Chapter Fifty-Two

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Fynhallow, Orkney

December 1594

ALISON

David lifts his eyes to mine. He touches his chin. With relief, I see that he understands my meaning, even as Mr.Addis pushes me backward against the stake and tethers me there.

The executioner is hooded, his face covered and two brown eyes peering through the holes. He carries a belt of leather. Mr.Addis sets twigs around the base of the pyre. I am to be strangled, my body burned. There will be no burial, no grave. I feel my knees quake, but force them to be still. I keep my eyes on the sea before me. I think of William.

Wait for me .

The executioner is so close that I can smell him: earth, leather, wood. “Father Colville,” David calls out, and all heads turn to him.

“It is customary for the accused to speak before execution. The Privy Council requires a record of her confession.”

John Stewart steps forward. “We have no need for such a thing here in Orkney.”

“Beg pardon, my lord, but the Privy Council may request it,” David says. “Never before has a witch been executed on these isles. Doubtless the king will wish to commend us all for our efforts in ridding the land of witchcraft.”

“Let her speak her final words,” Earl Patrick says, overruling his brother.

“Speak ye, Madam Balfour,” Father Colville shouts then. “And let God be praised that your wickedness ends this day.”

I look over the group of witnesses here on the hill. Bishop Sinclair, Bishop Vance, Father Colville, David, Mr.Addis, John Stewart, and Earl Patrick.

On the banks overlooking the beach are groups of villagers, straining to see.

David stands upwind, his parchment and quill ready.

“I renounce my confession,” I say loudly. “I am no witch. I am no murderer. My confession was a lie, offered only because my daughter, all of six years of age, was to be tortured in front of me. And before her, my son was tortured, and my husband, who died from his injuries. All of these things have been done to force me to confess to a crime of which I am not guilty. I know I will be killed today, but before God and all who stand before me I declare that I am innocent!”

I scream out the words, my voice louder than it has ever been, the wind carrying it to the people far on the bay. John Stewart strides toward me, his eyes blazing. I see his hand is in a fist, ready to strike me.

“I curse you,” I hiss at him. “I curse you that you will never claim the earldom. Your brother is the last earl to breathe on the land of Orkney.”

John falters, his eyes boring into me.

“Mr.Addis,” he says in a loud voice. “Burn this witch.”

Mr.Addis begins to light the kindling, impatient, and there is a moment of tension between him and the executioner, who does not wish his shirt to catch fire when he strangles me.

I turn my head, fixing my eyes on Father Colville. I want to tell him that this is not the end. Does he not realize this? That his own end will yet come? That he will have to explain this before God?

This short life is wasted only when one does not use it for good. Even the moon waxes and wanes. Even the earth, immeasurable in her wisdom and brimming with secrets, is yet turning.

In my hand, I hold Beatrice’s shell, which I kept in my mouth as I was removed from the dungeon. I recalled my mother’s words during the trial— Surely she has charmed shells and pebbles on her person , and when Edward came to see me, I realized that she was telling me that she had charmed Beatrice’s shell. I was to use it for a hex. The other thing she told me is there in my ears, too: There are hexes that only work if performed by a witch who is dying .

I may not be a Carrier, but I am still Triskele. And I know how to hex. And this hex is especially powerful.

Digging a ragged nail deep into the flesh of my palm, I blot blood across the shell before dropping it into the flames by my feet. Then I whisper the spell.

By the will of blood and sea

A second Yule you shall not see.

The smile slides from Father Colville’s face as he sees the flame darken for a moment, accepting the gift. I do this for Orkney. If he is not stopped, these hills will be alive with stakes, innocent men and women in the flames. The damage may yet be done.

He strides forward to see what I have thrown in the fire. But the hex is done, and he cannot undo it. He will not live more than two years hence.

The cool leather belt is slipped around my neck.

A flash of black feathers amidst the swirling smoke.

William. William .