Even her skin is different – it is smoother, thicker. As if she is armoured.
Armoured and ready, to protect her daughter.
The force of it – this love that surges in her veins – shocks her. As does the searing clarity that she will do anything, whatever is necessary, to keep her child safe.
Unbidden, the day of the accident flashes in her mind. Her father’s hand on her shoulder, rough and desperate, pushing her out of the way of the oncoming car. Had he felt this way, too?
She blinks the memory away, refocuses her gaze on the woman in the mirror. A woman she can barely recognise as herself.
She looks – and feels – powerful.
There’s only one thing she wants to change.
Aunt Violet’s kitchen scissors are next to the sink. Kate lifts them to her head and begins to snip, smiling as coils of bleached, brassy hair fall to the ground. By the time she is finished, only the roots remain, bristling from her scalp like a dark halo.
She dresses before she leaves.
Not in her old clothes, the things that Simon chose for her. Those, she leaves behind.
Instead, she dons a pair of Violet’s linen trousers, and a loose tunic of green silk, embroidered with a delicate pattern of leaves. Last, the straw hat with the feather. The walk to the village is peaceful, and she tests her growing knowledge of the local plant life – there, by the side of the road curl green fronds of stinging nettle; from the hedgerows peer creamy spouts of meadowsweet. Silver flashes amongst the green: the silky strands of old man’s beard. She breathes deeply, inhaling the scent.
She is passing under the oaks when she feels a dark shape fall across her body, hears a guttural cry. But there is no needle of ice, this time. Instead, a whisper of the feeling she’d had in the garden, when the insects had brushed against her skin, returns. Movement in her chest, like the unfurling of wings.
Come on, she tells herself. You can do this.
She keeps walking.
Emily slumps forward over the counter, flanked by stacks of books. Her greying curls quiver as she scribbles in a ledger. A ceiling fan putters, ruffling the pages of the books.
‘Hello,’ Emily looks up at the sound of the door chime. ‘How can I—’
For a moment, she looks a little pale, before she recovers herself and smiles.
‘Kate! Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just that – I didn’t realise before, how much you look like her. Like Violet. How are you getting on?’
‘I’m good, thank you. Actually, I was wondering’， says Kate, the confidence of her tone surprising her, ‘if you needed an assistant.’
28
ALTHA
That night in the dungeon was the longest of my life. The next day, I knew, the jurors would decide my fate. I knew that I would be hanged – that evening, or the following day. They would take me to the moor. One of the guards told me. I comforted myself with this, with the thought that at least then I’d see the sky, hear the birds. One last time. I wondered if anyone would come to watch – whether there would be a crowd, thronging below the scaffold, hungry for the sight of my body twisting on a rope. Satan’s bride dispatched back to Hell.
Perhaps they would be right to hang me.
I thought of the promise I had made to my mother. The promise I had broken. I had failed to live up to her name for me. I had not been able to save her. For this, and the broken promise, guilt weighted my heart like an anchor.
But to be hanged for the death of John Milburn … that was a different matter.
I do not know if I slept at all that night. Images appeared before me, looming in the dim of the cell. My mother’s face, her features bloated by death. A crow, black wings cutting the sky. Anna Metcalfe writhing on her deathbed. And John Milburn, or what had remained of him. His ruined face, dark and wet as spoiled fruit.
When they unlocked my door the next day, I felt as if I had already begun my passage from this world into the next. I seemed to be seeing everything through a haze.
Shadows haunted the edges of my vision. The veil was lifting, I thought. The veil between this world and the next. Soon I would be with my mother. I hoped she would understand what I had done, and why.
There seemed to be more people in the gallery than ever: as they led me to the dock, the courtroom swelled with jeers and booing. I looked at the faces of the judges, set into heavy creases of thought. The jurors, blank-eyed in their dark garb. Only the juror with the square jaw looked me in the eye. I was not proud, this time: I searched his face, hungry for some clue as to what would become of me. Then he looked away and a chill took hold of my heart. Perhaps he did not want to look upon a woman condemned.
I sought Grace in the crowd. Her cap shone white, pristine. She was sitting with her father, her head bowed. I willed her to turn, so that I could see her face – the face that haunted my dreams – one last time. But she did not.
One of the judges spoke.
‘The accused, Altha Weyward, has been charged with murdering Mr John Milburn by witchcraft. The alleged crime took place on 1 January, in the year of our Lord 1619.
‘Witchcraft is a grave scourge on this land, and our king, His Royal Highness James I, has charged us with fighting against its insidious evil. We must be wary of it in all aspects of our lives. The devil has long fingers and a loud voice, which reaches us all with sweet entreaties.
‘As we know, our womenfolk in particular are at great risk from the devil’s temptation, being weak in both mind and spirit. We must protect them from this evil influence, and where we find it has already taken root, tear it from the earth.
‘We have heard the evidence against the accused. It has been established that Master Milburn was trampled to death by his cows. Neither witness to John Milburn’s death has given evidence to suggest that the accused uttered any incantation to compel the animals to behave in this manner.
‘Indeed, Daniel Kirkby described how a crow tormented the animals and drove them into a frenzy. We know that crows are common in this part of the land, and that they can be violent in their interactions with other animals and humans alike.
‘The accused was not brought to touch the corpse; and thus we cannot know if it would have bled at her touch. The court, aided by the good Doctor Smythson, has examined the accused’s body for the witch’s mark.
‘None was found.
‘Having heard this evidence, I ask the gentlemen of the jury to deliver their verdict, bearing in mind their duty to God and their consciences.’
A hush fell over the court as the foreman stood. My breath caught in my chest. It did not matter what the judge had said. I could see the gallows. Could feel the noose rough against my neck. I thought of all the other women who had been put to death before me, the fate my mother had tried to shield me from. The women of North Berwick. Of Pendle Hill. Soon I would join them. I was sure of it.
‘Of the charge of murder by witchcraft,’ he said, ‘we find the accused … not guilty.’
Then, I was floating. Dreaming. I could hear the condemnation from the gallery, but it seemed to be sounding from miles away. My body was weightless, as though I were in water. I looked for Grace. Next to her, William Metcalfe had his head in his hands. So he did not see it. He did not see Grace look up at me. He did not see the expression on her face.
29
VIOLET