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Ursa can’t speak. She hates him, she knows now. Hates all of them. She knew of the trial from Absalom’s mention of it in the first kirke meeting, but had not guessed that the woman had been put to death, that her husband with his own hands murdered her. Branded. Strangled. Burnt. The words repeat like a child’s rhyme. She shudders, and it doesn’t escape Fru Cunningham’s notice.
“He saw fit to save you from the storm, to guide you through the difficult time afterwards. The mercies He bestowed upon you—I cannot think His eye is turned from you.” Maren wants to push him full in the chest. “You think it mercy, what has happened here?”
She had thought she had seen the worst from this harbour, thought nothing could rival the viciousness of the storm. But now she knows she was foolish to believe that evil existed only out there. It was here, among them, walking on two legs, passing judgement with a human tongue.
