The Ghosts of Heaven by Marcus Sedgwick

grass of the tentergrounds. Trees wilted; branches of the tall ash by the churchyard cracked and simply fell off in the dried air, even the level of Golden Beck seemed to fall slightly, though not enough to expose the carving it had long been hiding.
    The strong colors of early summer were gone. In their place were pale browns and greens that faded further every day, and if there was only one strong color left, that color was black, the black of the minister’s cassock.
    *   *   *
    This was the time when Father Escrove began his work in earnest, and he was as shrewd as he was eager.
    He had heard about the ducking of the gracewife’s daughter. It made him smile, to think of these simple people. Their enthusiasm was undeniable, and yet their methods were crude, primitive. There were much more subtle ways of bringing justice, much more powerful. And having heard about the ducking, and how the inevitable conclusion was made inconclusive thanks to the intervention of the girl’s brother, Father Escrove grew very interested in these goings-on indeed.
    So his first visit was to the nursery of the manor house.
    There he found Grace, with the third Hamill son sucking at her breast. The minister suppressed the desire to wrinkle his nose, and instead placed himself by a small window that possessed a broad view of Welden Valley.
    He’d waited some days since his arrival before getting to his work, and he knew now that that had, as so often before, been a successful strategy. It was important to listen, to hear what people had to say for themselves. For it could so often be used against them.
    â€œGirl,” began Father Escrove, without looking at her. “You have a babe of your own?”
    Grace looked up from the Hamill boy. She could just see the minister’s profile as he looked out of the casement. Didn’t he know she’d lost a child?
    â€œNo, Father,” she said. “It passed over.”
    Escrove nodded.
    â€œSo you came to wet nurse here?”
    Grace nodded. Then she remembered the minister wasn’t looking at her.
    â€œYes, Father.”
    â€œI am sorry for your loss. It must have been a … torment to you.”
    Grace nodded.
    â€œWhy did your baby die, child?”
    Grace’s eyes widened.
    Oh God , she thought. What happens if I say?
    â€œIt was born sick,” she said.
    â€œAnd it did not recover?”
    â€œIt ailed every day.”
    â€œTill it died?”
    â€œTill it died, Father.”
    â€œAnd what caused the ailment of your baby?”
    Grace hesitated. Was it just so easy as to say it? Could it be?
    Still she hesitated.
    Father Escrove turned in his chair, and now he looked straight at her. She lifted her head and found she was looking straight into his eyes, which held her, fixed her, and she stayed that way as she became aware that the minister was saying something to her.
    â€œDo you think there was some malign influence on the infant? Child?”
    Grace found herself nodding.
    â€œEvery day I took it to Joan Tunstall.”
    â€œJoan…?”
    â€œThe gracewife. She died just last week.”
    â€œAnd every day you took the child to Joan Tunstall, and every day it got sicker?”
    Grace nodded again. Still she stared into the minister’s eyes and she felt small. All she wanted to do was to please him.
    â€œFather?” she said.
    â€œYes, child?”
    â€œThe gracewife? She was a cunning woman, too. And she was helped. By her daughter.”
    â€œHer daughter?”
    â€œAnna Tunstall.”
    â€œAnna Tunstall. And is she a cunning woman, too?”
    Grace nodded.
    â€œYes, Father. The cottage is full of it.”
    â€œSo, child. This Anna Tunstall. She helped bewitch your infant?”
    Grace smiled inside, but outside, her face was a mask as she looked the minister in the eye and said, “Yes, Father. I’m sure of it. My mother swears