pages quickly. “It was very thorough and detailed. For our purposes, the important ones are the Marian martyrs. Let’s see, yes, here we are, 1555.”

He moved through the pages more slowly now, running his finger down the lines and muttering beneath his breath. “Look at all these—several a day sometimes.” He shook his head. “January... Ah.” He tapped his finger triumphantly on one paragraph. “Ann Bellow. What do you want to bet that is our woman? Spelling was so variable then.”

“What does it say?” Thisbe leaned in, as did Olivia on her great-uncle’s other side.

“Disappointingly little, I’m afraid. It just lists her as one of six martyrs who were burned on that day. ‘Ann Bellow, artificer.’”

“What’s an artificer?” Thisbe asked. “A profession?”

“It means someone who creates things. A craftsman or inventor.” He sighed. “They often gave short shrift to women, I’m afraid, even in regard to their martyrdom. Here’s one that says only ‘wife of’ someone. And, of course, her heresy wasn’t really Protestantism. They do point out that it was most unusual to have so many women executed thusly. January 31 has a group of five women.” He looked over at Thisbe. “Sorry, my dear. I’m afraid that’s it.”

“I doubt we’ll find much more.” Thisbe glanced around the room at the hundreds of volumes. She felt odd, rather remote, as if the world had suddenly changed around her. “At least we know she existed.”

“And that she supposedly could speak to the dead, as Grandmother claims,” Olivia added. “Do you suppose she used the Eye? What do you think it’s like when you look through it?”

“My guess is that it’s all prisms and mirrors and such, along the lines of a kaleidoscope, and what you see through it is a shadowy blur, which believers can interpret any way they want,” Thisbe mused. Obviously her reaction to the drawing of Anne Ballew was proof that even a reasonable mind was suggestible. “I’m sorry, Uncle Bellard. I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time.”

“Dear girl, not a waste at all.” He took her hand and patted it. “I enjoyed it, and now that I’m on the hunt, I believe I’ll continue following the trail of Cornelia’s family. Who knows what interesting tidbits I could turn up.”

“I’m going back to work.” Thisbe turned to Olivia. “I wasted your time, too. I think there’s no use in looking any further.”

“I think I’ll stay here,” Olivia said. “I want to see what else I could find about those séances in the States.”

Thisbe walked back to her laboratory, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to work. She felt much too unsettled by what she’d learned. Thisbe’s nightmare visitor was Anne Ballew; the certainty rested in her chest like lead.

The idea was impossible. It wasn’t logical. Yet she could not deny what she had seen; she couldn’t dismiss an observation because it made her uncomfortable. After all, science required an open mind. A scientist followed the facts. And the fact was she had recognized Anne Ballew.

But how could she have dreamed of a woman she’d never seen? Or dreamed of fire before she knew the woman was burned? How could she have seen the place of Anne Ballew’s execution or the old Newgate Prison that had disappeared two hundred years ago?

And, aside from the inexplicable “hows” of it, there were the equally mysterious “whys.” What did the dreams mean? Why was she the one who was seeing them? Her grandmother seemed a far likelier choice, given her supposed ability to commune with the dead. Why had Thisbe felt the sensations that Anne Ballew had, as if she and Anne were the same?

She wanted to talk to someone about this, but who? Desmond whispered through her mind, but she thrust it away. Theo? Kyria? But they would have no better understanding of it than she did. And they might very well stare at her as if she had lost her mind. Which, perhaps, she had.