Belinda Danvers gasped as the sheriff pronounced the verdict. Her knees tried to buckle, but she refused to swoon in front of these lunatics, even if they hadn’t given her anything to eat since breakfast the day before. Crying out her denial was equally pointless. She’d already protested her innocence until her throat was raw. The village elders had decided she was a witch. They’d convinced the sheriff and there was nothing more to be done about it. She listened to the sentencing with nausea roiling through her empty stomach. “The murder charge will be sent to the High Court of the Justiciary to decide. As witchcraft is a local matter, our judgment on that will take precedence.” The sheriff banged his gavel. “The murder charge will be dealt with posthumously. The witch is to be burned at the stake, tomorrow at dawn, in the center of the village green. May God have mercy on her soul.” Don’t cower to these jackals. Her head held high, she glared across at Squire MacLellan, the magistrate, who stared back with a snide grin.
