“But don’t you want to save your wife?” Vicar Price asked, his throat tightening as he read the answer on John’s face before any words were spoken. He stood across the table from John, staring down at him, then turned away.  He looked around their house. This was her home. This was where she lived. The home was sparse but it still carried her warmth - as if it didn’t know she was gone yet. His heart ached at the thought of it growing cold. “Vicar, look, I respect you and the Lord knows how grateful I am for you to give Mary the opportunities you did,” John said. “The extra money helped us through some very hard times. But Hopkins … what he said about why we might be having the hard times to begin with …” “Mary is no witch, surely you can’t have doubt about that,” Vicar Price interjected. John wouldn’t meet his eyes. He watched John

search for words, but he sensed the struggle was superficial. The more he pressed John to help him approach Hopkins and make an appeal, the more John insisted to leave things as they were. From the moment he had walked in this morning he had been disgusted. John’s face looked refreshed, and Vicar Price recoiled at the idea that John had slept peacefully while Mary sat alone in the jail.  “John … she’s your wife. You know she’s not a witch. You two love each other...” For the first time since they started talking, John’s eyes filled with emotion and finally met his own. “You haven’t lived here all these years. You don’t know her, and honestly I never did either.”  Vicar Price wanted to strike him, he had never felt this kind of fury before and was unprepared when he suddenly felt himself overcome with it. He took a deep breath and looked around the house again, looking at…