Speaks the Nightbird

'How long is it that you've been here?' Matthew asked, sitting on his bench with his knees pulled up to his chin. 'This is the second week of May, is it not?'

'Yes.'

'I was brought here on the third day of March.'

Matthew flinched at the very thought of it. No matter what she might have done, she was made of sterner stuff than he. 'How do you stand it, day after day?'

She finished bathing her throat before she replied. 'Do I have any choice but to stand it? I suppose I could become a gibbering fool. I suppose I could break down, fall to my knees, and confess witchcraft at the boots of fine Mr. Bidwell, but should I go to my death that way?'

'You could recite the Lord's Prayer before him. That might win you some mercy.'

'No,' she said, and she aimed those fierce amber eyes at him, 'it would not. As I told you, I refuse to recite something that has no meaning in this town. And my recitation of it would change no one's mind about my guilt.' She cupped her hands again and this time let the water flow through her wild mane of ebony hair. 'You heard what the magistrate said. If I spoke the Lord's Prayer, it might be a trick of the Devil to save my skin.'

Matthew nodded. 'I grant you, you're right. Bidwell and the others have made their opinions about you, and nothing will shake them.'

'Except one thing,' she said firmly. 'Discovering who really murdered the reverend and my husband, and who plotted this evil against me.'

'Discovery is only half the solution. The other half would be the presentation of proof, without which discovery is hollow.'

When Matthew was silent again he was aware of the noises the rats were making, so he chose to speak in an effort to keep his mind busied. 'Who would have cause to commit those crimes? Do you have any idea?'

'No.'

'Did your husband anger someone? Did he cheat someone? Did he—'

'This is not about Daniel,' she interrupted. 'It is about me. I was chosen as the object of this farce because of the very reasons I was hounded from their church. My mother was Portuguese, my father a dark Irishman. But I have my mother's color and her eyes. They mark me as surely as a raven among doves. I alone am of this color, here in this town. Who would not look upon me as someone different. . . someone to be feared, because I am different?'

Matthew had thought of another reason, as well: her exotic beauty. He doubted that a woman more comely than Rachel Howarth had ever set foot in Fount Royal. Her nigrescent coloring was surely objectionable to many—if not most—in this society of pallid whitebreads, but that very same hue was as the burnished flesh of a forbidden fruit. He'd never in his life seen anyone the equal of her. She seemed more proud animal than suffering human, and he thought that this quality too could stir the fire of a man's lust. Or fan the crackling embers of another woman's jealousy.

'The evidence against you,' he said, and quickly amended himself: 'The apparent evidence against you is overwhelming. Buckner's story may be riddled with holes, but he believes what he said today to be true. The same with Elias Garrick. He firmly believes he witnessed you in . . . shall we say . . . intimate accord with Satan.'

'Lies,' she said.

'I have to disagree. I don't think they're lying.'

'So you do believe me to be a witch, then?'

'I don't know what I believe,' he said. 'Take the poppets, for instance. They were found under a floorboard of your kitchen. A woman named Cara—'

'Grunewald,' Rachel said. 'She pinched her husband's ear for speaking to me, long before any of this happened.'

'Madam Grunewald saw the location of the poppets in a dream,' Matthew continued. 'How do you account for that?'

'Simply. She made the poppets and put them there herself.'

'If she hated you so deeply, then why did she leave Fount Royal? Why did she not stay to testify before the magistrate? Why did she not satisfy her hatred by remaining here to watch your execution?'

Now Rachel was staring at the floor. She shook her head.

Matthew said, 'If I had made the poppets and hidden them beneath the floorboard, I would make certain to be in the crowd on the day of your departure from this earth. No, I don't believe Madam Grunewald had a hand in creating them.'

'Nicholas Paine,' Rachel said suddenly, and looked again at Matthew. 'He was one of the three men who broke down my door that March morning, bound me with ropes, and threw me into the back of a wagon. He also was one of the men who found the poppets.'

'Who were the other two men who took you into custody?'

'Hannibal Green and Aaron Windom. I never shall forget that dawn. They dragged me from my bed, and Green locked his arm around my throat to stop my screaming. I spat in Windom's face and got a slap for it.'

'Paine, Garrick, James Reed, and Kelvin Bonnard discovered the poppets,' Matthew said, recalling what Garrick had said on the night of their arrival. 'Can you think of any possible reason Paine or any of those others might have fashioned them and hidden them there?'

'No.'

'All right, then.' Matthew saw another dark streak go across the floor. He watched the rat climb up the side of the waterbucket and drink. 'Let us say that Paine, for whatever reason, did make the poppets and put them under the floorboard. Why should it be Madam Grunewald who saw their location in a dream? Why should it not be Paine himself, if he was so eager to present physical evidence against you?' He pondered the question and thought he might have an answer. 'Did Paine have . . . uh . . . a relationship with Madam Grunewald?'

'I don't think so,' Rachel replied. 'Cara Grunewald was as fat as a pig and had half her nose eaten away by the pox.'

'Oh.' Matthew pondered some more. 'Less reason she should leave Fount Royal, then, if she had made the poppets and knew you to be falsely accused. No, whoever fashioned them is still here. Of that I'm positive. A person who would go to the effort of such deceit would make sure he—or she—had the satisfaction of watching you die.' He glanced through the bars at her. 'Pardon my bluntness.'

Rachel said nothing for a while, as the rats continued to squeak and scurry in the walls. Then, 'You know, I'm really beginning to believe you've not been sent here to spy on me.'

'You should. I'm here—unfortunately—on a criminal offense.'

'Involving the blacksmith, did you say?'

'I entered his barn without permission,' Matthew explained. 'He attacked me, I injured his face, and he desired satisfaction. Therefore the three-day sentence and three lashes.'

'Seth Hazelton is a very strange man. I wouldn't doubt that he attacked you, but what was the reason?'

'I discovered a sack hidden in the barn that he desired not to have brought to light. According to him, it was full of his wife's belongings. But I think it was something else altogether.'

'What, then?'

He shook his head. 'I don't know, but I do intend to find out.'

'How old are you?' she asked suddenly. 'Twenty years.'

'Have you always been so curious?'

'Yes,' he answered. 'Always.'

'From what I saw today, the magistrate doesn't appreciate your curiosity'

Matthew said, 'He appreciates the truth. Sometimes we arrive at it from different routes.'

'If he chooses to believe what's claimed about me, he is lost in the wilderness,' she said. 'Tell me why it is that you—a clerk—seem to grant me more innocence than does a learned magistrate of the law.'

Matthew thought about this point before he gave a reply. 'Perhaps it's because I never met a witch before.'

'And the magistrate has?'

'He's never tried a witch, but he does know judges who have. I think also that he was more impressed by the Salem trials than I, since I was only thirteen years at the time and still in an almshouse.' Matthew rested his chin