me down.”
“Oops. Did I offend yer professional sensibilities? What makes you think Anne was a begging witch?"
Hillary grinned and drained the sink. “Do you really want to hear this?”
“I’m too tired to write anymore tonight.” He shrugged as he filled the kettle. “And there’s no telly.”
“How could I refuse such a flattering request?”
“Ye’re too bloody sensitive.”
“No doubt.” But she liked the easy banter, the quiet after dinner conversation. They sat at the table and waited for the water to boil.
“So, what’s a begging witch?”
“A begging witch uses the threat of bewitchment as a means of survival. The villagers would have given Anne food and lodging to keep her from cursing them.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“It was a fine line, though. She had to convince people of her powers without actually admitting to being a witch.”
The shrill whistle from the kettle pierced the quiet. Caid stood and went to the counter.
“So a begging witch had to watch her step or wind up like Anne?”
His back was to her as he took down two cups from the cupboard. He had a well-formed body, visible despite the loose sweater and jeans. Wide shoulders above narrow hips and a great butt.
“Well?”
What had he asked? Hillary shook her head. “Usually, a suspected witch fell prey to various forms of harassment. Being dragged from her home by a mob of angry men and murdered was a fairly extreme reaction. You know, Agnes would have been a strong contender for accusation. Back in the Middle Ages, she would have been a scold. An old woman, usually poor and reduced to begging, prone to cursing people who made her unhappy. Women like this were usually first to be accused in a witch-hunt. If a hunt hit the level of a craze, it became a free-for-all as far as accusations went. There were villages in Germany with only one woman left alive after a craze.”
“Good God, no wonder you have nightmares,” he teased, those ocean blue eyes lit with warmth. “And while Agnes might have been known to give her neighbors a telling off, she wasnae quite reduced to begging.”
“That’s true, but I think she was worse off than you realize. I mean aside from gouging me to see the journals and--I’m guessing here--not leaving you a penny besides the house, I think she was selling off her furnishings. The rug in her bedroom is missing.”
He sat up straight, his expression turned serious. “I thought you didnae get past the front door the first time you were here.”
“I didn’t.” The image of Agnes in a heap on the stairs flashed through Hillary’s brain before she could stop it and she suppressed a shiver. “But while I was in her room today, I noticed the discoloration of the wood on the floor. For about two feet from the wall, all the way around the room, the floor is faded and filthy. Past a clearly visible line, the floor is still dirty, but not nearly as bad.”
“You may be right,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “I wonder what else she sold. Maybe yer journals.”
“Not funny. Besides, I’d like to think she’d have let me make an offer.”
“Unless she did it long before she spoke to you. When you contacted her, maybe she let you believe she had them, when her plan all along was to have you come here and search for something that she no longer owned--paying her for the privilege, no less.”
“She contacted me,” Hillary said, doing her best to ignore the sick feeling his suggestion caused. “She read one of my books and thought I might like to read her journals.”
“Well, then I suppose it’s a good thing for Agnes that they dinnae have witch-hunts anymore.”
“But she was the victim of a witch-hunt.” Hillary drained her cup. “When your father tried to have her proven incompetent.”
“No’ quite the same.”
“Actually, the situations are quite similar. A strange woman with few friends to defend her, your father was in a position of power and
“Oops. Did I offend yer professional sensibilities? What makes you think Anne was a begging witch?"
Hillary grinned and drained the sink. “Do you really want to hear this?”
“I’m too tired to write anymore tonight.” He shrugged as he filled the kettle. “And there’s no telly.”
“How could I refuse such a flattering request?”
“Ye’re too bloody sensitive.”
“No doubt.” But she liked the easy banter, the quiet after dinner conversation. They sat at the table and waited for the water to boil.
“So, what’s a begging witch?”
“A begging witch uses the threat of bewitchment as a means of survival. The villagers would have given Anne food and lodging to keep her from cursing them.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“It was a fine line, though. She had to convince people of her powers without actually admitting to being a witch.”
The shrill whistle from the kettle pierced the quiet. Caid stood and went to the counter.
“So a begging witch had to watch her step or wind up like Anne?”
His back was to her as he took down two cups from the cupboard. He had a well-formed body, visible despite the loose sweater and jeans. Wide shoulders above narrow hips and a great butt.
“Well?”
What had he asked? Hillary shook her head. “Usually, a suspected witch fell prey to various forms of harassment. Being dragged from her home by a mob of angry men and murdered was a fairly extreme reaction. You know, Agnes would have been a strong contender for accusation. Back in the Middle Ages, she would have been a scold. An old woman, usually poor and reduced to begging, prone to cursing people who made her unhappy. Women like this were usually first to be accused in a witch-hunt. If a hunt hit the level of a craze, it became a free-for-all as far as accusations went. There were villages in Germany with only one woman left alive after a craze.”
“Good God, no wonder you have nightmares,” he teased, those ocean blue eyes lit with warmth. “And while Agnes might have been known to give her neighbors a telling off, she wasnae quite reduced to begging.”
“That’s true, but I think she was worse off than you realize. I mean aside from gouging me to see the journals and--I’m guessing here--not leaving you a penny besides the house, I think she was selling off her furnishings. The rug in her bedroom is missing.”
He sat up straight, his expression turned serious. “I thought you didnae get past the front door the first time you were here.”
“I didn’t.” The image of Agnes in a heap on the stairs flashed through Hillary’s brain before she could stop it and she suppressed a shiver. “But while I was in her room today, I noticed the discoloration of the wood on the floor. For about two feet from the wall, all the way around the room, the floor is faded and filthy. Past a clearly visible line, the floor is still dirty, but not nearly as bad.”
“You may be right,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “I wonder what else she sold. Maybe yer journals.”
“Not funny. Besides, I’d like to think she’d have let me make an offer.”
“Unless she did it long before she spoke to you. When you contacted her, maybe she let you believe she had them, when her plan all along was to have you come here and search for something that she no longer owned--paying her for the privilege, no less.”
“She contacted me,” Hillary said, doing her best to ignore the sick feeling his suggestion caused. “She read one of my books and thought I might like to read her journals.”
“Well, then I suppose it’s a good thing for Agnes that they dinnae have witch-hunts anymore.”
“But she was the victim of a witch-hunt.” Hillary drained her cup. “When your father tried to have her proven incompetent.”
“No’ quite the same.”
“Actually, the situations are quite similar. A strange woman with few friends to defend her, your father was in a position of power and
Similar Books
