Speaks the Nightbird (Matthew Corbett #1)

Speaks the Nightbird (Matthew Corbett #1) Page 26

a CHORUS OF ROOSTERS CROWED like triumphant horns. Matthew opened his eyes to a rose-colored light. above him, the sky was pale pink and dappled with purple-edged clouds. He sat up, drawing in the sweet air of what seemed the first true morning of May.

Someone began ringing a bell, and then a second higher-toned bell added its voice. Matthew got to his feet. He heard a man's joyous shout from further along Harmony Street, and then Matthew saw perhaps the most beautiful sight of his life: the sun, a golden fireball, was rising over the sea. This was the sun of creation, and its mere touch had the force to waken the earth. Matthew lifted his face toward the light as a third bell chimed. Two birds began to chirp in one of the oaks that stood around the spring. Tendrils of low-lying mist still clung to the ground, but they were pitiful and short-fated relatives to the massive thunderclouds that had so long held dominion. Matthew stood breathing the air as if he'd forgotten what springtime smelled like, as indeed he had: not the wet, foul stagnance of a swamp, but the clean soft breeze that brought the promise of new beginnings.

If ever there had been a morning to put Satan to flight, this was the one. Matthew stretched his arms up toward the sky to loosen the tight muscles in his back, though it could certainly be said that sleeping outdoors in the grass was preferable to grappling with Somnus in the gaol. He watched the sunlight strengthening across the roofs, yards, and fields of Fount Royal, the mist in full retreat. Of course the clear weather might only last one day before the rain returned, but he dared think nature's pendulum had swung in Bidwell's favor.

He had business this morning with the master of Fount Royal. He left the spring and walked to the mansion, the shutters of which had already been opened to the air. He found the entrance unlatched, and as he considered himself somewhat more than a visitor he opened it without ringing the bell and proceeded up the stairs to look in on the magistrate.

Woodward was still asleep, though either Mrs. Nettles or one of the other servants had already entered to crack the shutters of his room. Matthew approached the bed and stood beside it, looking at the magistrate. Woodward's mouth was partway open, the sound of his breathing like the faint scraping together of rusted iron wheels in a mechanism that was near failure. Brown bloodstains on the pillow behind his head marked the administrations of Dr. Shields's lancet last night, a task that was becoming a nocturnal ritual. a plaster medicated with some kind of nose-searing ointment bad been pressed upon Woodward's bare chest, and grease glistened on the magistrate's upper lip and around his green-crusted nostrils. On the bedside table, three candles that had burned down to stubs indicated that Woodward had attempted more reading of the documents last night, and the documents themselves had spilled off the bed and lay now on the floor.

Matthew set about picking up the papers, carefully arranging them in proper sequence, and when he was done he returned them to the wooden box. The portion that Matthew had taken to his room and read yesterday evening had not delivered any further insights, much to his disappointment. He stared at Woodward's face, at the way the yellow-tinged flesh stretched over the skull, at the pale purple eyelids through which could be seen the protrusions of the orbs. a spiderwork of tiny red blood vessels had appeared on either side of Woodward's nose. The man seemed to have become thinner since Matthew last saw him, though this was due possibly to the change of light. He appeared much older too, the lines upon his face cut deeper by suffering. The blotches on his scalp had darkened as the flesh paled. There was a terrible fragility about him now, something breakable as a clay cup. Looking upon the magistrate in this condition frightened Matthew, yet he was compelled to observe.

He had seen the mask of Death before. He knew it was now before him, clasping on to the magistrate's face. The skin was being shrunken, the skull sharpened for its imminent emergence. a dagger of panic pierced him and twisted in his guts. He wished to shake Woodward awake, to pull him to his feet and make him walk, talk, dance... anything to banish this sickness. But, no... the magistrate needed his rest. He needed to sleep long and hard, with the benefit of the ointments and the bloodletting. and now there was good reason to hope for the best, with the freshened air and the sun's appearance! Yes, it was best to let the magistrate sleep until he awakened on his own, no matter how long, and let nature work its medicine.

Matthew reached out and gently touched Woodward's right hand. Instantly he drew back, because even though the magistrate's flesh was hot there was yet a moist waxy sensation to it that greatly disturbed him. Woodward made a soft moaning sound, and his eyelids fluttered but he didn't awaken. Matthew backed to the door, the panic dagger still jabbing at his stomach, and then he went quietly out into the hallway.

Downstairs, he followed the noise of cutlery scraping a plate and found Bidwell at the feasting table attacking a breakfast of corncakes, fried potatoes, and hambone marrow. "ah, here is the clerk this fine, God-lit morning!" Bidwell said before he stuffed his mouth. He wore a peacock-blue suit, a lace-ruffled shirt, and one of his most elaborately combed and curled wigs.

He washed the food down with a drink of apple beer and nodded toward the place that had been set for Matthew. "Sit down and feed yourself!"

Matthew accepted the invitation. Bidwell shoved a platter of corncakes in his direction and Matthew speared two of them with his knife. The marrow platter followed.

"Mrs. Nettles told me you weren't in your room when she knocked." Bidwell continued to eat as he talked, which resulted in half-chewed food spilling from his mouth. "Where were youi"

"Out, " Matthew answered.

"Out, " Bidwell said, with a note of sarcasm. "Yes, I know you were out. But out where, and doing whati"

"I went outside when I saw the schoolhouse on fire. I stayed out the rest of the night."

"Oh, that's why you look so poorly then!" He started to stab a fried potato with his knife, but paused in mid-thrust. "Wait a moment." His eyes narrowed. "What mischief have you been up toi"

"Mischiefi You presume the worst, I think."

"You may think, but I know. Whose barn have you been poking around in this timei"

Matthew looked him in the eyes. "I went back to the blacksmith's barn, of course."

There was a deadly quiet. Then Bidwell laughed. His knife came down into the potato; he claimed it from the platter and shoved the rest of the charred tubers toward Matthew. "Oh, you're full of spite today, aren't youi Well, I know you may be a young fool but you are not fool enough to go back to Hazelton's place! No sirrah! That man would put a pole to your backside!"

"Not unless I was a mare, " Matthew said quietly, taking a bite of a corncake. "Whati"

"I said... I would do well to beware. Hazelton, I mean."

"Yes, and that's the smartest thing I've heard leave your lips!" Bidwell spent a moment eating again, as if food would be outlawed by the King on the morrow, before he spoke. "Your back. How is iti"

"a little painful. Otherwise, all right."

"Well, eat up. a full belly dulls all pain. That's what my father used to tell me, when I was your age. Of course, by the time I was your age I was working on the docks fourteen hours a day, and if I could steal a pear I was as happy as a lord." He paused to quaff from his tankard. "Have you ever worked a whole day in your lifei"

"Physical work, you meani"

"What other kind of work is there for a young mani Yes, I mean physical! Have you ever sweated to move a pile of heavy crates twenty feet because the bastard in charge says you'll do it or elsei Have you ever pulled a rope until your hands bled, your shoulders cracked, and you cried like a baby but you knew you had to keep pullingi Have you ever gotten on your knees and scrubbed the deck of a ship with a brush, and then gotten down and scrubbed it again when that bastard in charge spat on iti Welli Have youi"

"No, " Matthew said.

"Ha!" Bidwell nodded, grinning. "I have. Many times! and I'm damned proud of it, too! You know whyi Because it made me a man. and you know who that bastard in charge wasi My father. Yes, my father, rest his soul." He stabbed a chunk of potato with a force that Matthew thought might send the knife through the plate and table both. When Bidwell chewed it, his teeth ground together.

"Your father sounds like a hard taskmaster, " Matthew said.

"My father, " Bidwell replied, "came up from London's dirt, just as I did. My first memory of him was the smell of the river. and he knew those docks and those ships. He started out as a cargo handler, but he had a gift for working wood and he could lay a hull patch with the best who ever lived. That's how the yard started. One ship here, another there. Then more and more, and soon he had his own drydock. Yes, he was a hard taskmaster, but just as hard on himself as on anyone else."

"You inherited your business from him, theni"

"Inheritedi" Bidwell cast a scornful glance. "I inherited nothing from him but misery! My father was inspecting a hulk for salvage - something he'd done dozens of times before - when a section of rotten planks gave way and he fell through. His knees were shattered. Gangrene set in and to save his life the surgeon took both his legs. I was nineteen years old, and suddenly I was responsible for my invalid father, my mother, and two younger sisters, one of whom was sickly to the point of emaciation. Well, it quickly became clear to me that though my father was a hard taskmaster he was a sorry bookkeeper. The records of income and debts were abysmal, if they existed at all. and here came the creditors, who presumed the yard would be sold now that my father was confined to his bed."

"But you didn't sell iti" Matthew asked.

"Oh, I sold it all right. To the highest bidder. I had no choice, the records being as they were. My father raged like a tiger. He called me a fool and a weakling, and vowed he would hate me to his grave and beyond for destroying his business." Bidwell paused to swig from the tankard. "But I paid off the debtors and settled all accounts. I put food on our table and bought medicine for my sister, and I found I had a small amount of money left. There was a small marine carpentry shop that advertised for investors, as they were expanding their workplace. I decided to put every last shilling I had into it, so I might have some influence over the decisions. My family name was already known, of course. The greatest problem I first faced was in raising more money to put into the business, which I did by laboring at other jobs and also by some bluffing at the gaming tables. Then there were the small-thinkers to be gotten rid of, those men who let caution be their rulers and so never dared to win for fear of losing."

Bidwell chewed on bone marrow, his eyes hooded. "One of those men, unfortunately, had his name above the workplace door. He was too concerned with inches, while I thought in terms of leagues. He saw marine carpentry, while I saw shipbuilding.

Thus - though he was thirty years older than me, and had built the shop from its beginnings - I knew the pasture belonged to him, but the future was mine. I set out to procure business that I knew he would not condone. I prepared profit statements and cost predictions, down to the last timber and nail, which I then presented to a meeting of the craftsmen. My question to them was: did they wish to take a risk of a great future under my guidance, or did they wish to continue their current plodding path under Mr. Kellingsworthi Two of them voted to throw me out the door. The other four - including the master draftsman -  voted to take on the new work."

"and Mr. Kellingsworthi" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure he had something to sayi"

"at first he was mute with anger. Then... I think he was relieved, because he didn't want the mantle of responsibility. He wanted a quiet life far removed from the specter of failure that haunted his successes." Bidwell nodded. "Yes, I think he'd been searching for a way to that pasture for a long time, but he needed a push. I gave it to him, along with a very decent buyout settlement and a percentage of future income... to decrease with the passage of time, of course. But my name was on the placard above the door. My name and my name only. That was the starting of it."

"I expect your father was proud of you."

Bidwell was silent, staring at nothing though his eyes were fierce. "One of the first things I purchased with my profits was a pair of wooden legs, " he said. "The finest wooden legs that could be made in all of England. I took them to him. He looked at them. I said I would help him learn to walk. I said I would hire a specialist to teach him." Bidwell's tongue emerged, and he slowly licked his upper lip. "He said... he would not wear them if I had bought him a pair of real legs and could bind them solid again. He said I could take them to the Devil, because that is where a traitor was destined to burn." Bidwell pulled in a long breath and let it go. "and those were the final words he ever spoke to me."

Though he didn't particularly care for Bidwell, Matthew couldn't help but feel little sad for him. "I'm sorry."

"Sorryi" Bidwell snapped. "Whyi" He thrust his food-streaked chin forward. "Sorry because I'm a successi a self-made mani Sorry because I am rich, that I have built this house and this town and there is more building yet to be donei Because Fount Royal will become a center of maritime tradei Or because at long last the weather has cleared and the spirits of my citizens will rise accordinglyi" He jabbed another piece of potato with his knife and pushed it into his mouth. "I think, " he said as he chewed, "that the only thing you're sorry for is the impending execution of that damned witch, because you won't be able to get up her skirt!" a wicked thought struck him and made his eyes glint. "ah ha! Perhaps that's where you were all night! Were you in the gaol with heri I wouldn't doubt it! Preacher Jerusalem told me about you striking him yesterday!" He gave a dark grin. "What, did a blow upon the preacher earn you a blow from the witchi"

Matthew slowly put down his knife and spoon. Flames were burning behind his face, but he said coldly, "Preacher Jerusalem has his own intents toward Rachel. You may think as you please, but be aware that he has put a ring through your nose."

"Oh yes, of course he has! and she hasn't put a ring through yours, I supposei Or perhaps she has put her kiss of approval on your balls, is that iti I can see her now, on her knees, and you up close against those bars! Oh, that's a precious sight!"

"I had a precious sight of my own last night!" Matthew said, the flames beginning to burn through his self-control. "When I went out to the - " He stopped himself before the words could flow. He'd been on the verge of telling Bidwell about Winston's escapade and the buckets of infernal fire, but he was not going to be goaded to spill his knowledge before he was ready. He stared down at his plate, a muscle working in his jaw.

"I never met a young man so full of pepper and manure as you, " Bidwell went on, calmer now but oblivious to what Matthew had been about to say. "If it were up to you, my town would be a witch's haven, wouldn't iti You'd even defy your own poor, sick master to save that woman's flesh from the fire! I think you ought to get to a monastery up there in Charles Town and become a monk to save your soul. Either that, or go to a bawdy-house and fuck the doxies 'til your eyeballs blow out."

"Mr. Rawlings, " Matthew said, his voice strained.

"Whoi"

"Mr. Rawlings, " he repeated, realizing he had set one foot into the morass. "Do you know that namei"

"No. Why should Ii"

"Mr. Danforth, " Matthew said. "Do you know that namei"

Bidwell scratched his chin. "Yes, I do. Oliver Danforth is the harbormaster in Charles Town. I have had some trouble with him, in getting supplies through. What of himi"

"Someone mentioned the name, " Matthew explained. "I hadn't met anyone by that name, so I wondered who he might be."

"Who mentioned himi"

Matthew saw ahead of him a maze taking shape, and he must quickly negotiate out of it. "Mr. Paine, " he said. "It was before I went into the gaol."

"Nicholas, ehi" Bidwell frowned. "That's odd."

"Is iti" Matthew's heart gave a thump.

"Yes. Nicholas can't stand the sight of Oliver Danforth. They've had some arguments over the supply situation, therefore I've been sending Edward to deal with him. Nicholas goes along too, to protect Edward from harm on the road, but Edward is far better a diplomat. I don't understand why Nicholas should be talking about Danforth to you."

"It wasn't to me, exactly. It was a name I overheard."

"Oh, you have big ears too, is that iti" Bidwell grunted and finished off his drink. "I should have guessed!"

"Mr. Winston seems a valuable and loyal man, " Matthew ventured. "Has he been with you very longi"

"Eight years. Now what're all these questions abouti"

"My curiosity, that's all."

"Well for Christ's sake, rein it in! I've had enough of it!" He pushed himself up from his seat in preparation to leave.

"Please indulge me just a minute longer, " Matthew said, also standing up. "I swear before God I won't bother you with any further questions if you'll just answer a few more."

"Whyi What is you wish to know about Edwardi"

"Not about Mr. Winston. about the spring."

Bidwell looked as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "The springi Have you lost your senses altogetheri"

"The spring, " Matthew repeated firmly. "I'd like to know how it came to be found, and when."

"You're serious, aren't youi Lord, you really are!" Bidwell started to blast at Matthew, but all the air seemed to leave him before he could gather himself. "You have worn me out, " he admitted. "You have absolutely tattered my rag."

"Humor me, as it is such a beautiful morning, " Matthew said steadfastly. "I repeat my promise not to plague you again, if you'll tell me how you came to find the spring."

Bidwell laughed quietly and shook his head. "all right, then. You must know that, in addition to royally funded explorers, there are men for hire who will carry out private explorations for individuals or companies. It was one of these that I contracted to find a settlement area with a fresh water source at least forty miles south of Charles Town. I stressed the fact that access to the sea was needed, yet a direct seafront was not necessary. I could drain a marsh, therefore the presence of such was tolerable. I also needed an abundance of hardwood and an area defensible from pirates and Indian raiders. When the proper place was found -  this place - I presented the findings and my plans to the royal court, whereupon I waited two months for a grant to purchase the land."

"It was given readilyi" Matthew asked. "Or did anyone attempt to block the granti"

"Word had gotten to Charles Town. a coalition of their paid magpies swooped in and tried to dissuade the transaction, but I was already ahead of them. I had greased so many palms I could be called an oil pot, and I even added free giltwork to the yacht of the colonial administrator so he might turn heads on his jaunts up and down the Thames."

"But you hadn't visited this area before you made the purchasei"

"No, I trusted aronzel Hearn. The man I'd hired." Bidwell took his snuffbox from his coat pocket, opened it, and noisily sniffed a pinch. "I saw a map, of course. It suited my needs, that's all I had to know."

"What of the springi"

"What of it, boyi" Bidwell's patience was fraying like a rope rubbing splintered wood.

"I know the land was mapped, " Matthew said, "but what of the springi Did Hearn take a sounding of iti How deep is it, and from where does the water comei"

"It comes from... I don't know. Somewhere." Bidwell took another sniff. "I do know there are other smaller springs out in the wilderness. Solomon Stiles has seen them, and drunk from them, on his hunting trips. I suppose they're all connected underground. as far as the depth is concerned..." He stopped, with his snuff-pinched fingers poised near his nostrils. "Now that's strange, " he said.

"What isi"

"Speaking of the spring like this. I remember someone else asking me similar questions."

at once Matthew's bloodhound sense came to full alert. "Who was iti"

"It was... a surveyor who came to town. Perhaps a year or so after we began building. He was mapping the road between Charles Town and here, and wished to map Fount Royal as well. I recall he was interested in the depth of the spring."

"So he took a soundingi"

"Yes, he did. He'd been set upon by Indians several miles from our gate. The savages had stolen all his instruments, therefore I had Hazelton fashion him a rope with a sounding weight tied at the end. I also had a raft built for him, that he might take his measurements from various areas of the fount."

"ah, " Matthew said quietly, his mouth dry. "a surveyor without instruments. Do you know if he discovered the spring's depthi"

"as I remember, the deepest point was found to be some forty feet."

"Was this surveyor travelling alonei"

"He was alone. On horseback. I recall he told me he had left the savages playing with his bag, and he felt lucky to escape with his hair. He had a full beard too, so I expect they might have sheared his face off to get it."

"a beard, " Matthew said. "Was he young or oldi Tall or shorti Fat or thini"

Bidwell stared blankly at him. "Your mind is as addled as a cockroach, isn't iti What the bloody hell does it matteri"

"I would really like to know, " Matthew persisted. "What was his heighti"

"Well... taller than me, I suppose. I don't remember much about him but the beard."

"What color was iti"

"I think... dark brown. There might have been some gray in it." He scowled. "You don't expect me to fully remember a man who passed through here four years ago, do youi and what's the point of these foolish questionsi"

"Where did he stayi" Matthew asked, oblivious to Bidwell's rising ire. "Here in the housei"

"I offered him a room. as I recall, he refused and asked for the loan of a tent. He spent two or possibly three nights sleeping outside. I believe it was early September, and certainly warm enough."

"Let me guess where the tent was pitched, " Matthew said. "Was it beside the springi"

"I think it might have been. What of iti" Bidwell cocked his head to one side, flakes of snuff around his nostrils.

"I am working on a theory, " Matthew answered.

Bidwell giggled; it sounded like a woman's laugh, it was so quick and high-pitched, and Bidwell instantly put his hand to his mouth and flushed crimson. "a theory, " he said, about to laugh again; in fact, he was straining so hard to hold back his merriment that his jowls and corncake-stuffed belly quivered. "By God, we must have our daily theories, mustn't wei"

"Laugh if you like, but answer this: for whom was the surveyor workingi"

"For whomi Why... one moment, I have a theory!" Bidwell widened his eyes in mockery. "I believe he must have been working for the Council of Lands and Plantations! There is such an administrative body, you know!"

"He told you he was working for this council, theni"

"Damn it, boy!" Bidwell shouted, the mighty schooner of his patience smashing out its belly on the rocks. "I've had enough of this!" He stalked past Matthew and out of the banquet room.

Matthew instantly followed him. "Please, sir!" he said as Bid-well walked to the staircase. "It's important! Did this surveyor tell you his namei"

"Pah!" Bidwell replied, starting up the steps. "You're as crazy as a loon!"

"His name! Can you recall iti"

Bidwell stopped, realizing he could not shake the flea that gave him such a maddening itch. He looked back at Matthew, his eyes ablaze. "No, I do not! Winston walked him about the town! Go ask him and leave me be! I swear, you could set Satan himself running for sanctuary!" He jabbed a finger toward the younger man. "But you won't ruin this glorious day for me, no sirrah you won't! The sun is out, praise God, and as soon as that damned witch is ashes this town will grow again! So go march to the gaol and tell her that Robert Bidwell has never failed, never, and will never be a failure!"

a figure suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. Matthew saw him first, of course, and Matthew's astonished expression made Bidwell jerk his head around.

Woodward braced himself against the wall, his flesh near the same hue as his pap-stained cotton nightgown. a sheen of sweat glistened on his sallow face, and his eyes were red-rimmed and weak with pain.

"Magistrate!" Bidwell climbed the risers to lend a supporting arm. "I thought you were sleeping!"

"I was, " he said hoarsely, though speaking with any volume caused his throat grievous suffering. "Who can sleep... during a duel of cannonsi"

"I apologize, sir. Your clerk has roused my bad manners yet again."

The magistrate stared down into Matthew's face, and at once Matthew knew what had been important enough to force him from his bed.

"My deliberations are done, " Woodward said. "Come prepare a quill and paper."

"You mean..... you mean..." Bidwell could hardly contain himself. "You have reached your decisioni"

"Come up, Matthew, " Woodward repeated, and then to Bid-well, "Will you help me to my bed, pleasei"

Bidwell might have bodily lifted the magistrate and carried him, but decorum prevailed. Matthew ascended the stairs, and together he and the master of Fount Royal took Woodward along the hallway to his room. Once settled in bed again and propped up on the blood-spotted pillow, Woodward said, "Thank you, Mr. Bidwell. You may depart."

"If you don't mind, I would like to stay and hear the decree." Bidwell had already closed the door and claimed a position next to the bed.

"I do mind, sir. Until the decree is read to the accused" -  Woodward paused to gasp a breath - "it is the court's business. It would not be seemly otherwise."

"Yes but - "

"Depart, " Woodward said. "Your presence delays our work." He glanced irritably at Matthew, who stood at the foot of the bed. "The quill and paper! Now!" Matthew turned away to get the document box that also held sheets of clean paper, the quill, and the inkjar.

Bidwell went to the door, but before he left he had to try once again. "Tell me this, then: should I have the stake cut and plantedi"

Woodward squeezed his eyes shut at Bidwell's dogged disregard for propriety. Then he opened them and said tersely, "Sir... you may accompany Matthew to read my decree to the accused. Now please... leave us."

"all right, then. I'm going."

"and... Mr. Bidwell... please refrain from dawdling in the hall."

"My word on it as a gentleman. I shall be waiting downstairs." Bidwell left the room and closed the door.

Woodward stared out the window at the gold-tinged sun-illumed morning. It was going to be beautiful today, he thought. a more lovely morning than he'd seen in the better part of a month. "Date the decree, " he told Matthew, though it was hardly necessary.

Matthew sat upon the stool beside the bed, using the document box as a makeshift writing table propped on his knees. He dipped the quill into the ink and wrote at the top of the paper May Seventeenth, Sixteen-Ninety-Nine.

"Ready it, " Woodward prodded, his eyes fixed on the outside world.

Matthew scribed the preface, which he had done enough times in enough different circumstances to know the correct wording. It took him a few moments and a few dips of the quill: By Decree of the Right Honorable King's appointed Magistrate Isaac Temple Woodward on This Day in the Settlement of Fount Royal, Carolina Colony, Concerning the accusations of Murder and Witchcraft to Be Detailed as Follows against the Defendant, a Woman Citizen Known Hereby as Rachel Howarth...

He had to stop to work out a kink in his writing hand. "Go on, " Woodward said. "It must be done."

Matthew had an ashen taste in his mouth. He dipped the quill again, and this time he spoke the words aloud as he wrote them: "On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove, I Find the aforesaid Defendant - " He paused once more, his quill poised to record the magistrate's decree. The flesh of his face seemed to have drawn tight beyond endurance, and a heat burned in his skull.

Suddenly Woodward snapped his fingers. Matthew looked at him quizzically, and when the magistrate put a finger to his lips and then motioned toward the door Matthew realized what he was trying to communicate. Matthew quietly put aside his writing materials and the document box, got up from the stool, went to the door, and quickly opened it.

Bidwell was down on one knee in the hallway, busily buffing his right shoe with his peacock-blue sleeve. He turned his head and looked at Matthew, lifting his eyebrows as if to ask why the clerk had emerged so stealthily from the magistrate's room.

"Gentleman, my ass!" Woodward hissed under his breath.

"I thought you were going downstairs to wait, " Matthew reminded the man, who now ferociously buffed his shoetop and then heaved himself up to his feet with an air of indignance.

"Did I say I would race therei I saw a blemish on my shoe!"

"The blemish is on your vow, sir!" Woodward said, with a measure of fire that belied his watery constitution.

"Very well, then! I'm going." Bidwell reached up and adjusted his wig, which had become somewhat tilted during his ascent from the floor. "Can you blame me for wanting to knowi I've waited so long for it!"

"You can wait a little longer, then." Woodward motioned him away. "Matthew, close the door." Matthew resettled himself, with the box on his knees and the writing materials and paper before him.

"Read it again, " Woodward said.

"Yes, sir." Matthew took a deep breath. "On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove, I Find the aforesaid Defendant - "

"Guilty, " came the whispered answer. "With a stipulation. That the defendant did not actually commit the murder... but caused it to be committed by her words, deeds, or associations."

"Sir!" Matthew said, his heart pounding. "Please! There's absolutely no evidence to - "

"Silence!" Woodward lifted himself up on his elbows, his face contorted with a mixture of anger, frustration, and pain. "I'll have no more of your second opinions, do you hear mei" He locked his gaze with Matthew's. "Scribe the next charge."

Matthew might have thrown down the quill and upset the inkjar, but he did not. He knew his duties, whether or not he agreed with the magistrate's decision. Therefore he swallowed the bitter gall in his throat, redipped the quill - that bastard weapon of blind destruction - and spoke again as he wrote: "On the Charge of the Murder of Daniel Howarth, I Find the aforesaid Defendant - "

"Guilty, with a stipulation. The same as above." Woodward glared at him when Matthew's hand failed to make the entry. "I should like to finish this sometime today."

Matthew had no choice but to write down the decree. The heat of shame flared in his cheeks. Now, of course, he knew what the next decision must be. "On the Charge of Witchcraft... I Find the aforesaid Defendant - "

"Guilty, " Woodward said quickly. He closed his eyes and rested his head back down on the stained pillow, his breathing harsh. Matthew heard a rattling sound deep in the magistrate's lungs. "Scribe the preface to sentencing."

Matthew wrote it as if in a trance. By Virtue of the Power ascribed to Me as Colonial Magistrate, I Hereby Sentence the aforesaid Defendant Rachel Howarth to... He lifted his quill from the paper and waited.

Woodward opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. a moment passed, during which could be heard the singing of birds in the springtime sunlight. "Burning at the stake, as warranted by the King's law, " Woodward said. "The sentence to be carried out on Monday, the twenty-second of May, sixteen-ninety-nine.

In case of inclement weather... the earliest necessary date following." His gaze ticked toward Matthew, who had not moved. "Enter it."

again, he was simply the unwitting flesh behind the instrument. Somehow the lines were quilled on the paper.

"Give it here." Woodward held out his hand and took the document. He squinted, reading it by the light that streamed through the window, and then he nodded with satisfaction. "The quill, please." Matthew had the presence of mind - or rather the dignity of his job - to dip the quill in the inkjar and blot the excess before he handed it over.

Woodward signed his full name and, below it, the title Colonial Magistrate. Ordinarily an official wax seal would be added, but the seal had been lost to that blackhearted Will Shawcombe. He then returned the paper and the quill to Matthew, who knew what was expected of him. Still moving as if enveloped in a gray haze, Matthew signed his name beneath Woodward's, along with the title Magistrate's Clerk.

and it was done.

"You may read it to the defendant, " Woodward said, avoiding looking at his clerk's face because he knew what he would see there. "Take Bidwell with you, as he should also hear it."

Matthew realized there was no use in delaying the inevitable. He slowly stood up, his mind yet fogged, and walked to the door with the decree in hand.

"Matthewi" Woodward said, "For whatever this is worth... I know you must think me heartless and cruel." He hesitated, swallowing thick pus. "But the proper sentence has been given. The witch must be burned... for the good of everyone."

"She is innocent, " Matthew managed to say, his gaze cast to the floor. "I can't prove anything yet, but I intend to keep - "

"You delude yourself... and it is time for delusions to cease."

Matthew turned toward the man, his eyes coldly furious. "You are wrong, sir, " he added. "Rachel is not a witch, she's a pawn. Oh yes, all the conditions for a burning at the stake have been met, and all is in order with the law, sir, but I am damned if I'll let someone I know to be innocent lose her life on hearsay and fantasy!"

Woodward rasped, "Your task is to read the decree! No more and no less!"

"I'll read it." Matthew nodded. "Then I'll drink rum to wash my mouth out, but I will not surrender! If she burns on Monday, I have five days to prove her innocent, and by God that's what I intend to do!"

Woodward started to answer with some vinegar, but his strength failed him. "Do what you must, " he said. "I can't... protect you from your nightbird, can Ii"

"The only thing I fear is that Rachel is burned before I can prove who murdered her husband and Reverend Grove. If that happens, I don't know how I can live with myself."

"Oh, my Christ." It had been spoken as nearly a moan. Woodward closed his eyes, feeling faint. "She has you so deeply... and you don't even realize it."

"She has my trust, if that's what you infer."

"She has your soul." His eyes opened; in an instant they had become sunken and bloodshot. "I long for the moment we shall leave this place. Return to Charles Town... civilization and sanity. When I am cured and in good health again, we'll put all this behind us. and then... when you can see clearly... you'll understand what danger tempted you."

Matthew had to get out, because the magistrate had been reduced to babbling. He couldn't bear to see the man - so proud, so regal, and so correct - on the verge of becoming a fever-dulled imbecile. He said, "I'm going, " but he still hesitated before he left the bedchamber. His tone had softened; there was no point now in harshness. "Can I get anything for youi"

Woodward drew in a suffering breath and released it. "I want ... "he began, but his agonized throat felt in jeopardy of closing and he had to start again. "I want... things to be as they were... between us. Before we came to this wretched place. I want us to return to Charles Town... and go on, as if none of this ever happened." He looked hopefully at Matthew. "all righti"

Matthew stood at the window, staring out at the sunlit town. The sky was turning bright blue, though the way he felt it might have been a dismal downpour out there. He knew what the magistrate wanted him to say. He knew it would ease him, but it would be a lie. He said quietly, "I wish it might be so, sir. But you and I both know it will not be. I may be your clerk... I may be under your watchcare, and live in your house... but I am a man, sir. If I fail to fight for the truth as I see it, then what kind of man am Ii Surely not the kind you have taught me to be. So... you ask for something I am unable to give you, Isaac."

There was a long, torturous silence. Then the magistrate spoke in his dry husk of a voice: "Leave me."

Matthew walked out, taking the hateful decree downstairs to where Bidwell was waiting.