The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (summer reads txt) 📗

She opened her mouth, revealing the red, worm-like remains of her tongue.

“I see.” The magistrate looked quickly down at his papers again. “Mister Sloop? Seeing as the head of the town council is no longer with us, I take it you have organized the witnesses?”

“I have.”

The man motioned with one hand. “Let us begin, then.”

Sands was the first to approach the table. He was wearing what looked to be a formal, ten-year-old coat and breeches cut too high above the calf. His long, thinning hair was combed back from his head in an effort to look presentable. The sum of these was anything but.

The magistrate picked up a large quill and dipped it into a bottle of ink. “Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

“Sebastian Oswald Sands. Worked for the deceased, I did.”

“Could you tell us what happened two nights prior?”

As the magistrate spoke, Sands turned to Isabella and leered. It was the same leer he adopted when he caught one of the house servants stealing from the kitchen, a look of glee in the coming reprisal. Only whatever he expected to find was not present. What he saw instead wiped the grin from his face as quickly as a blow.

“Mister Sands?”

The man’s head snapped back to the magistrate. “The accused came home after dinner at the Huxleys. Looked like she been in a row, she did. Dress all in a fluff. Came in as if she had a mission and went straight to her father.” He proceeded to tell them about the events leading up to the discovery of the corpse, the state of the body, and Isabella’s timely appearance. He concluded with the arrival of the watchmen and the discovery of the vial upon her person. “And that is what I saw, sir. That be why she’s a witch.”

There was a moment of stillness in which the only sound was the magistrate’s quill scratching at the parchment. Then he stopped writing and the scratching continued. The old master of house looked to his left and seemed to notice Isabella staring at him, the fingers of one hand picking at a scab on her wrist.

“That will be all, Mister Sands,” the magistrate said.

The man stepped away, casting another uneasy glance at her before disappearing into the crowd.

At the same time, there was a commotion near the back. Two figures, arm in arm, making their way through the throngs. It was her Thomas, leading the slave girl from their last encounter.

“Your name, please?” the magistrate said. He was staring at the parchment.

“Oh, bloody hell. We just met yesterday, man.”

The magistrate looked up and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Indeed, er…Mister Huxley. What is the meaning of this?”

“My poor Winifred. She has been impregnated by this beast of the Devil, and she has come to bear witness.”

“You know her testimony has no weight with the law, Mister Huxley?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Why is it you think I am here? She is my property. I am to corroborate and explicate. I do think it relevant. It is quite a tale.”

“Hm,” the magistrate said. Then, “Very well.”

And what a tale it was. It began with stories of the girl’s dreams, nightmares, hauntings after sunset, in which the shadows of the house danced and spoke. Then, one night, she was visited by a many-horned giant with green skin and a bulge in his trousers as large as a man’s arm. He climbed into the bed with her, and lay with her, and violated her. In the morning, he was gone, though her belly had already begun to swell.

The story was ludicrous, as full of holes as a moth-eaten blanket, but every time she began to stray or falter, Thomas was there to interject. So Winifred continued, weeping as she approached the end.

“How did you know this, eh, creature was commanded by something other than itself?” the magistrate asked, the doubt plain upon his face.

“He left something behind, sir. A token of his mistress.”

“And?”

Winifred looked to her left, and while Isabella wanted to hate her as much as the others, she could not. The poor girl was terrified, in a hell as ghastly as her own. When Isabella looked away, the slave girl retrieved a small, shiny object from her dress and set it on the table. The entire crowd strained and stared. It was Isabella’s ring.

The ensuing uproar shook the very foundations of the gallows. Several members of the crowd pushed toward the inner circle, and the watchmen had to shove them back into place.

The magistrate looked positively alarmed.

“All right. ’Tis all right!” Sloop bellowed, moving once more to the front. “I know this is a great shock, but if any of you may corroborate these terrible deeds, please come forward.”

Indeed, they could. One by one, the servants of the Ashford house lined up to bear witness. Then came the free staff of the Huxley house. Then came the people of the town, the wives and the merchants and the workers from the docks. The people Isabella had known and loved her entire life. None had a story as damning as poor Winifred, but they all testified to her character. Her strangeness.

“Spends too much time in the wood, she does,” one of her father’s men said.

“Always messing with potions and remedies in the kitchen,” said another.

“I seen her talk to a bird, and the bird listened,” cried one of her neighbors. “I always known ’twas her familiar!”

As the last of them filtered away, there was yet another great commotion. A figure pushing and shoving his way to the front. For the first time since the start of the proceedings, Isabella’s heart swelled. My servant boy. As he neared, she remembered her shame and disgrace at being so mangled, and looked at the ground.

“Out of the way! Out of the way, I say!” Jacob emerged before the table, heaving and panting. “What is the meaning of this?”

Sebastian Sands came pushing through behind him, looking even more flustered than