He studied them now in their torchlight, these men and the one who was not a man. These, he thought, who had come to the New World for religious freedom, and then persecuted and destroyed any who did not follow their single, narrow path.

“You are Giles Dent.”

“I am,” he said, “in this time and this place.”

Lazarus Twisse stepped forward. He wore the unrelieved formal black of an elder. His high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face. But Giles could see his eyes, and in his eyes, he saw the demon.

“Giles Dent, you and the female known as Ann Hawkins have been accused and found guilty of witchcraft and demonic practices.”

“Who accuses?”

“Bring the girl forward!” Lazarus ordered.

They pulled her, a man on each arm. She was a slight girl, barely six and ten by Giles’s calculation. Her face was wax white with fear, her eyes drenched with it. Her hair had been shorn.

“Hester Deale, is this the witch who seduced you?”

“He and the one he calls wife laid hands on me.” She spoke as if in a trance. “They performed ungodly acts upon my body. They came to my window as ravens, flew into my room in the night. They stilled my throat so I could not speak or call for help.”

“Child,” Giles said gently, “what has been done to you?”

Those fear-swamped eyes stared through him. “They called to Satan as their god, and cut the throat of a cock in sacrifice. And drank its blood. They forced its blood on me. I could not stop them.”

“Hester Deale, do you renounce Satan?”

“I do renounce him.”

“Hester Deale, do you renounce Giles Dent and the woman Ann Hawkins as witches and heretics?”

“I do.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I do renounce them, and pray to God to save me. Pray to God to forgive me.”

“He will,” Giles whispered. “You are not to blame.”