Maybe she even knows something about Zen.
“What is your relationship to the accused?”
Mrs. Pattinson breaks eye contact and turns to look at the judge. “She has been living in my home. As a hired servant.”
Murmurs trickle across the assembly. Too muddled for me to make out anything specific, but the sentiment is palpable. Shock. Pity. Fear that it could just as easily have happened to them.
For some reason, my attention is drawn to a specific location in the back of the room. On the balcony. I squint into the crowd of spectators, trying to make out someone familiar, but I’m met only by the hateful eyes of strangers.
“And what do you have to contribute to today’s proceedings?” the magistrate asks Mrs. Pattinson, bringing my attention back to the woman standing only a few feet away.
She refuses to look at me, instead her gaze flicks between the twelve jurors and the magistrate, sitting on his bench, dressed in his long red gown, surrounded by clerks. I suck in a sharp breath, hoping less for a testimony of my innocence and more for some morsel of an indication that Zen is okay. Then at least I can be put to death knowing he is safe.
But a small voice in the back of my head reminds me of this impossibility. If he were safe—if he were okay—he would be here. He would be attempting to save me.
It’s a painful truth that I already know.
“Sarah,” she begins, and then quickly clears her throat. “I mean, the accused, formed a particular bond with my youngest child while she was dwelling with us. I didn’t approve of the relationship. I tried to discourage it as much as possible.”
Quiet murmurs of assent emanate from the crowd.
“But it is because of this relationship that I can now stand before you and say with certainty”—she takes a deep breath, her mouth twitching—“that this woman is, in fact, a witch.”
The quiet murmurs rapidly morph into earsplitting attacks and cries for justice. I close my eyes and attempt to block out the noise.
“Would you care to elaborate?” the magistrate prompts.
“Of course, your Worship,” Mrs. Pattinson replies obligingly. And in that instant I know. She was never here to help me. There was never a chance in the world that she would risk her family, her reputation, her life to help me. The girl she despised and mistrusted from the very beginning.
“A few nights ago, as I was walking past the bedroom of the accused, I overheard her telling my daughter a story,” she begins.
I let out a defeated sigh as a hot ball of fire starts to burn in my stomach.
“It was the story of a princess who had run away from her home because she had magic powers.”
More reactions from the room and the jury. Even the magistrate—who I assume is supposed to remain impartial through this process—appears disturbed by this. Once again, I feel drawn to that location in the back of the room. As though a light is blinking on and off there, calling my attention, but when I allow my gaze to slip that way, I see nothing but unfamiliar faces.
“Yes,” Mrs. Pattinson replies to the astonished crowd. “She was actually attempting to spread her poison to my innocent young daughter!” She waits for the next wave of reactions to die down before continuing. “I found a nightdress stained with blood at the back of the armoire in her room. Undoubtedly from one of her satanic rituals. And I assume you have already seen the black mark of the devil on her wrist?”
Confusion and agitation break out. It’s evident this particular piece of information has not yet been revealed to the court or the spectators. All eyes are suddenly on me. I shrink back against the low wall of the tiny box that I’m standing in. The iron chains binding my hands in front of me feel as though they’re tightening with each passing second.
In the commotion of capturing me, binding me, and leading me away, the tattoo embedded on my skin was evidently overlooked.
But it won’t be overlooked for long. The magistrate turns expectantly to me, his eyebrows raised, the wrinkles on his aged face stretched with curiosity. “Kindly show the citizens of the jury your wrists.”
I do as I’m told, raising my arms slowly, feeling the stares of those gathered in the giant hall zeroing in on my hands. Although I’m sure not everyone in the room can see the small black line from their vantage point, the gasps of repulsion still reverberate off the walls.
“She told us it was a prisoner tattoo from being held captive by pirates.”
Quiet titters of laughter gradually replace the gasps.
“But I never believed her.” Mrs. Pattinson is quick to defend herself. “I never believed it for a second.”
“Is that all?” the magistrate asks.