“You okay, Felicity?” he asked as he began mopping up the spill.

My wife’s normally pale complexion was washed to stark white as she sat frozen, staring across the table at Ben. Her green eyes were wide, and it didn’t take a Witch to literally feel the fear coming from her.

“Felicity?” Ben called her name again and then shifted to me when she didn’t answer. “Row? What the hell? What’s going on?”

The throb in my head moved up the scale a pair of notches, instantly becoming far more than a nuisance. Fear-induced nausea welled in the pit of my stomach and sent a bitter burn into the back of my throat. I slipped my hand along the edge of the table until I reached Felicity’s and then clasped her fingers tight.

“It’s not going to happen,” I said, fighting to mask my own distress.

“What?” Ben pressed as he threw more napkins onto the puddle of cooling liquid. “What’s not going to happen?”

I turned my gaze to him but continued to hold Felicity’s hand tightly. “The page is most likely from a book by Wilhelm Pressel,” I recited. “It’s pretty obscure, but most anyone who’s studied the Witch Trials of the Burning Times is familiar with it. It didn’t dawn on me at first, but the minute you said Prossneck, Germany, well, that’s a bit of a giveaway. Anyway, if it is in fact a page from Hexen und Hexenmeister, then the text is an actual accounting of the first day of torture inflicted upon an accused Witch in the year sixteen twenty-nine.”

“Okay. That’s the kinda thing that would fit with this wingnut’s profile. But, what’s with the comment about Felicity’s hair?”