“And what is that compared to my fleabite? A bee sting? A snakebite? An amputation?”

Margaret shook her head. “Now you are reaching for flattery. Take him home, Monsieur Balzac. I will try to find his heartfire somewhere in a house in Blacktown.”

Hezekiah Study could not concentrate on the book he was trying to read, or the sermon he needed to write, or even on the pear he knew he ought to eat. There were several bites taken out of it, and he knew he must be the one who had taken them, but all he remembered was fretful, wandering thoughts about everything. Purity, you young fool. He'll come now, don't you know? He'll come, because he always comes, and because your name is on it, and he knows who you are, oh yes, he knows you, he wants your life, he wants to finish the job he started before you were born.

This is how he spent the afternoon, until at last a breeze arose, rattling the papers pinned under the paperweight on his writing desk. A breeze, and a shadow of cloud that dimmed the light in the room, and then the sound he had been waiting for: the trot-trot-trot of a horse drawing a little shay behind it. Micah Quill. Micah the Witcher.

Hezekiah rose and walked to the window. The shay was only just passing on the street below; Hezekiah caught but a glimpse of the face in profile, from above. So sweet and open, so trustworthy– Hezekiah had once trusted it, believed the words that came out of the shyly smiling mouth. “God will not permit the innocent to be punished,” said that mouth. “Only the Lord Savior was foreordained to suffer innocently.” The first of a thousand lies. Truth flowed to Micah Quill, was sucked in and disappeared, and emerged again looking ever so much like it used to, but changed subtly, at the edges, where none would notice, so that simple truth became a complicated fabric indeed, one that could wrap you up so tightly and close you off from the air until you suffocated in it.

Micah Quill, my best pupil. He has not come to Cambridge to visit his old schoolmaster, or hear the sermons he now preached on Sundays.

Leaning out his window, Hezekiah saw the shay stop at the main entrance of the orphanage. How like Micah. He does not stop for refreshment after his journey, or even to void his bladder, but goes instead directly to work. Purity, I cannot help you now. You didn't heed my warning.

Purity came into the room, relieved to see that the witcher was not some fearsome creature, some destroying angel, but rather was a man who must have been in his forties but still had the freshness of youth about him. He smiled at her, and she was at once relaxed and comfortable. She was much relieved, for she had feared the torment of conscience it would cost her, to have Alvin Smith, who seemed such a nice man, examined and tried by some monster. Instead the proceeding would be fair, the trial just, for this man had no malice in him.

“You are Purity,” said the witcher. “My name is Micah Quill.”

“I'm pleased to meet you,” said Purity.

“And I to meet you,” said Quill. “I came the moment your deposition was sent to me. I admire your courage, speaking up so boldly against a witch so dire.”

“He made no threat to me,” said Purity.

“His very existence is a menace to all godly souls,” said Quill. “You could feel that, even if he uttered no threat, because the spirit of Christ dwells in you.”

“Do you think so, sir?” asked Purity.

Quill was writing in his book.

“What do you write, sir?”

“I keep notes of all interviews,” said Quill. “You never know what might turn out to be evidence. Don't mind me.”

“It's just that… I wasn't giving my evidence yet.”

“Isn't that silly of me?” said Quill. “Please, sit down, and tell me about this devil-worshiping slave of hell.”

He spoke so cheerfully that Purity almost missed the dark significance of the words. When she realized what he had said, she corrected him at once. “I know nothing of what or how the man worships,” said Purity. “Only that he claims to have a witchy knack.”

“But you see, Miss Purity, such witchy knacks are given to people only because they serve the devil.”

“What I'm saying is I never saw him worship the devil, nor speak of the devil, nor show a sign of wishing to serve him.”

“Except for his knack, which of course does serve the devil.”

“I never actually saw the knack, either, with my own eyes,” said Purity. “I just heard tales of it from the boy who traveled with him.”

“Name the boy,” said Quill, his pen poised.

“Arthur Stuart.”

Quill looked up at her, not writing.

“It is a joke, sir, to name him so, but the joke was made years ago by those who named him. I do not jest with you now.”

He wrote the name.

“He's a half-Black boy,” she began, “and–”

“Singed in the fires of hell,” said Quill.

“No, I think he's merely the son of a White slave owner who forced himself on a Black slave girl, or that's the implication of the story I was told.”

Quill smiled. “But why do you resist me?” he said. “You say he's half-Black. I say this shows he was singed by the fires of hell. And you say, no, not at all– and then proceed to tell me he is the product of a rape of a Black woman by a White man. How could one better describe such a dreadful conception than by saying the child was singed in the fires of hell? You see?”

Purity nodded. “I thought you were speaking literally.”

“I am,” said Quill.

“I mean, that you literally meant that the boy had been to hell and burned there a little.”

“So I say,” Quill said, smiling. “I don't understand this constant insistence on correcting me when we already agree.”

“But I'm not correcting you, sir.”

“And is that statement not itself a correction? Or am I to take it some other way? I fear you're too subtle for me, Miss Purity. You dazzle me with argument. My head spins.”

“Oh, I can't imagine you ever being confused by anybody,” said Purity, laughing nervously.

“And again you feel the need to correct me. Is something troubling you? Is there some reason that you find it impossible to feel comfortable agreeing with me?”

“I'm perfectly comfortable to agree with you.”

“A statement which, while sweet of sentiment, does constitute yet another disagreement with my own prior statement. But let us set aside the fact that you are unable to accept a single word I utter at face value. What puzzles me, what I must have your help to clarify, is the matter of some missing information, and some extra information. For instance, your deposition includes several extraneous persons whom no one else has seen. To wit: a lawyer named Verily Cooper, a riverman named Mike Fink, and a half-Black boy named Arthur Stuart.”

“But I'm not the only one who saw them,” said Purity.

“So the deposition is wrong?”

“I never said in the deposition that I was the only one who saw them.”

“Excellent! Who else was there at this witches' sabbath?”

“What witches' sabbath?” Purity was confused now.

“Did you say you stumbled upon this coven of witches as they frolicked naked on the banks of the river?”

“Two of them were bathing, but I saw no sign of anything more dire than that.”

“So to you, when witches cavort naked before your eyes, it is innocent bathing?”

“No, I just… I never thought of it as a… it wasn't a worship of any kind.”

“But the tossing of the child toward heaven– a Black child, no less– and the way the naked man laughed at you, unashamed of his nakedness…”

Purity was sure she had neither spoken of nor written down any such description. “How could you know of that?”

“So you admit that you did not include this vital evidence in your deposition?”

“I didn't know it was evidence.”