Page 81 of The Witch

He reaches out then, tries to stroke my hair with his right hand. Before I can feel his touch, I jerk away, out of his reach.

“That is why,” he says. “I have taken pains to make your stay here pleasant, but you have shown yourself to be ungrateful. You are an insolent girl who deserves to be punished. It will be my pleasure to watch you hang tomorrow.”

And then he whips his head around to look at Jonas, who is standing at the bars of his cell, staring blankly at nothing at all. His cheekbone is still bruised from where Strickland hit him with the baton and has now turned a dusky black.

“And you,” Strickland says to Jonas, saliva flying from his lips with each word. “I will be glad to be rid of you this week too. I hope you are beheaded! I wish to behold your head lying in a wicker basket, oozing blood.”

Jonas does not say a word. He stares ahead, as if Strickland is an apparition that he cannot see or hear. Strickland purses his lips as he waits for a response, but he must know he will not receive one.

Strickland looks between the two of us, as if contemplating if he should say more. Finally, he declares, “You shall both reap what you truly deserve.”

With those words, he turns and disappears into the stairwell. His footsteps grow softer and softer, and then there is a slam as the door to the cellar is closed. It is only after that Jonas’s eyes focus on me.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“You knew it would happen this way,” I remind him.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But ’tis still a grave injustice.”

“Perhaps, but there is nothing to be done.” A sob wrenches from my lips. “Tomorrow I will be hanged, just as Hitty was.”

Jonas does not say anything to that. He simply stands, clutching the bars of his cell, staring as if he is deep in thought.

60

PRESENT DAY

JULIA

Henry and I are back at Roxie’s.

He offered to take me someplace different, but the truth is, I was craving that burger again. And the food isn’t that important anyway. What’s important is that the woman who I thought was my great-aunt all this time is not who I thought she was. And if that’s true, how will I tell my father that Ethel is his biological mother?

Henry is reading the letters now, peering at the spidery print through his black glasses. I told him all about how I found the letters, my failed attempts to get information from Ethel and Mick, as well as acknowledged that Gram is far too confused to tell me anything. When he finishes the second letter, he looks up at me.

“Wow,” he says.

“Right?”

“And you said the dates match up with when your father was born?”

“I think so. Ethel never mentions her sister being pregnant in the letter, and it seems like if she were, she would’ve said something.” I take the second letter out of his hands and reread it quickly. “I wish I could find Celia. Everyone who lives at Pemberton doesn’t seem eager to talk about the past, but I bet if I find her, she’ll be willing to talk.”

“She might.”

“But how am I supposed to find her? Nobody will even tell me her last name.”

As I’m mulling this over, the waitress comes by with our orders. I dig into my burger, hoping the infusion of ground beef will somehow inspire the answer to my problems.

“Listen,” Henry says as he dabs at his lips with a napkin. “I might be able to go down to Town Hall and figure out her name, at least.”

“Really?”

“No promises.” He holds up a hand. “But if she was legally employed at Pemberton, there’s probably some sort of record. I go to Town Hall from time to time to look up records, so I might be able to sweet-talk the file clerk into looking it up for me.”

“I’d really appreciate that.” I swish around the ice cubes in my Diet Coke with my straw. “By the time I leave here, I’m going to owe you, like, five favors.”

Even though I was making a joke, my comment makes Henry shift in his seat. “You’re leaving? When?”