Page 37 of The Witch

“Eldridge, keep your wife in hand!” Deputy Strickland commands him. I do not miss the undertone in his voice, implying that if my husband fails to rein me in, he will.

Archie tries to reach for me, but I shake him away—he cannot stop me. I would continue speaking until my voice grows hoarse—until I sign my own death warrant—but it is the voice of Hitty Atkins that compels me to silence.

“Caroline,” she says, barely loud enough for me to hear. “You must allow this to happen. You cannot stop it, and you will only condemn yourself.”

I crane my neck to look up at my friend. Although her wrists are bound together and the noose has been secured around her neck, there is no fear in her eyes. She has accepted her fate.

I must accept it too.

I allow Archie to lead me back into the crowd as the ceremony commences. Hitty stands on the gallows, the noose around her neck, her shoulders thrown back. She will die without shame or fear, just as she lived.

“Have you last words?” Sheriff Bixby asks her.

Before Hitty can answer, the deputy sneers at her. “I think she has said and done enough. Let us end this.”

“God will still welcome me,” Hitty says confidently.

Strickland arches an eyebrow. “You mean the devil, do you not?”

Before Hitty has a chance to respond, Sheriff Bixby drops a cloth sack over her head, and Deputy Strickland uses a rope to secure her skirt around her ankles. I stare at her figure on the stage, desperate to find a way to stop this. This cannot happen. Hitty cannot die this way.

And then the floor goes out beneath her feet.

For a moment, Hitty’s body jerks on the rope. Under the sack, the noose must be tightening around her throat. What panic she must feel, knowing there is no way she can get loose, that her death will come in seconds. I can only pray that the noose instantly broke her neck, ending her life. I wish so badly to believe Hitty is not suffering.

Hitty’s right leg twitches under the platform of the gallows. The crowd watches in silence, half expecting her to come back to life, grab her broomstick, fly off into the night. Of course, this does not happen. Hitty is no more of a witch than anyone else in this crowd. And now she is dead.

But this will not be the end of it. Someone must pay for the terrible crimes committed at the gallows today. Of this, I am certain.

28

Slumber will be difficult tonight.

If I close my eyes, I see Hitty with the noose around her neck and the bag covering her face. I see the way her feet dangled below the platform of the gallows. I do not believe I will ever stop seeing it for the rest of my days, but tonight it will be especially vivid.

I sit in the kitchen alone, sipping on a cup of tea, trying to forget about what I have seen. When we returned home, Molly seemed energized by the experience. She accompanied us, and the whole while, she would not stop speaking of how Hitty got what she deserved. Archie was uncharacteristically silent, as if unwilling to speak of my attempts to save my friend.

I do not want Molly to work in Pemberton anymore. I hate to put her out of her home, but I cannot bear her any longer. I will speak with Archie about it in the morn. We will find somebody else, and if there is nobody else, I will do the extra work on my own. I have a strong back and spirit and am perfectly capable.

As I warm my shaking hands on my cup, I hear a scraping sound at the front door followed by a tiny mew. It is Gideon, hoping for food. This time, I take a piece of cheese and carry it with me to the door. I could not help Hitty, but at least I can keep Gideon from starving. It is a small consolation.

I open the door, and in a flash of black fur, Gideon is at my side. As I close the door, he rubs against my ankle. When I crouch down, he nibbles the cheese out of my palm and mews happily. I run my hand over the soft fur on his back, taking simple pleasure in this act. It makes both of us so happy. Gideon purrs in delight.

“What are you doing, Caroline?”

It is my husband’s voice from behind me. I scramble back to my feet to find him standing a few feet away from me, still dressed in the doublet with the deep linen collar he wore to see Hitty hanged. There is a troubled look in his eyes.

“’Tis but a stray cat,” I explain. “I gave him a scrap of cheese.”

He frowns. “Why do you feed a stray cat?”

“He is a living creature too. I should allow him to starve?”

Archie looks like he does not know what to say. For a moment, he clamps his mouth shut, and I wonder if the conversation has ended. But then his face darkens further, and he takes a step toward me.

“Caroline,” he says in a tight but quiet voice, “did you have your blood this month?”

I stare at him, astonished by the question. It is a subject that Archie has never mentioned before. His face has turned pink, and I recognize how much discomfort this brings him.