Chapter 49: To Lift the Spirits
“What?” I stared at him, my mind struggling to process his words. He was looking at me with the same bright, eager expression a boy might use to suggest a trip to the circus or a puppet show. But the words he’d said, in that same cheerful, guileless tone, were about watching a woman be burned alive.
“I heard it from Bartholomew this morning,” he explained, completely oblivious to my shock. “They’re having an execution in the public square. A witch. I thought, since you were in such a low mood yesterday, we could go watch. It might lift your spirits.”
Lift my spirits? Was he mad? How could watching such a brutal, barbaric spectacle possibly do anything but drag my soul into the deepest pits of despair? And beyond that… a witch burning? In this age? This world had steam-pumps and factories, a world of iron and brass, yet it clung to the superstitions of a darker age. Witch trials were supposed to be the stuff of history books, a savage practice left behind with the advent of reason. The last one in my own world, the Salem affair, had happened long before the age of steam. But here, in this city of impossible machines, the pyre was apparently still a part of daily life. I kept these thoughts to myself, a cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. This world was not just different; it was sick.
“So, what do you say, Parula?” Jared pressed, his excitement growing. “Finish your breakfast, and we can go. If we’re late, we won’t get a good spot.”
“Fine,” I said, my voice flat. I had to go. I had to see. I had to understand. “Pack some of the bread in a sack. We’ll leave now.”
“But you haven’t eaten yet,” he protested.
“This is enough for me,” I said, and took the apple he’d been peeling. I ate it in three clean bites. Then, to sate the gnawing beast inside me, I crunched down the core and the woody stem as well, swallowing everything without a thought. Jared stared, a flicker of fresh astonishment in his eyes. “You carry the bread,” I instructed him, my voice a low command. “And keep it out of my sight. I’ll eat on the way if I get hungry.” I was beginning to learn the rules of my own monstrous appetite. If I didn’t see the food, if I wasn’t tempted by its smell, I could, perhaps, keep it caged.
Jared wrapped a few loaves of bread in a cloth and tucked them into his coat. Now that he knew we were rich, he was a little less frugal. But the gold coins were still a problem. We’d have to find a way to change them into silver if we ever wanted to use them without raising suspicion.
We left the slum, and Jared led me in a new direction, towards a part of the city I hadn’t seen before. He clearly knew where he was going.
“Brother Jared,” I asked, my voice quiet. “Have you ever seen a witch trial before?”
“Once,” he said, his eyes distant with a hazy, half-forgotten memory. “But I was just a little lad then.”
“What was it like?” I pressed, bracing myself.
“I don’t remember much,” he said with a shrug. “They tied her to a big wooden cross, I think. And then they set her on fire.” He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it was more chilling than any detailed description could have been.
We walked through a district of two-story houses, each one likely belonging to a single family. They were old and a bit rundown, but the flower pots in the windows and the small, carved ornaments hanging by the doors suggested a life of simple, domestic comfort. The streets here were bustling with people, and the occasional old-fashioned, horseless carriage chugged past, its engine popping and sputtering, forcing the pedestrians to scatter. There were no designated lanes for these strange, new machines. The city was a hive of activity, and I noticed that a great many people were heading in the same direction as us. Men, women, even children, all moving with a brisk, purposeful stride. A grim realization dawned on me. This wasn't just an execution; it was a festival. And the entire city was turning out for the show.
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