The Ringmaster's Revenge

The Ringmaster's Revenge: Phase Two

Phase Two

10years:10months:13days:6hours

Until the Ringmaster’s Revenge

Wynne

To alleviate the itch caused by the shackles on her wrists, Wynne gave them a brisk rub against the rough upholstery of the frigid leather armchair she’d been tossed into.  She greatly wished to scoot closer to the hearth blazing to the right of the sheriff’s desk as well, but it was too heavy and she was too weak after days of captivity. 

Sitting in the study above the jailhouse, Wynne was free now.  Or more free than she had been.  It wasn’t a large room but it was comfortable, full of warmth, soft light, and rich oak furniture.  A naturally petite woman, she felt rather out of place among the bulky office attire and looming deer heads affixed to the walls.  She felt filthy too, surrounded by the gleaming wood polish though she was cleaner than she had been in awhile.  Just a scant two hours prior the jailer had taken her from her cell and handed her off to a servant who had bathed her, dressed her in a stiff woolen dress, given a decent meal of venison, and locked in the sheriff’s private quarters to wait.

When finally the door opened, a man wearing a tight brown waistcoat of tweed over matching breeches stepped in.  Wynne forced herself up, and with her arms trapped behind her back was momentarily thrown off balance.  She flopped against the sheriff’s chest.

“Roland!  Oh, Roland, they killed him,”

Roland pushed her away, deftly running a hand over his hair and coat.

“Please sit,” he said pointing to the chair she’d so recently vacated.  Then with a sigh heavy enough for, and likely pillaged from the stage, “I fear I am not here as your friend but as a servant of the law.”

“Did you catch them?”

Effortlessly ignoring her, Roland shuffled through the papers on the desktop.  “Where again were you the morning your old man Efrim was found murdered?”

Wynne scowled.  “I’ve told the watchmen already.  I was at the market.  I found him, for God’s sake!”

“Yet, there are no witnesses to confirm that you were there… in the market, I mean.  In fact, there are no witnesses to confirm any of your stories.”  His smile was sympathetic but his eyes offered a suspiciously cheery sentiment.  “It doesn’t look good, Gwendolyn.”

“But the bread woman?  I spoke to the bread woman.  And the man at the applecart.”  Wynne squeezed her eyes shut trying to recall the faces of the vendors that morning in question.  Nearly four days had passed but she could still see them at their stalls as they were everyday.  She could even imagine the passing townsfolk as they skirted around her.  Some spitting.  All avoiding eye contact.  In her mind Wynne could identify every frown and hear every muttered curse as she made her way home from the markets.  It was a frequent affliction.

“I didn’t kill him.  Is that what you think?  You know I would never hurt him.  He was like a father to me.”

No, Efrim was better.  For her own father had tossed her into the streets when she was just a child.  It was the blind old man who had found her and took her in.  But now he was dead.  Gone and murdered.

“The magistrate is pushing for a hanging.  He’s got full support from the court and your neighbors have not been generous with their testimonies in regards to your character.  There is simply too much evidence against you.  And I feel I must mention that suspected witches rarely get a trial here in Quill Hollow.”

Wynne felt a wave of warm tears wash over her cheeks. 

It didn’t matter that she’d never so much as uttered a spell, owned a cat, or used a broom for more than sweeping.  As soon as she was born she’d been labeled.  Feared even.  And hardly anyone truly even believed in witches anymore.  “Please, what can I do?  You believe me, don’t you?”