Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) Read Online Free

was good to see the Spook looking so relaxed and at ease. It was a rare sight these days.
    â€œWell, lad, you certainly took your time!” he exclaimed. “Come here and meet Bertha.”
    â€œHello, boy,” said the old lady. “I’ve been hearing all about you. Your master tells me you’re a good apprentice. But let me judge for myself. Come closer and tell me what you think. Am I a witch or not?”
    I approached her as she beamed up at me from the bench. There was no feeling of coldness to warn me that I was dealing with someone or something from the dark. That wasn’t always a factor, but I was almost certain that she wasn’t a witch.
    â€œWell, lad, speak up!” commanded my master. “Don’t be afraid to talk in front of Bertha. Is she or isn’t she?”
    â€œBertha isn’t a malevolent witch,” I answered.
    â€œOn what do you base that judgment?” he asked.
    â€œI have no feeling of warning coldness, but more than that, I trust my instincts. They tell me that Bertha isn’t a servant of the dark. And Mr. Briggs didn’t offer any real evidence. Anyone can accuse someone of being a witch for their own reasons. Some witch finders do that, don’t they? They burn someone as a witch just so they can confiscate their property.”
    â€œThat they do, lad.”
    â€œWhat am I supposed to have done?” Bertha asked, still smiling.
    â€œMr. Briggs’s hens won’t lay, and he says his dog dropped down dead after he complained to you.”
    â€œShe was a very old dog and not in good health,” she told me. “And there could be lots of reasons why his hens have stopped laying.”
    â€œAye, I totally agree,” said the Spook, coming to his feet. “Thanks for the tea, Bertha Briggs. You make the best in the County!”
    I glanced at them both in astonishment. She had the same name as her accuser. . . . What was going on? Was my master testing me in some way—trying to see if I could quickly get to the root of a situation that he was already familiar with?
    With that, the Spook led me out of the garden and back along the front hedge, toward the house where Mr. Briggs lived. He rapped hard on the front door.
    The man opened it and scowled at us aggressively.
    â€œBertha isn’t a witch,” asserted the Spook, “as you well know! This isn’t the first time she’s been falsely accused by you. So let that be an end to it. Don’t waste my time or that of my apprentice again. Do you hear?”
    â€œScratch any woman, and just beneath the skin you’ll find a witch!” said Briggs with a sneer.
    The Spook shook his head. “Well, you should know, you old fool! After all, you were married to Bertha for thirty-eight years! So she must have used some pretty powerful magic to tolerate being close to a malicious idiot like you for so long!
    â€œCome on, lad!” he said, turning to me. “We have more important things on our minds.”
    Soon we were striding back across the fields toward Chipenden, my master setting quite a pace. His joints did indeed seem better today.
    â€œThey were married? So what was all that about?” I asked.
    â€œBertha finally got sick of him, and when her mother died and left her the other cottage, she left him. No doubt she’d prefer to be twenty miles farther away, but it’s better than sharing a house. It’s the third time he’s accused her of witchcraft since they parted, and that was my third visit here. I just thought I’d come along and see how you handled the situation. Not all spook’s business involves dealing with the dark.
    â€œBut you did well, lad,” he continued. “And there was another reason why I came along. I wanted to stretch my legs, get a bit of pure County air into my lungs and do a bit of clearheaded thinking. I’ve spent too much time brooding recently, worrying and doing