“Quiet, woman.”

She could hear voices, the murmuring of many voices. like a church before the service began. The soldiers talked quietly to each other. One of them held a looped rope in his hands.

A door opened, the soldiers stiffened and a voice called out. Campion’s elbow was taken, she was pushed forward, and she had an impression of a room crammed with people. There was a gasp as she appeared.

They took her to a single chair in the room’s center, forced her down, and then one soldier wrenched her arms behind the chair. She resisted, but was powerless as he tied her hands to the woodwork. Her breath was gulping now, the aftermath of crying.

“Dorcas Scammell?”

Her eyes were shut. She tried to control her breathing. The crowd behind her buzzed excitedly.

“Quiet!” The noise faded. “Dorcas Scammell?”

The voice made her look up. Five men faced her, sitting behind a long table draped with a green cloth, their faces shadowed by the light from the window behind them. She blinked.

The man in the center of the five spoke again. His voice was kind. “Is your name Dorcas Scammell? I think that it is.” He was a pleasant-faced, middle-aged man.

Still she did not reply. The man looked to Campion’s right. “Is this Dorcas Scammell?”

“It is, sir.” The Reverend Faithful Unto Death, sharing a small table with another minister, rose halfway from his chair as he acknowledged the question.

The man behind the long table looked the other way. “Record her answer as ‘yes.’”

Two clerks, their hands stained with ink, sat behind a table on Campion’s left. Their pens scratched.

The man looked back to Campion. “I have the task of explaining to you what is happening. My name is Caleb Higbed and I am a lawyer. My companions are also lawyers.” He indicated the men who shared the long table with him. “This is not your trial, Mrs. Scammell, indeed there may not even be a trial!” He said this as if he was offering a child a piece of sugared fruit. “Today, Mrs. Scammell, we will ask you questions. We are a tribunal and the purpose of a tribunal is to draw up a presentment that we will give to the Grand Jury, and it will be the Grand Jury which decides if you are to stand trial. Do you understand?” He said it in such a kindly manner, leaning forward solicitously, that Campion nodded. Higbed leaned back, still smiling.

“Good! Good! Now I see you’re accused of witchcraft, and that’s why you will be questioned by ministers. That’s what we always do with witchcraft.” He smiled again, somewhat apologetically. “And that is why we have tied your hands. We don’t want you flying away on a broomstick!” He raised his eyebrows at her impishly. “Good! Good! Now I know that all of us are busy men, busy indeed, so I do not think we shall dally in this.” He pulled papers toward him. “Are we agreed to take the two charges at once? Witchcraft and murder? They are combined, it seems?”