"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. I felt somehow I’d hurt you. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. “What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically. “Are we cool?” Michelle asked her. She elected to go to prison. ’ Gerald’s jaw tightened. Perhaps I deceived you about it.
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