Page 34 of Nightshade

“And do you think that she deserved to die?”

“I am afraid I cannot answer that, My Lord.”

“Why? Afraid your good conscience will hear you?”

“Because I …. I have been punished for speaking of my mother.”

His teeth slid across his lips, as he shifted his jaw. “Punished by whom?”

“Bishop Venable.”

“He is not here now. So, tell me, Lustina. Do you believe your mother deserved to be burned alive?”

After a quick glance over her shoulder to be sure the bishop did not stand there, she cleared her throat. “No.”

“What do you believe?”

Lustina couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes, and she shook her head, unable to form a word with all the emotion that’d risen to the back of her throat.

“Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“Please, My Lord. I mean no disrespect.”

“Tell me what you believe. Tell me now. I demand it.” As he pushed to his feet, she was reminded of his height, and the shadow he cast on the wall gave him an ominous aura.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she shook her head again. “I cannot.”

“You believe she was wrongfully accused. You believe she died for nothing. That she was murdered by a man who claims to be holy and just. Sound about right?”

More tears fell, and Lustina tipped her head back in a failed effort to control the anger and frustration burning inside of her. “I’ll ask you not to speak for me. My Lord.”

“It is the truth. Your truth. One you fail to acknowledge. Why?” With slow steps, he stalked toward her, his nearing proximity casting a chill down her spine.

“He felt … she was evil.”

“Was she, Lustina?” He clasped his hands behind his back and prowled before her like a wild animal pacing. One who couldn’t be trusted not to attack. “Had you ever seen an evil side to your mother?”

Never. Her mother had never raised a hand to her. Had never abandoned her. Never spoke ill of anyone, for as long as Lustina could remember.

“Tell me what you believe.”

“I … I believe …”

“Say it.”

“I believe … she was innocent.”

“Yes. And tell me how you feel about Bishop Venable?”

She wanted to. God, she wanted to say the wicked words that burned the back of her throat with a fierce vexation. Instead, she shook her head.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Tell me what you refuse to say aloud. What you think every night before you go to sleep. Tell me the words you say in dreams, when no one can hear you.”

“I hate him.” She spoke low and uncertain, anticipating the moment when the wicked, old man would come flying out of the shadows to punish her.

“Again. Louder.”

“I hate him!”