“A sad old book written by a sad old shit,” Magda spat at the priest, cutting him off. There was a light in her eyes that was new, a spark unseen, having always been covered by her weary cynicism and dry humor.
“Filthy language from a filthy woman,” huffed Bertram.
I had the thought that she had been angry all this time. That in her seventy or so winters, as she had aged and weathered more than half a life in this place, she had witnessed injustices, unfairness, tyranny, and sorrows. And she had kept her mouth shut for thebenefit of others. She had swallowed her rage so as not to draw attention to the women to whom she tended.
And then I knew, she was letting her rage out that night for she had nothing left to lose. On a delay, I understood that what we had done, which had been a simple solution to a miscarriage, an everyday act of care that any midwife might have to perform, was a crime in Sheridan.
“You will burn for this,” Father Starling said, and he was quiet now. He addressed Torm. “My lord, I will defer to you, but this is how our king—bless him and his graces—who supports you tirelessly, would want to see you mete out justice. Should you want to imprison the criminal until her death, that would be acceptable, I am sure. But this is a serpent that needs its neck broken.”
“And burn the apprentice too,” Bertram added, his eyes on me.
I stood next to the open door, mouth agape, my hand over my middle where the tools were stowed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a cluster of more guards and keep staff in the corridor watching.
“Yes,” said the Perpatanian guard. “The apprentice should see the stake too. She has been influenced by the witch. It is negligible not to.”
His use of “witch” caused all gathered to fall silent.
“Can we do this elsewhere?” my mentor asked, again dry and apathetic, her usual self. “This woman needs rest and, for gods’ sake, a little privacy. Someone fetch her husband for her comfort. I mean really.”
Torm Sheridan held up his hand. He nodded to the priest. “I value your counsel, Father. Above all others. Magda Geist will burn for the crime of killing this woman’s babe.”
“No,” I tried to shout, but it came out as a whine.
The midwife turned from the priest to the lord. “Ah, Torm. You have so much power, you cannot see how much you give away.”
“Do not speak to him,” Starling interjected. “You have no right.”
“The apprentice too,” Bertram added. “She should burn as well.”
“It would be wise and careful, my lord,” the guard said, bowing his head.
“I agree,” said the priest. “She has spent winters under the witch’s tutelage. It is a sadness she is so young, but it’s a dangerous thing to?—”
Torm Sheridan held up his hand again. “I thank you, my Perpatanian friends. We will burn Madam Geist. I will jail the girl and consider it. Your counsel is appreciated and heard.” And he nodded to the guards. “Separate cells, I think.”
Two of them went to the old woman and lifted her roughly from her seat.
I began shouting, trying to catch her eye, but Magda was smiling now, a sort of happiness to her. And she was looking at the priest, almost daring him to ask why she smiled.
They put us in different cells underground. I called to her in her cell, wondering if she could hear me through the damp stone walls of mine.
51
THEN: STAKE
Are you ready for your mantle, daughter?
Mantle?
For it begins now. You will take it up tonight, or tomorrow if they drag it out.
She had known. As she had said to the priest, she had seen what I had not. The woman was a trap, though her dire need had been real. It had been the bait. Magda had seen it for what it was and still carried out our service. And the question she had asked to me before I let our captors inside was one of inheritance. Was I ready to take on her role? Was I ready for her mantle?
I was not. I spent what must have been a full day in that cell, pacing it back and forth, trying to quell the beating in my heart.
In the evening, I was made to follow a guard up a set of stairs I barely remembered stumbling down the night before. They put me in a wagon, and I fell to the floor of it when the driver gave me no warning and flicked his reins over the backs of the horses.
“Where is my mare?” I called to the guards riding behind the wagon, but they ignored me, their opened cresset torches held aloft to cast light on the night road. “She is my father’s property,” I reasoned. “She should be returned to him. Where do you take me?”
