Page 28 of Burying Venus

Upon watching Amy fumble the needle back and forth, Thorne fixed his own hand softly on her wrist and urged it forward. As firm as he could be with those meek, waifish hands of his.

‘Sir!’ Amy cried. The needle pierced the old woman’s flesh.

The witch in question flung her head back as if to break her own neck. Her veins, protruding as they were, thrummed with hot want of life. She could not even scream. The hoarse, wheezing sound of the elderly instead came like a murmur. Addled as her body was with poverty and ill-use, she was already beaten, and her nephew, having been subjected to such poor schooling, could not rebuke a man like Robert. And so the poor were defeated before war could even be waged.

‘Does she bleed, my dear?’ Weston said, coming to stand beside them. His coat was a fine buttoned-down piece, its cost shown in the fabric and stitching, which made Dermot hate him all the more. His words were evidently aimed at Thorne.

‘My God!’ Amy gasped. ‘She… there is not a drop of blood! But I struck her with the help of Mr Thorne. How can it be?’

Amy Ward, mainlander though she was, was not the sort of person islanders spoke of when their children were tucked in and wanting some dastardly tale. She was thin except for her breasts and hips, designed frantically by nature for childbearing, but otherwise ill-use by her own people was made abundantly clear. She looked older than her years, and her hands were worn with use. With days that would chafe like unseen bondage, her employer had seen to her mind as well as to her body. She was naïve as men wished all women, deprived of any sort of philosophy or higher thought.

Robert stood to Amy’s right. Peering at the scene, his dark eyes were lit by flame. ‘So it is as my brother and I thought.’

‘I sharpened the blade only last night,’ Weston murmured, close to Thorne’s ear.

‘Damn you! Damn each one of you!’ the woman screeched.

‘See how wrath comes from her even now. Surely a sign of some pact!’ Weston cried.

‘Lord have mercy,’ Thorne said.

Amy dropped the blade with a clatter and rushed soundlessly to Dermot. If she deemed him her protector, she was in the midst of a great misunderstanding.

‘A witch, most certainly!’ Robert said. Were he honest, he would be beset by grief, the whole affair signifying a great loss of control. But his glee belied the truth, that he believed none of it.

‘We must find evidence of this covenant,’ Thorne said. He struggled a little, trying to extricate himself from Weston and failing.

The woman had long since taken leave of their company. Her head lolled to one side, revealing only haggard flesh. It was the look of someone defeated, soul leaving the chest to play in the mind, lost in some reverie.

‘I tire of this,’ Robert said. He stood towering over the lot of them. Taking one step towards Thorne, he was with the man at once, so long was his stride. ‘Is she not a witch? Have we all not just witnessed her blaspheme, and at myself, a nobleman! I urge you to take this in hand, else you might find that I too have a select case of conscience, or write to those very justices myself!’

Thorne pushed Weston aside. ‘I may not have a great deal of learning, unlike you, Lord Robert. But everything I do is won from experience. A witchfinder does not do the hunting himself, but it is his prerogative to judge whether the prisoner be a witch or wrongfully accused. And while she is likely a witch, we are yet to find the mark. What of the rest of the village?’ Thorne said.His speech was made less remarkable by the bout of coughing that struck him near the end, rendering him incomprehensible. Though immediately presented with a handkerchief by his assistant, blood already dripped from his lips.

‘You overexert yourself. Come, let us go to bed,’ Weston said. Dermot wondered if they were to share it. He said nothing to Robert, which gave credence to an idea Dermot had after the mention of the witchfinder’s salary, that Robert and Weston enjoyed a separate correspondence Thorne was ignorant of.

‘No, indeed…’ Robert murmured, eyeing the pair before his head jerked as if possessed. ‘Still there! I have use for you, my boy. Mr Thorne, you are quite right. Forgive me, how could I forget? There must be others embroiled in the same conspiracy against my family. It is our duty to get these names out of her, lest there be some sort of attack.’

‘Right you are, my lord,’ Weston said immediately. ‘This is how covens are discovered. Women are not prone to working alone, after all. They are social creatures influenced by those around them. Execute one witch?’ And here he scoffed as if it were all a great farce. ‘We have never stopped at the one. It will be known that there are dozens.’

Robert smiled, and for the first time Dermot realised his handsomeness. It was no wonder women fell at his feet. Had they not been in the dank, musty dungeon, he might have thought on what he looked like with Will.

Daring wait no longer as Robert’s fingers caught on something in his pocket, Dermot stepped forward. Amy released him easily, no more his protector than he was hers. He jerked back as keys were flung into his open palm. Such was Robert’s strength that Dermot’s hand immediately reddened with the welt.

‘Release her,’ Robert said.

Dermot stumbled towards the woman, discerning her body with a squint. Perhaps a brief questioning might prove tobe merciful. Twisting each lock, the woman’s hands gave out immediately. She would have fallen if not for Weston leaping forward at the last moment, her battered form collapsing in his arms. He threw her onto the table like a piece of meat, already butchered and ready for slicing.

‘For God’s sake, take hold!’ Weston cried.

From the man’s shout and feint of hand, Dermot rushed her, grasping her right elbow as she wrestled about on the table. Every day he was forced to pepper miasma onto his soul, accruing it on another’s behalf. Whether he would be judged for it would not be known until his death, and by then it would be too late.

‘Strong man, aren’t you?’ Weston said, releasing her after this realisation. He went to the front, watching the woman’s prone body on the table. It only occurred to Dermot then that the mark would not be on the face. Weston would not afford a witch the respect a woman deserved.

‘I have an array of tools,’ Weston began, slick and predatory as one of the beasts sewn onto the tapestries in the dining room. He stalked around her, evidently well practised, and by the gleam in his eyes Dermot supposed he was amused. ‘I think the first weapon to bring about a witch’s downfall would be familiar to even your maid, Lord Robert.’ He procured a pair of scissors and offered a rueful smile, one Thorne could not see.

Dermot had the woman firmly in hand. Squirming as she was, he held her with all the force he’d once reserved for rough games with Will.

‘No! Damn you all!’ the woman screamed.