After Our Ali lamed that peddler in Colne, they came for me. I told the justice about that lot over at West Close, and afore we knew what’d happened we were rounded up and sent to Lancaster – me, Ali, Old Chattox, and Anne Redferne.
Lizzie and Chris called a meeting of the locals. They even invited Bessie Whittle, since her mum and sister were also in the Well Tower. They summoned up all those neighbors who owed us favors to find out who’d been named, and to chat about what might be done to help them.
This gathering took place last Good Friday at Malkin Tower. I’m told two dozen souls or more came, and Jim stole a sheep from Barley so they’d have mutton for roasting on the outside spit. Someone suggested trying to rescue us, but that was a daft notion as you’d need gunpowder or summat to blast through walls this thick! So common sense won out, and they ended up making a list of who’d bring our food here each market day, instead.
Now Constable Hargreaves is going round telling folk that this gathering was a secret sabbat – a great assembly of witches – and that everyone who attended it is in league with demons.
Then all Hell broke loose . . .