Hour of the Witch(52)



“I wonder if it is the pork that doesn’t agree with thee,” her mother said.

“I felt a twinge of something, too,” added James Burden. “Little dove, how dost thou feel?”

“I feel fine,” she told her father. “And I ate the meat.”

Priscilla looked at her servant girls and her daughter on the floor, and she focused on Hannah. An idea had come to her. “Thou ate much of the boiled apples,” she observed.

“Yes,” Hannah said, as she brought her knees up to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut against another cramp.

“Abigail?” Priscilla asked.

“I ate just a bite. I didn’t enjoy one of the spices.”

“And what spice was that? Thou art most knowledgeable in the kitchen.”

    “I did not know it,” Abigail answered. “I just thought something tasted off.”

“I felt the same way,” Mary agreed. “Usually I love boiled apples.”

Her mother nodded. “Hannah was the only one of us who ate her share. The rest of us nibbled and gnawed—”

“Even me,” agreed James. “Barely a mouthful.”

“Mother, art thou suggesting that Peregrine was trying to poison us?” Mary asked.

“I think that’s unlikely, Mary,” her father said. “But perhaps the apples were rotten. Or one of her ingredients was rotten.”

“James, thou art being kind. This was no accident. I can see well why she would want to poison us,” said Priscilla.

“So we are too sick to return to the Town House tomorrow,” Mary chimed in. “Or at least that I am too sick. If I were not there to defend myself—to speak on my behalf when it is necessary—it would be more likely that my petition would be denied.”

“Yes,” her mother agreed.

“But…”

“Go on,” said Priscilla.

“Peregrine made them with my friend Rebeckah. And she also brought some to Thomas.”

“Well, if Peregrine was hoping to make us ill, she most likely was not in consultation with Thomas,” her father said, and Mary realized that he was reminding her mother of…of something.

“Why do I feel that thou both have secrets?” Mary asked her parents.

“We have none,” James said, and his tone was categorical.

“None?”

“None,” he said again, but still she didn’t believe him.

With her sister’s help, Hannah stood. “May I lie down?”

“Of course,” Priscilla said. Then she took the pot with the boiled apples and started out back. “James?” she said, pausing at the door.

“Yes?”

“The ground is not yet a brick, correct?”

    “The surface is hard, yes. But I doubt it is frozen much beneath the skin.”

“Come with me, prithee. I am going to bury this, and I may need thy help digging. I don’t want even the pigs to eat whatever venom Peregrine spooned into this abomination.”

Her father nodded and joined his wife, while Mary helped Abigail settle Hannah into bed.



* * *





Hours later, unable to sleep, Mary stood at the small window in her bedchamber and gazed out into the moonlit night. The rest of the house was silent, the homes along the street dark.

She tried to follow the bats that were darting playfully like swallows, and on the walkway below her she noticed a honey-and-white cat in search of prey. The animal was pressed flat into the dirt, half hidden by the rosebush that had grown quiescent for the winter. Was it a rat it was stalking? A chipmunk?

She knew what some people said of cats, but she saw nothing demonic in the animal. It was a mouser. That was its purpose. But what really did she know? She rapped on the pane of glass with the knuckles of her right hand, and the cat looked up at the sound. At her. She felt their eyes meet. But still: it was just a cat. Of this she was sure. It was no one’s familiar. It had not been sent by a witch to spy on her.

When her parents had been speculating on why Peregrine might want to sicken them (to sicken her; the others were mere ancillary damage), she had suspected another motive: to warn her away from Jonathan by demonstrating that she, too, was a formidable opponent and was prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect her marriage. She had considered sharing this possibility with her parents but decided this must be one more secret she needed to keep to herself. What good could possibly come from her parents knowing that Peregrine believed their daughter had designs on Jonathan Cooke—her husband’s son-in-law? It was squalid. It was reprehensible. And, most certainly, it was sinful. Wasn’t Mary’s reputation sufficiently tarnished already? Her parents were well aware of what Abigail had seen. Imagine if Abigail or Hannah were present for a discussion of the possibility that Mary wanted to steal Jonathan Cooke from Peregrine? It could destroy any hope she had of her petition being granted and her reputation surviving this nightmare intact.

    But, then, how could she be sure that Peregrine had wanted to poison her? Thomas had eaten the boiled apples, too, no doubt a helping that would have dwarfed even what Hannah had consumed. And then there was this: Peregrine had not made the boiled apples alone. Rebeckah Cooper had been with her, the two of them cooking in concert. That further suggested her daughter-in-law’s innocence.

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