Speaks the Nightbird

of his right hand. Otherwise, he was none the worse for his venture.

As he continued to walk toward the conjunction of streets, he reflected on the meaning of this experience. Possibly the dogs had belonged to the Hamiltons and had been left behind months ago, or possibly they were curs abandoned by some other fleeing family. The question was: how long had the dogs been living there? More or less than three weeks? Was it reasonable to assume they had been there when Violet Adams had entered the house?

If she had entered the house. There had been no chair. No candle or candlestick. Bidwell and Exodus Jerusalem would say that those items had been spectral and of course had vanished with the demons, but Matthew needed to see them to believe they had been there at all. And what of the dog's skeleton? The decaying carcass would have filled that room with a repulsive odor, yet Violet had not noticed it nor been hesitant in entering the house. Matthew doubted very much if he would have gone into a deserted house that had the smell of death wafting from its front door, no matter who'd been calling to him. Therefore, what to make of the child's testimony?

Had she really been in there, or not? The strangest thing about this was that, as far as he could tell, Violet— like Buckner and Garrick—was not lying. She fervently—and fearfully—believed in the truth of what she'd witnessed. It was her truth, perhaps, just as what had happened to Buckner and Garrick were truths to them . . . but was it the whole and actual truth?

But what kind of truth was it, that might be both true and false at the same time?

He felt he was venturing onto philosophical ground, worthy of intense thought and debate yet not very helpful to Rachel's cause. He'd been planning on asking directions to Dr. Shields's infirmary, in order to more thoroughly understand the magistrate's illness, but somehow he did not approach the next person he saw, which was a man mending a wagon's wheel, nor did he approach the next two men who were standing together smoking pipes and conversing. Perhaps he didn't wish to answer questions concerning the magistrate's health or the fate of the witch, but in any case he kept walking from Industry Street onto Truth Street and therefore in the direction of where he knew he'd been heading all along: the gaol.

The door was still left unsecured. The sight of the pillory standing beside the gaol did nothing for his fond memories of this morning, yet he realized—and would be loath to admit it to anyone, especially Bidwell or the magistrate—that he missed Rachel's presence. And why was that? He asked himself that question, as he stood just outside the door.

Because she needed him. That was it, in an acorn's shell.

He went inside. A lantern burned and the roof's hatch had been opened, courtesy of Mr. Green, therefore the gloom had been somewhat conquered. Upon seeing who her visitor was, Rachel stood up from the bench and pushed the hood of her coarse cloak back from her face. She allowed as much of a smile as she was able to muster—so feeble it was hardly worth the effort—and she came to the bars to meet him.

He approached her cell. He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to explain his return. So he was relieved when Rachel spoke first, 'I heard the whip strike. Are you all right?'

'I am.'

'It sounded painful.'

He felt suddenly very shy in her company. He didn't know whether to look at the floor or into Rachel's eyes, which caught the yellow lamplight and gleamed like gold coins. Though her smile had been weak, her eyes still held remarkable strength, and Matthew had the sensation that she could see through his frame of flesh and bones, into the depths of his guarded soul. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. What she might see there, he knew, was his own desire to be needed, which had always been true in his relationship with the magistrate but was now a bright, hot bonfire. It was that he had seen her naked, he thought: not the moment of her being physically unclothed, but the moment in which she had exposed her own need and reached for his hand through the bars to seek comfort.

He'd realized he was all the hope she had left in the world. Whatever aid and comfort would be given to her for the rest of her short days, it would come from him. How could he banish her from his mind and soul? Woodward was in dire need as well, but he had the care of Dr. Shields. This woman—this beautiful, tragic woman standing before him—had no one on earth to care for her but himself.

'Has Green brought your meal yet?' he asked.

'I've just now finished it.'

'Do you need fresh water? I could go fetch you some.'

'No,' she said. 'I have enough water. But thank you.'

Matthew looked around at the dirty hovel. 'This place should be swept out and fresh straw laid down. It's abysmal that you should have to endure such filth.'

'I imagine it's a late hour for that,' she replied. 'May I ask how goes the magistrate's deliberations?'

'He has issued no word yet.'

'I know there can be no other decree but that of guilty,' she said. 'The evidence against me is too strong, particularly after what the child said. I know also I didn't help myself by violating the Bible, but I lost my senses. So . . . Bidwell will have his witch-burning before long.' There was pain in her face, but she lifted her chin. 'When the time comes, I shall be ready. I will have made my preparations. When I am led out of this place I will be glad, because I know that though I am banished from earth I shall be received in Heaven.'

Matthew started to protest her surrender, but words failed him.

'I am very, very tired,' Rachel said quietly. She pressed the fingers of her right hand to her forehead and closed her eyes for a few seconds. 'I will be ready to fly this cage,' she said. 'I did love my husband. But I have so long felt alone . . . that death must be better.' Her eyes opened, and she lowered her hand. 'Will you attend it?'

Matthew realized what she meant. 'No,' he said.

'Will I be buried near my husband? Or somewhere else?'

There was no use in telling her anything but the truth. 'Probably outside the town.'

'I thought as much. They won't behead me, will they? I mean . . . after I'm burned, will my body be violated?'

'No.' He would make sure not even a fingerbone was cleaved off to be shown for two pence at Van Gundy's tavern. Of course, what some graverobber did to her skeleton after he and Woodward had departed was beyond his control and beyond his wish to think about.

Rachel's expression of concern told Matthew this thought had entered her mind as well, but she didn't give it voice. She said, 'I'll have only one regret: that whoever murdered Daniel and Reverend Grove will never be brought to justice. That's not fair, is it?'

'No, it certainly is not.'

'But by then I won't care, will I?' She looked up at the clouded sky through the roof hatch. 'I thought—I hoped—I would die of old age, in bed in my own home. I never dreamed my life would end like this, and that I'd not even be allowed to lie beside my husband! That's not fair either, is it?' She breathed in and let go a long sigh, and finally she lowered her gaze, her mouth drawn into a tight line.

The gaol's door opened, and instantly upon seeing who had arrived Rachel stepped back from the bars.

'Ah ha!' Exodus Jerusalem tilted his head to one side, smiling slyly. 'What doth go on here?'

Matthew turned to confront him. 'May I ask what your business is?'

'Whatever I do, wherever I goeth, 'tis the business of my Lord God.' Jerusalem, clad in his black tricorn and black suit, came forward within an arm's length of Matthew. 'I should wager thy business doth not be so holy.'

'Your presence is not wanted here, sir.'

'Oh, I am sure of that. But I hath come to speak to the witch, not to her cock-a-doodler.'

Matthew felt the blood burn in his cheeks. 'I don't think Madam Howarth has anything to say to you.'

'She might, as without my influence her tongue should be forever silent.' The preacher directed his next statement to Rachel: 'Witch Howarth, thy hourglass is near empty. I have heard it said the tree hath been selected from which thy stake shall be cut. Even now, the axes are being sharpened. I sincerely hope thou hast given some thought to the offer I made thee on my last visit.'

'What, the offer to be your travelling doxy?' Rachel asked sharply.

'To be my travelling disciple,' he answered, his voice a smooth adagio, so leisurely