She held it in her right hand, staring at it as if she had never seen it before, seeing where the bright gold had been smeared with congealing blood. She loathed it, knowing it trapped her and the sudden, surprising discovery of it about her neck threatened to drive her once more into the abyss of madness from which she was so painfully climbing. She shut her eyes, leaning back against the high bed and clutched the seal in her hand as if to hide it.

Toby. Sir George. The cat. Scammell. The smell of blood. Vomit rose in her throat. She moaned, but again a part of her forced her to move, to do one thing at a time, and she pulled herself up on the bed, sitting on it, and dragged the runner that was draped over the pillows toward her. She put it on like a shawl, covering her nakedness, and only then did she start to breathe more shallowly, to take stock of herself.

The room was smothered in blood. Scammell’s body, grotesque in its layered armor, was sprawled crooked by the window, one plump hand outstretched in helpless appeal. Mildred, her fur matted with blood that looked black, seemed tiny in death. The light was full outside now. Through the small leads of the window she saw the piling clouds that would have meant her salvation this coming night. James Wright, Toby, Lady Margaret. They all seemed so distant now. Her old life had flooded back in a horror that still threatened to overwhelm her. Now, just as she had endured the wrath and punishment of God at Werlatton as a child, she must simply survive. She shut her eyes, crooning to herself and heard the dread sound of the key turning in the lock.

She opened her eyes, clutching the shawl at her neck.

Ebenezer smiled at her. He spread his hands as if in welcome. “Sister Dorcas! My dear sister!” He seemed to glance casually about the room and took a dramatic backward pace when he saw Scammell’s body. He gasped.

Good wife Baggerlie was next into the room. She pushed past Ebenezer and stared at the body of Samuel Scammell. She took a deep breath. “Murder! Murder!”

“No, no! My sister!” Ebenezer came into the room properly. “No! No!”

Campion was shaking her head, rocking back and forth on the bed. “Go away! Go away!”

“Murder!” Goodwife’s shrill voice filled the room. “She killed him!”

“No!” Campion moaned.

“Don’t go near her! Don’t touch her!” A new voice cut over the clamor, a voice that touched a memory in Campion. She opened her eyes, looked around dully, and there was the Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey, one hand raised, the other clutching a Bible to his black jacket.

“Harlot! Murderer! Witch!” Goodwife shouted.

Ebenezer had knelt beside Scammell’s body. “How could she have killed him? She’s only a girl! He was an armed man! She can’t have killed him!”

There was a slight pause before Goodwife remembered her cue. She stepped forward, her voice like the breath of the pit, and she raised a raw, bony finger which she stabbed toward Campion.