“Your ancestor was found practicing the dark arts, for which she escaped severe punishment. In the 1400’s, it was common for poor folk to seek help from those who promised quick riches. They’d be lured into believing a weed would cure boils or a toad would turn them into a prince. Those who had luck with their spell or incantation did more than just seek men or women who practiced magic—they wanted the power for themselves. They became immersed in Wicca and turned their backs on religion.

“Needless to say, they were caught. Their whereabouts would be noted, their stores of dried herbs confiscated, and the sentence no one survived decreed. They were a traitor to their faith, but they would be given a choice—prove their innocence by drowning, or admit to their sins by burning at the stake and returning to the devil they worshiped.”

Nila’s pasty cheeks shimmered with cascading tears. Her nose went red from cold and she wrapped her arms around herself, partly to ward off the chill but mostly to keep herself from running.

No ropes bound her. She could leave. She could run.

But she also knew we’d catch her and I’d have to add another punishment for her disobedience.

All that I knew. All of it I understood with one look into her glassy eyes.

I even knew she wasn’t aware she was crying—completely enthralled and mortified with where my tale would go.

Taking a deep breath, I continued, “All of what I said is true. However, it came with rules—like most things.”

Cut nodded as if he’d personally been there and watched the pyres burning.

“Destitute people were caught while those wealthy enough weren’t. It didn’t mean that women who dined on cakes and tea and employed servants to wash away their crimes didn’t dally in potions—far from it. They were the most proficient. They sold their concoctions to other well-to-do housewives and bribed any official who dared to ask questions about their faith.”

I made the mistake of looking at Nila again. Her lips parted and a silent word escaped.

Please.

Tearing my gaze away, I forced myself to continue, “Your ancestor was no different, Ms. Weaver. She blatantly did what she wanted. She brewed so-called elixirs and cast so-called curses. And she did it all from the drawing room of the Weaver household—the same household the Hawks cleaned and maintained for her.

“A few years passed where she went undetected, but of course, she made a mistake. She suffered the misfortune of creating a potion for an aristocratic friend’s offspring. It didn’t work. Her remedy didn’t heal the friend’s child—it poisoned him.”

Nila buried her face in her hands.

“Word got out, and the mayor came knocking. He’d turned a blind eye up until now, but he could no longer ignore her wrongdoings and buckled under the pressure of whispering folk.

“When he arrived to arrest her, Mrs. Weaver announced she’d been doing it under duress. She was a kind, simple woman with no more power in her blood than the next.

“Needless to say, the mayor did not believe her—he’d seen with his own eyes what happened to the boy who’d died from one of her vials. But he was on the Weaver’s payroll. If he sent the richest man in town’s wife to the stake, he would kiss his extra salary goodbye. But if he didn’t bow to the wishes of his parish, he could face the noose in return.”

I swallowed, hating the next part. When Bonnie had told me what’d happened, I’d been almost sick with rage. To think that the Weavers got away with such things.

My lips twisted at the ironic truth. Now it was us who got away with murder—right beneath the noses of the law.

“Mrs. Weaver came up with a solution. She promised it would benefit everyone. Everyone but the Hawks, that is.”

Nila bowed her head, hunching into herself.

Bonnie snapped, “Listen, girl. Listen to the disgusting actions from the bloodline who birthed you.”

Nila’s head came up; her shoulders straightened. Her jaw set and she latched her gaze on mine, just waiting for me to continue.

Shoving my fists into my jeans pockets, I said, “She told the mayor a secret…a lie. She said it wasn’t her practicing, but the hired help’s fourteen-year-old daughter. She said she’d caught her red-handed selling potions from the kitchens. She fabricated untruths of how my ancestor’s daughter had been swindling and tarnishing the Weavers name for years.

“The mayor was happy with such a tale. He would have someone to answer to the angry mob and at the same time keep his salary. The Weavers gave him a bonus for his loyalty and the poor Hawk daughter was carted away to be thrown into jail to await trial.”

Daniel laughed. “Get it, Nila. Do you see where this is going?”

I glowered at him.

Cut snarled, “Shut up, Dan. This is Jet’s production. Let him finish.”

Daniel sulked, tossing his empty beer bottle into the reeds by his feet.

I sighed; it was almost over.

No, it’s not.

I still had to extract the debt.

I hardened my heart, blocking out everything but the next ten minutes. If I sliced up my day and focused on bite-sized pieces, I could get through this.

I would get through this.

“For a week, she rotted in the cells with barely food or water. By the time the trial came to pass, she was delirious with hunger and disease. The Hawk daughter pleaded her innocence. She stood before a court of twelve and begged them to see reason. She tore apart every conviction against her and argued her case that any right-minded human would’ve seen was all Mrs. Weaver’s doing. But the truth does not set you free.”