For so many years I had dreamed of being George’s wife and now here I stand, not as a blushing bride, but as a prisoner at the feet of George’s father—Magistrate Madison, in George’s childhood home.
***
I’m pulled roughly along by Samuel and he unbinds my hands before throwing me dismissively into the cell, which is locked quickly behind me. I feel relief flood through me that I would not receive a beating from the magistrate or worse. A rage as vehement as his in a man such as he tends to demand quick sacrifice.
Samuel whispers into his ear and he nods quickly, his face inscrutable as he receives the information. His nod is almost imperceptible, but so deliberate that it conveys both understanding and a dismissal. Samuel nods briskly, glances at me briefly and then turns on his heel to leave.
I wait with torturous anticipation as his shoulders square up before he slowly turns to me. His eyes flicker over me briefly before he clasps his hands together at his waist and walks up to the bars.
“I have been advised that you claim to be impregnated,” he tells me, staring down at my middle section curiously.
“I am impregnated with your grandson,” I snap, watching his eyes widen only a scant bit before returning to hawk-like observation.
“How can I accept the word of a woman shackled to Satan?” he replies.
“You know it to be true,” I tell him, grasping the bars and sticking my face up to the cold harshness of them. “You must have heard rumors or suspected when he furnished my servant Malvina with blankets. All these years we have dallied.”
“How do I know you are truly with child? Perhaps you seek only to stall your demise,” he demands, grabbing the bars only inches from where my hands clutch. “You deal only in falsities as the devil’s whore.”
“I can undress and show you the swelling of my belly,” I curl a side of my mouth up, enjoying watching his discomfort, a delight I’m sure most are unable to indulge in.
“I would never lower myself to gaze upon your nudity, even for proof,” he sneers. “Your sorcery will not ensnare me.”
“I think you know it to be true, magistrate.” I let go of the bars and let myself sag against the moist wall, sinking down it, suddenly uncaring of the vulnerability it showed.
“You will be seen tomorrow night for a judgment,” he tells me sharply. “Evidence against you in my son’s death will be compiled and you shall be tried.”
I nod vaguely and let my eyes wander to the ceiling as I lean back as he takes his leave.
The air is chilled and clammy, but it’s only a nuisance as I wile away in the meta prison of guilt that I have built. The series of events that led me here, made of both crimes of my own and of others haunt me. My path had strayed far from the one Malvina would have led me on, and I drop my head in shame that I occupy the same dripping and noxious corner that she did before death. I wonder if she would have made the same choice had she looked further into the future and seen how far I would fall.
The heavy door to the cellar slams and I look up to see the magistrate approaching, a shining dagger glinting in his clenched fist. His face is passive, but his posture tensed like a snake about to strike.
“I shall be honest with you, witch,” he begins, stalking back and forth before the bars. “I do believe that my son dallied with you. No doubt he was under your spell completely, but make no mistake that it was a spell and not any admirable qualities of your person.”
“I am not an agent of Satan,” I say through gritted teeth, trying not to stare at the steel in his hands. I came here knowing I would die, but I have not yet set my spell into motion, and my death will be in vain should he kill me now, leaving Iris completely alone. “George loved me.”
“Yet you murdered him,” he spat out, facial control slipping only so slightly. “My son who you were so far below in every regard.”
“That cake was meant for Sarah,” I say carefully. “She came to me seeking a love spell, which I do not possess.”
“So you meant to murder the mother of my granchildren?” he laughs humorlessly. “With this confession you will hang for murder, regardless of your denial of witchcraft.”
I try not to audibly sigh with relief at hearing I would hang. As long as I survive whatever he does to me now, I will have the time I need. I remain mute as I stare defiantly at him, making him twitch.
“In the meantime I will reap the devil from you,” he says almost conversationally as he unlocks the door and slips into the cell. “The devil uses a woman’s hair as reins to guide her to evil, and to tempt righteous men.”
I pull myself to my feet and brace myself against the dank stones, moving deftly to situate the book hidden in my skirts between my thighs, should our close contact bring him to feel the hard edges of the tome.
“While you are jailed under my roof you will be stripped of your alluring hair. I will remove your temptress locks,” he says, stalking closer, his eyes glinting with righteous delight. “You will not use your devil’s fruit against my jailors. You begged them to languish between your legs at your arrest, and so I shall remove your greatest power.”
I don’t bother to correct the outrageous accusation, knowing it will fall upon deaf ears as he roughly grabs sections of my hair, using the blade to saw them unevenly. I watch my hair
