“We did,” Mrs. Wheatley said. “With the darning needle that we found in the sewing case in the parlor.” She turned politely to Mrs. Miller. “We left it on the table if you want to throw it away.”

Mrs. Miller gave an exaggerated shudder. “You take it away. It’ll be cursed.”

“And did she bleed?” Sir William pursued his inquiry.

“She bled like a mortal woman and she felt the pain. Not very much, but red blood, like any woman.” She pointed to the scratch on Alinor’s neck. Alinor stood like a statue, her eyes on the ground.

“And did you examine her for witch’s marks?”

“We did,” Mrs. Smith answered. “She has no extra teats that we could see; but she has a mole in the shape of a moon, very uncommon and very suspicious, on her ribs.”

“In the shape of a moon?”

“A new moon. A sickle moon. A witch’s moon.”

There was a deep satisfied sigh from the listening crowd, and Sir William fell silent at this incriminating evidence. The crowd, staring at Alinor, waited for him to speak, content to wait for his decision, since there could be only one decision from him. It was as if they were enjoying the pause before the final act of a mystery play, the chance to savor the sentence that would come, waiting for the violence that would break out.

“The purse,” Sir William said quietly to Alinor. “Did you steal the money? Did you put the old coins in place of Mrs. Miller’s savings?”

“I did not,” Alinor said.

“These old coins and chips of coins. Are they yours?”

Alinor looked at her brother’s hat, which one of the searcher women handed to Mr. Miller, who held it out at arm’s length, as if the little silver tokens would burn him.

“They look like my coins.”

“You keep them at Ferry-house?”

Alinor glanced at Ned.

“She does,” he said miserably.

“Then how did they get from there to here?”

Alinor choked on her answer. She looked at the sky over Sir William’s flinty face, she looked at the ground beneath his polished boots. There was a long silence.

“Sir William . . .” Alys began, her voice thin and trembling. “Your lordship . . .” She detached herself from Richard’s grip and took one step forwards.

“I did it,” Alinor interrupted her daughter.

“Witchcraft!” Mrs. Miller exclaimed. “Just as I said. Witchcraft.”

“Oh, Alinor, God forgive you!” Mr. Miller joined in.

“Was she going to pass off her baby as ours?” Richard clamped Alys to his side, his eyes burning. “Are you truly with child? Our baby? Were you going to make me a cuckold twice over—put a faerie child in my cradle, and my wife not the mother?”

“What?” demanded Mr. Stoney.

Sir William and James exchanged shocked glances, but events were moving too fast for them.

“No, no!” said Alys, her hand twisting in his grip, but he held her tightly. “For God’s sake, no!”