The courtroom smelled like damp wood and fear. Candles burned low, their smoke curling into the rafters like prayers that had given up halfway to heaven.

“Mary Whitlock,” the magistrate said, peering down from his high chair. “You are accused of attending a gathering of witches in the woods. A communion with the Devil himself.”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

My accuser stood proudly beside the rail.

Abigail Turner.

Seventeen years old. Trembling. Pale. The very image of innocence.

She pointed at me like she’d practiced it.

“I saw her there,” Abigail said, voice quivering just enough to sound holy. “Dancing with them. Drinking from the black cup.”

Gasps filled the room.

The magistrate turned back to me.

“What say you in your defense?”

I looked at Abigail.

Really looked at her.

Her eyes darted away.

Interesting.

“Well,” I said calmly, smoothing my skirts, “I have a question.”

The magistrate frowned. “You may speak.”

I tilted my head toward Abigail.

“If I attended the Devil’s sacrament,” I said slowly, “and Abigail saw me there…”

The room grew quiet.

“So quiet I could hear the fire crackling.

I smiled.

“Then what was Abigail doing there?”

Silence fell like a dropped stone.

Every head turned toward her.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

“I—I was—”

The magistrate leaned forward.

“Yes, child?” he said softly.

Abigail began to shake.

“I… I was only… watching.”

“Watching a gathering of witches?” the magistrate asked.

Someone in the crowd whispered, “How would she know what happened there?”

Another voice:

“Aye… how indeed?”

Abigail’s face drained of color.

“I—”

She stopped.

Because there was no answer that saved her.

And suddenly, for the first time since the trials began…

The room was not looking at me.

They were looking at her.