“She’s a witch! I saw the devil rescue her in Mister Scammell’s house. Flaming hair, he had! From hell itself. The devil! She’s a witch!”

“No!” Ebenezer protested.

“Quiet!” The Reverend Faithful Unto Death moved into the center of the room. He had studied witchcraft these last few months, seeing in demonology a ladder that would take him to the vast pinnacle of his ambitions. This was the thing he had suggested to Ebenezer on Christmas morning; that Dorcas Slythe was a witch and that he, Faithful Unto Death Hervey, would unmask her. He had not been selfish with the thought, admitting that Goodwife Baggerlie had always maintained the girl to be possessed of a devil, but now, at last, he was ready to pit his strength against the Prince of Darkness who was Dorcas Slythe’s ally. He also still wanted this girl, but now he wished to abase her, to humiliate her, to use her for his fame. He looked grandly about the room, remembering what Ebenezer had said. “Ah! A cat! Her familiar!”

Goodwife gasped, recoiled in horror.

Faithful Unto Death stepped resolutely closer to Campion. He put his Bible on the table, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his long, pale throat. “There is a sure way to find out. A sure way!”

“Brother Hervey?” Ebenezer sounded awed.

Faithful Unto Death took another pace toward the staring, gasping girl. “I will need your help, both of you. Fear not! God is with us!” He did not need to tell them what was expected. “Now!”

Campion screamed, but the three had her on the bed, Goodwife forcing her head back, Ebenezer swinging her legs on to the mattress. Campion screamed again, fought against the hands that groped at her, but she was powerless. Faithful Unto Death tore the dress apart, pulled the shawl away and Goodwife seized Campion’s hands.

“Hold her!” Faithful Unto Death bent over her breasts, his breath warm on her skin. She struggled, but Goodwife had an arm over her throat while Ebenezer weighed down her legs.

Faithful Unto Death’s hands were dry, almost scaly. They stroked her breasts, touching her nipples. His voice, like his hands, was dry. He might have been explaining the doctrine of the Trinity. “These, Brother Slythe, are the teats for giving suck to children. A witch will not use those when she feeds the devil, for those teats come of God.” His fingers rubbed her nipples. His hands slid down toward her belly, kneading her ribs. “We are looking for another mark, the witch mark. Ah!” He probed the mole above her navel, the mole that Toby had teased her about on Christmas Day. “Here it is! The witch mark!” His hands, even though they had found the mole, moved back to her breasts.

“Sir! Look!” Goodwife had the seal. “Is this what you looked for?”

“It is! It is!”

Faithful Unto Death was forced to help Goodwife remove the seal. Released from their grip, Campion turned away from them, curled herself up, and sobbed into the bed’s cover. She felt as if filth had been smeared on her, irrevocably smeared.