“It’s just that... I wasn’t giving my evidence yet.”

“Isn’t that silly of me?” said Quill. “Please, sit down, and tell me about this devil-worshiping slave of hell.”

He spoke so cheerfully that Purity almost missed the dark significance of the words. When she realized what he had said, she corrected him at once. “I know nothing of what or how the man worships,” said Purity. “Only that he claims to have a witchy knack.”

“But you see, Miss Purity, such witchy knacks are given to people only because they serve the devil.”

“What I’m saying is I never saw him worship the devil, nor speak of the devil, nor show a sign of wishing to serve him.”

“Except for his knack, which of course does serve the devil.”

“I never actually saw the knack, either, with my own eyes,” said Purity. “I just heard tales of it from the boy who traveled with him.”

“Name the boy,” said Quill, his pen poised.

“Arthur Stuart.”

Quill looked up at her, not writing.

“It is a joke, sir, to name him so, but the joke was made years ago by those who named him, I do not jest with you now.”

He wrote the name.

“He’s a half-Black boy,” she began, “and—”

“Singed in the fires of hell,” said Quill.

“No, I think he’s merely the son of a White slave owner who forced himself on a Black slave girl, or that’s the implication of the story I was told.”

Quill smiled. “But why do you resist me?” he said. “You say he’s half-Black. I say this shows he was singed by the fires of hell. And you say, no, not at all—and then proceed to tell me he is the product of a rape of a Black woman by a White man. How could one better describe such a dreadful conception than by saying the child was singed in the fires of hell? You see?”

Purity nodded. “I thought you were speaking literally.”

“I am,” said Quill.

“I mean, that you literally meant that the boy had been to hell and burned there a little.”

“So I say,” Quill said, smiling. “I don’t understand this constant insistence on correcting me when we already agree.”

“But I’m not correcting you, sir.”

“And is that statement not itself a correction? Or am I to take it some other way? I fear you’re too subtle for me, Miss Purity. You dazzle me with argument. My head spins.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine you ever being confused by anybody,” said Purity, laughing nervously.

“And again you feel the need to correct me. Is something troubling you? Is there some reason that you find it impossible to feel comfortable agreeing with me?”

“I’m perfectly comfortable to agree with you.”

“A statement which, while sweet of sentiment, does constitute yet another disagreement with my own prior statement. But let us set aside the fact that you are unable to accept a single word I utter at face value. What puzzles me, what I must have your help to clarify, is the matter of some missing information, and some extra information. For instance, your deposition includes several extraneous persons whom no one else has seen. To wit: a lawyer named Verily Cooper, a riverman named Mike Fink, and a half-Black boy named Arthur Stuart.”