Hour of the Witch(96)

“Yes, whatever has angered me,” he murmured, “will still be here when the sun has risen. Alas, thou art going nowhere. And if thou dost want to bleed to keep me at bay, well, let there be blood.” Then, before she knew what he was doing, he took the nail and poked it so hard into the palm of her left hand—dragging it like a dagger—that she screamed.

“Catherine,” Thomas called out, “thy mistress stepped on a nail on a warped board! It was the same one I stepped on a moment ago. No need to worry about either of us.”

As he crawled into bed, he said to her, “Thou must be more careful. One of these days thou might wound thyself all too seriously. One of these days, I just might find thee dead.”

She watched the blood pool in the palm of her hand, occasionally glancing at the brute beside her. As his breathing slowed, any hesitation dissipated, and her resolve grew profound. By the time he was asleep and she had retrieved the poison, she could see it all in her mind. Every act and every moment, the agonized eyes and the stringing spittle.



* * *





She placed the poison at the very bottom of the chest with her clothing. Thomas neither rustled nor stirred. The rhythms of his breathing changed not at all.



* * *





In the morning, after Thomas had nailed the floorboard back in place and left for the mill, Mary handed Catherine a pouch with coins and asked her to please visit the tinker and purchase three new spoons for them.

    “Wouldst thou not prefer to choose them thyself?” the girl asked.

“Not at all,” Mary reassured her. “I trust thee as a sister.”

“Thy hand is swollen again,” Catherine observed, and Mary couldn’t tell from her voice what she was thinking. If this girl really did see goodness and wisdom in Thomas, perhaps now was the moment to disabuse her of the notion that he was anything but a vicious gargoyle with a man’s face, and share the precise details of what he had done to her last night. But she recalled the chess set the family had owned in England—left behind like so much else—and thought how one always had to think many moves ahead to win. She had to think that way now.

“I banged it on the bricks in the hearth when we were making breakfast this morning,” she said.

Catherine nodded and left.

When the girl was gone, Mary began her search. She was not sure what she was looking for, but she began by thinking about where she would hide something if she were Catherine. And those would be the places where Catherine had the most independence—where her master and mistress were least likely to supervise or assist her. That meant the henhouse, the horse stall, and the woodpile were out, because Mary was often retrieving eggs, Thomas was frequently saddling and unsaddling Sugar, and everyone carried in wood. Mary stood with her hands on her hips. Then she pulled down Catherine’s bedstead and ran her hand along the wall, wondering if she might find a compartment there. She did not. She ran her fingers around the bedding and shook out the comforter, discovering nothing.

And so she replaced the bed and stared at the girl’s trunk. It seemed too obvious to hide something there—the trunk had a latch but no lock—and yet Mary had to search it. Yes, it was a violation, but she had to know. And so, like a common criminal, she pawed through the girl’s shifts and frocks and stockings and sleeves, and then opened her Bible and flipped through the pages. But there was nothing incriminating. If anything, Mary felt a tremor of guilt at what she was doing in light of how little the girl had.

    When she had repacked the trunk, she warmed her swollen hand near the hearth. She surveyed the kitchen, running her eyes over the spider and roasting jack and the hooks with their pots and spoons. It seemed mad, but she thought of the lie she had told Catherine and pushed upon the bricks a row at a time, half-expecting one to give and reveal a hiding place. But they were solidly in place.

She sat down at the table. Their home was not small, but neither was it palatial. Nevertheless, it was alive with nooks where one might conceal the tools of conspiracy or possession. She knew how, for a time, she had hidden poison beneath a floorboard.

But was it not possible there was nothing here to find? Perhaps Catherine was in league with the Dark One, but whatever she knew or whatever she had done, she had left neither totem nor trace of her iniquity where she lived.

An idea came to Mary. She put fresh shag between her legs, climbed into her cloak and boots, and started off. By now Catherine was well over halfway to the tinker near the marketplace. It was too late to see if the girl made any detours on the way there. But if Mary hurried, she could see—surreptitiously, as a spy—if her indentured servant made any stops on the way home.



* * *





The girl was emerging from the tinker just as Mary reached the corner perhaps forty yards distant. Behind Mary was the open expanse that surrounded the Town House, but before her the street was narrow. She retreated into a doorway so Catherine wouldn’t see her peering out and she could watch her pass. But the servant didn’t appear, and when Mary leaned farther out, she saw the girl turning the corner in the opposite direction: she wasn’t going home.

Mary followed her, keeping her eyes firmly on the girl’s hood, prepared to crouch down and pretend to fix the laces of her boots—hiding her face—if Catherine looked back. But she didn’t. She walked and walked, and as they left the marketplace behind, it dawned on Mary where the girl was going. Of course. It made all the sense in the world. Her destination was clear, and Mary watched as her servant knocked on the door and Goody Howland answered, looking around conspiratorially before beckoning the girl inside.