"Verily, God has spoken His verdict," declares the fishmonger, spitting at Melany's crooked feet in disgust.
The fletcher's wife crosses herself. "Once that witch is ash, Belwyck will know peace again," she mutters. "No Godly creature is so hideous. We should have known."
"Must you dawdle?" roars the brewer at the witchfinders, barely restrained by other townsfolk in his rage. "Burn her now! She is a curse upon His earth!"
Melany understands neither the words like "apostasy" and "maleficium" the hard-faced men in grim coats shout at her nor the evidences of witchcraft they recite at her. She thinks about how she would like to frolic in the pasture instead at this moment, playing with milk cows and humming hymns with them. She thinks about how awfully she wants papa's cheesecake sweetened with wild honey while the witchfinders declare the necessary qualities of the pyre required.
Melany is to be burned at the stake in two days' time.
Clouds hang low and woolen over the iron cage where Melany waits. She whispers thanks to Jesus for shielding her blistered skin from harsh sunlight. Mama brought milk-soaked oatcakes that first evening — until iron-knobbed cudgels drove her away weeping. Now villagers come to fling rotten turnips and curses at their trembling prisoner.
Still, sacred duty stirs in Melany's heart when she notices suffering among her tormentors: The farrier hobbles past clutching his swollen knee; the cooper's widow nurses a bleeding knuckle after pounding the bars in fury. The fool flexes her bent fingers instinctively, ready to draw their pains into her own rotting flesh once more.
For two nights running, she does not call to vous inside her head. Her dear companion all these years, yes - but the Scripture speaks of Destroying Angels drowning armies, turning fertile plains to barren wastes. Why would Heaven send such majesty to guard a witless cheesemaker's daughter? Still... never once did vous laugh at her stumbling thoughts like village boys mimicked her limp.
Melany worries this strange happening might sadden the angel.
Dawn breaks on the execution day. Gaolers yank Melany out of the cramped cage and drag her to the fallow field just outside Belwyck. A wooden pillar stands tall; townsfolk heap kindling thick as harvest festival bonfires beneath it. She thinks about how dry it seems and how easily it might burn so hurtfully if a spark were to fall upon it all.
Tears stream as they tie her to the stake, pulling the knot around her ulcerated wrists until they bleed. She finally understands what the witch trial meant when the torchbearer walks forward.
They are going to kill her.
vous, my guardian angel! Melany screams with her soul, shrieking louder than any physical flesh can. Angel, please, I'm so scared! I don't want to die -
Lightning sunders the cloud-choked sky without warning. Its shattering thunder hurls townsfolk onto their bellies like sinners before holy wrath. Only Melany remains untouched amid the chaos.
A Destroying Angel descends upon Belwyck.
