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The Only Rules That Matter (TheCorsair, Madame Mim)

"John Sparrow," he corrected her. "I've never gone by Jack in my life."

"Oh but you will...Captain." Josephine grinned again and in the firelight John would be able to see that they glinted in the flickering light, filed into wicked points. She nodded once when he asked her name. She tilted her head like a dog listening to its master as he said aloud what she already knew.

"You will have a cure for Anne." Josephine's voice was like oil over stone. She pointed suddenly to what seemed to be Jack, but the shadow behind him flinched and slithered over to her, much like an abused animal obeying one it couldn't escape. She smiled down at the Shadow Thing, clearly pleased with it. Standing she glided over to her bookshelf looking for a specific tome. "But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart," she quoted, not looking back at John. Anyone could quote the Bible, even a witch. "You would break poor Jenny's heart if she knew. Ah! Here we are."

Josephine stroked the spine of the book, bound with some sort of unidentifiable leather. It looked horribly like blackened human skin. It quivered for a moment before falling open in her hands. She thumbed through it before finding the correct page and holding it open. Several signatures were on the page, signed in a brownish ink. With a flourish she produced a special quill of unidentifiable origin and offered it to John.

"Simply sign the book, Captain Jack Sparrow," she offered, "and your Anne will have a cure. She will breathe, she will walk, it will be as though her sickness never existed. All you have to do is sign." Again, Josephine's pointed teeth glinted in the firelight as she stood, waiting.
 
Josephine rose, gliding over to her bookshelf with that special kind of gait that a woman adopts when trying to draw a man's eye. John, being a man, found himself watching. "But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart," she quoted, not looking back at John. "You would break poor Jenny's heart if she knew."

It was a bit of a stab at his heart. But then he smiled, remembering the hours he'd spent pouring over the Bible, teaching Jenny to read. "True enough. But wisdom will save you also from the adulterous woman, from the wayward woman with her seductive words, who has left the partner of her youth and ignored the covenant she made before God."

"Ah! Here we are." She selected a hideous-looking black book from her shelf, thumbing through it before finding the correct page and holding it open. Several signatures were on the page, signed in a brownish ink. With a flourish she produced a special quill of unidentifiable origin and offered it to John.

"Simply sign the book, Captain Jack Sparrow," she offered, "and your Anne will have a cure. She will breathe, she will walk, it will be as though her sickness never existed. All you have to do is sign." Again, Josephine's pointed teeth glinted in the firelight as she stood, waiting.

John took the pen with a flourish, and made a production of preparing to press nub to paper and sign. Then he stopped, as if struck by a thought. "Well, certainly I could do that. But..." He gave her a shrewd look. "I've got a few questions, first. What, exactly, am I agreeing to if I sign this book? And, what proofs do I have that Anne will have a cure?"

He gestured around the room. "So far, all I have is your word. And - no offense, I hope - the sworn word of a young woman who quotes a few verses of scripture and files her teeth like some African cannibal isn't exactly filling me with confidence."

Leaning on his stick, he tucked the quill into the band of his hat. "Surely her house leads down to death and her paths to the spirits of the dead. None who go to her return or attain the paths of life."
 
"To death?" Josephine chuckled. "Jack Sparrow, I do not want you dead. Not yet. It would not do to give you what you need then kill you, for then you could never live up to your part of the bargain."

She snapped the book closed, still smiling. She didn't seem the least bit concerned that John wouldn't sign her book. Instead she stepped over to a small table on the other side of the fireplace, sitting in the rickety wooden chair next to it. She pulled a crystal nearer to her, looking intently into it before looking back up at John. The glow of the fire flickered off of Josephine's face, making her appear all at once quite attractive and ominous.

"Come look in my crystal, Jack." Her smooth voice was inviting in more than one way. "I can lie, but the crystal cannot. It is bound to the truth."

Should John choose to gaze into the crystal, it would show him Anne's future: Jenny crying as the baby pushed herself to her feet and walked again, as though nothing had ever happened; Anne as a child running and playing; as a young woman being escorted down the aisle by her father on her wedding day; raising children of her own. But then the image changed. Anne was shown as a child with atrophied legs, learning how to use crutches; a bit older, getting picked on by other neighborhood children; Jack and the many bloody noses he would come home with even as a teenager defending his sister; Jenny leaning on John and trying not to cry as she watched Anne try to take a step without her crutches and fall to the floor. The crystal showed no wedding day for this Anne, no children, and in fact wouldn't show her past the age of fifteen or so. Once the crystal went dark, Josephine looked up at John.

"So are you convinced, Captain?" she asked, already knowing the answer. "Would you sign my book?"
 
"Come look in my crystal, Jack." Her smooth voice was inviting in more than one way. "I can lie, but the crystal cannot. It is bound to the truth."

Stepping forward, he peered into the crystal. Images flickered past, images so true to life he could hardly credit them. The present? No, the future. The future he and Jenny had dreamed of. And the future they feared. Each presented clearly.

His expression hardened as the crystal finally went dark.

Josephine looked up at John. "So are you convinced, Captain?" she asked. "Would you sign my book?"

"Would I sign your book?" he repeated, staring at the fey woman. "Oh, I may..." Idly, he flipped through the book. It was hand-written, appearing to have been copied from a copy of a copy by people who didn't actually read Latin.

John, it so happened, did. And what he read, he found intriguing.

To driveth off spirits of evil, once loosed upon a man.

Tu arch-maleficus, vis sese N. N .; qui in magia occultis fiat ab eo recedas os tuum, et ad te reddi. Exorcizo te, propter quinque vulnera Iesu, mali spiritus, et per quinque vulnera Iesu Evoco his carnibus et in his ossibus medullas; Exorcizo te, propter quinque vulnera Christi, etiam ista hora, NN sanitati restituet, in nomine Dei Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Dei. Ter.
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Not all of them were so benevolent, thugh. Or so willing to invoke the name of Jesus. Finally, he looked up.

"You've yet to explain to me what my part of the bargain is, though." A thin smile. "I'll not agree to a bargain, without knowing my part.
 
Josephine watched John flip through the book. She would not relinquish it to him but allowed him to flip through her book. She was certain he wouldn't be able to steal the secrets within. Once he sat back from reading she snapped it shut.

"You've yet to explain to me what my part of the bargain is, though. I'll not agree to a bargain, without knowing my part."

Josephine looked carefully at him, reaching her hand to stroke the Shadow Thing like a pet. The points of her teeth glinted in the firelight as she spoke. "I think you already know what your part of the bargain is, Jack Sparrow," she purred. "It's the reason you haven't told your darling wife that you have left London. Sign my book and Anne will walk again. She shall live a long and happy life as though she had never been sick a day in her life. You shall live to see her children and her children's children grow around you. If you don't...well, I'm sure you know what awaits. An immortal soul weighs only a few ounces, Jack; you'll never notice it missing. Neither will your wife." Her blouse fell a little lower, revealing more of her cleavage as though to tempt him further. Josephine's dark eyes never left his as she opened her book yet again to the page he was to sign. The Shadow Thing curled at her feet and though it had no mouth John would be able to feel it smiling at him.
 
The points of her teeth glinted in the firelight as she spoke. "I think you already know what your part of the bargain is, Jack Sparrow," she purred.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "But... and call me crazy if you like... I prefer to have my bargains spelled out." A shrug. "Keeps everyone happier, that way. Less complaining."

"It's the reason you haven't told your darling wife that you have left London. Sign my book and Anne will walk again. She shall live a long and happy life as though she had never been sick a day in her life. You shall live to see her children and her children's children grow around you. If you don't...well, I'm sure you know what awaits."

His gut clenched. "A miracle, if she lives to the age of three."

"An immortal soul weighs only a few ounces, Jack; you'll never notice it missing. Neither will your wife." Her blouse fell a little lower, revealing more of her cleavage as though to tempt him further. Josephine's dark eyes never left his as she opened her book yet again to the page he was to sign. The Shadow Thing curled at her feet and though it had no mouth John would be able to feel it smiling at him.

John sat, staring at the book. Several minutes passed in silence as he contemplated the thing. Then, sighing, he reached up and plucked the quill from his hat. "Just a few ounces..." he murmured, pricking his finger. Then, he began to write.

On the palm of his hand. Not on the page.

He'd seen the formula in the book, as he'd flipped through the pages. The blood from his fingertip was renewed by the blood that flowed from the scratches on his palm as he hastily scribbled out the magic square:

S A T O R
A R E P O
T E N E T
O P E R A
R O T A S

The Shadow Thing snarled in sudden fury, as he completed the final word, and he kicked it like a stubborn dog.

"You don't know my wife as well as you think you do, if you think she wouldn't notice those few ounces," John laughed, snatching the book away from the witch. and springing backwards from the table. "They're already hers!"
 
Josephine smiled as he plucked the feather from his hat. She watched as he scribbled on his hand. The future had many paths; this was one of them. It didn't worry her too much. The Shadow Thing snarled and started after John. Josephine snarled as well as her book was snatched away from her and she stood as he sprang backwards from the table.

"You'll regret this day, Jack Sparrow," she warned as he retreated to the door. "You will wish you had signed my book instead." His hand was on the knob of the door when the witch walked across the room though not after him. She plucked a human skull from her shelf. "I'm giving you a last chance."

But John was already across the threshold. Josephine raised the skull to her lips and where the ear would have been she whispered Jack Sparrow before cackling madly. In the distance a horse screamed and hooves began thundering down the path toward John. The Horseman was back on the hunt.
 
"You'll regret this day, Jack Sparrow," she warned as he retreated to the door. "You will wish you had signed my book instead." His hand was on the knob of the door when the witch walked across the room though not after him. She plucked a human skull from her shelf. "I'm giving you a last chance."

John paused at the doorway, seized by a mad humor. "M'lady," he called, spinning and sketching a quick bow, "you will always remember this evening as the day that you almost caught John Sparrow!" Then, laughing, he yanked the door shut.

It was, of course, dark outside. All the more so, it seemed, because he'd grown accustomed to the firelight in the witch's hut. He blinked rapidly, trying to acclimate to the darkness, and backed away. he doubted she'd pursue him - mad or deluded or truely a witch, he was still a head and more taller than she was - but he didn't feel like taking his chances.

Leaves rustled and branches clashed in the still night air. He could hear the almost-voices and the maybe-footsteps again. And there, lurking in the shadows of the ill-favored tree, he could see without actually seeing the Shadow Thing. "You know what to do," he snapped at it. "Get to work."

Nothing seemed to happen, and then he felt more than saw a shadow slip through the darkness. And then he heard it, far in the distance. The scream of a horse and the far-distant thunder of hooves. The thing the witch had named the Horseman was coming.

Whirling, John sprinted along the path as quick as he could. "Wait... until you've... already escaped... before... taunting.. the witch!"
 
The horseman galloped after his mark. The witch had his head and so he was forced to do her bidding. The moon lit his path as he galloped from the tree, though he didn't need it to see. The horse screamed and reared, coming after John as he had been bidden. Were the man to look back he would be able to very clearly see that this horseman had no head.

Voices whispered to John, telling him he couldn't escape. There was never any escape from the horseman. But out of the moonlight came a small voice, almost imperceptible but most definitely there. John wouldn't be able to tell if it was all in his head or coming from out of the trees.

The bridge, it whispered. The bridge the bridge get to the bridge! Once you cross the bridge you will be free of his curse!
 
John's lungs burned as he forced himself to sprint farther and farther. He heard the whispers, chief among them the hollow voice of his own Shadow Thing, telling him he'd never escape. That he could never outrun the Horseman. That his soul would be forfeit, and his daughter would perish without memory of her father. He glanced back, saw the black figure thundering along the path, and he felt his courage falter.

The bridge, a small voice seemed to whisper. The bridge the bridge get to the bridge! Once you cross the bridge you will be free of his curse!

Swallowing hard, he dug deep and ran for the covered bridge. Behind him the hoofbeats grew closer and closer and closer, and his legs burned and his vision swam. And at the end, he knew he would have never have made it if he was running for his own life. But he was running for his daughter, who needed the secrets he'd stolen from the witch. He was running for his son, who shouldn't grow up without a father. And he was running for his Jenny, who held his heart and soul forever.

Finally, he collapsed. Rough wood scraped the skin of his hands and knees and face, and he forced himself to crawl. Behind him, he heard the scream of the horse and a horrible cry of rage and frustration. He managed a weak grin. "Th' day... you almost... caught... John... Sparrow..." he gasped, then lay on the wood and struggled for breath.
 
The sound of the hoofs grew closer, quicker. Louder. John got to the bridge, wood skinning his hands and knees, ripping the pants of his trousers. The horse didn't stop. Neither did the voice.

Faster faster! No no across the bridge! Across it! All the way! The voice urged him forward. It seemed convinced that it wasn't safe. John wouldn't be safe until he was off the wood, on the ground on the other side. Please John keep going! You have to keep going! Across the dust! On the far side of the bridge someone had laid a line of salt and brick dust. But the horse's hooves had stopped. Perhaps the Horseman had been called off after all.

Heavy boots tromped across the boards of the bridge.
 
John lay on the wood, gasping for breath. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest. Rest, and air. He let himself sag into the rough surface, relaxing as if it were his own bed.

Faster faster! the whispering voice pleaded. No no across the bridge! Across it! All the way!

"Can't..." he mumbled. "Exhausted..."

Please John keep going! You have to keep going! Across the dust!

He'd made it to the bridge, outrun a horse. A horse that, from the sound of it, was no longer following him. How could he be expected to...

Heavy boots tromped across the boards of the bridge.

Ice flooded John's veins, fear shocking him awake and sending him scrambling to his feet. The first few steps were managed on hands and knees, like a monkey, and he heard the whistle and felt the air of a blade missing his neck by inches. This time, he didn't look back. He ran, ran on legs of lead, scrambling for the patch of less-dark darkness at the far end of the bridge. His breath and his footsteps echoed in the covered bridge, as did the heavy booted steps of the Horseman. He didn't want to see it. Didn't want to waste time looking back to stare death in the face.

Sobbing with the effort, John stepped from the far side of the bridge. He missed his footing, ankle turning beneath him, sending him sprawling and rolling across the rough ground. Stones and fallen branches tore at his clothes and skin as he tumbled, unable to tell up from down. But he kept his grip on the book, and on his stick. He'd need the book, for Anne. And he'd need the stick, because whatever that was behind him it wasn't going to stop...

Finally he landed on his back, staring at the empty mouth of the bridge. He tried to rise, straining with muscles that felt like jelly. It was nothing supernatural, it couldn't be. He'd let the evening and the idea of visiting a 'witch' get to him. It was a bandit, probably the lover of the mad woman who billed herself as a witch. And he'd not die on his knees before a bandit. He wouldn't die, sobbing in terror like a frightened child.

Staggering, he made it to his feet. "Well?" he demanded, raising his stick in a shaky hand. "C'mon, then! I'm right here!"
 
The Horseman didn't run. He never had a need. Nobody had ever escaped the Headless Horseman. There was the cold hiss of steel against a scabbard as he drew his sword while his victim scrambled to his feet. The horse frothed and nickered at the far end of the bridge, eyes glowing read. The Horseman brought his sword down, only for his blade to miss his prey's neck by inches.

If the Horseman could feel anger or frustration, this would be it. At his belt was an axe and he drew it with his free hand, wielding both weapons at once. He swung again and once again missed. This time the Horseman picked up his pace, determined to get his head before he escaped to the other side of the bridge. Instead, the man tumbled the last few feet off of the wood and into the path, onto his back.

"Well?" he demanded, raising his stick in a shaky hand. "C'mon, then! I'm right here!"

The Horseman stood on the edge of the bridge. He moved his foot, but the protective line stopped him. He stood, looking if he could indeed look, before taking a sling from his belt. Raising his arm above where his head should have been, he twirled the sling before unleashing a heavy bullet, knocking John squarely in the head hard enough to knock him unconscious. When he came to, he would find the Horseman gone and a short-handled axe very near his head.
 
Sunlight woke John Sparrow.

Groaning, muscles stiff and sore, he shifted uncomfortably. There was something stabbing him in the small of his back, and his head ached abysmally. Had he been drinking, or...

He sat bolt upright, then moaned in agony as his skull protested the motion. Ignoring the pain, he looked wildly around. There was the bridge, innocuous in the daylight. Over there, perhaps a quarter mile away, was the skull stone. And all over his face was dried blood.

A few minutes probing found the source. The sling bullet had struck him a glancing blow to the forehead, splitting the skin and knocking him unconscious. And wounds of the scalp and face tended to bleed in a way that resembled the approach of death.

"God," he muttered. "That crazy bandit..."

Then he stopped himself. Because, despite his fatigued bravado last night, there had been no bandit. The Horseman had been something monstrous and real, called by the power of a woman who had been a real witch. And he - he checked, quickly - he had stolen her Black Book.

Frankly, he wasn't certain if he felt pleased or terrified of what he'd done.

Something else caught his eye. An old single-bitted axe, short-handled and clearly never intended as a tool, lay embedded in the ground near where he'd woken. Clearly, he'd escaped death one final time, after the stone had failed to kill him.

He stared at the hatchet for a minute, then picked it up and tucked it into his belt. He had a long way to go, after all, and no way of knowing for sure if the witch had friends that could be called in daylight...


Dover
August 4, 1705

John dismounted from the coach, and collected his sparse luggage from the rack. He looked like he'd been to the proverbial wars. A livid red scab stood out on his forehead, and his eyes were hollow and dark from lack of sleep. Twice in the last four days of travel he'd awoke in the night to the sounds of hooves and horses outside the waystations he'd slept at between legs of his journey, and calming himself had taken hours.

Slinging his satchel - weighted down with book and hatchet - he lifted his pack and set off up the road. The Nest wasn't far, and if Jenny wasn't home than he could rest until she returned. And if she was?

He sighed.

Then he could tell her of his failure to find help.
 
"Papa? Daddy!" Jack rushed down the road, hoisting his little sister up clumsily in his arms as he ran. The children met their father down the road, Jack hugging John's leg tightly and Anne claiming the other.

"Da!" She raised her arms, Fwee in one hand, wanting to be picked up. Sparrows had always been an adaptable lot and Anne seemed to have resigned herself to the fact that her legs no longer worked. Even at such a tender age she had taken a hard lesson and gone with it. She wheezed even as she waited to her father to lift her into his strong arms.

"John? John!" Jenny threw the door open, running down the path to join her children in welcoming him home. Craning her neck around the children she kissed him soundly--much to Jack's disgust--before helping him with his bags. "So what did the doctor say? John your head! What happened?"

Once inside, Jenny put his bags by their bedroom door before fetching water, salve, and a bandage. She touched the scab gingerly before beginning to tend to it. She looked concerned but kept up an appearance for the children as she explained why she was home in the middle of the day; Anne had had trouble breathing all through the night. She had stayed home from work to keep an eye on their daughter and now, up close, it was easy to see the dark circles under her eyes and the light in her eyes was a bit duller than it had been.
 
John caught up Jack and Anne, laughing and crying at the same time as he hugged them close and carried them towards the cottage. "And have you two been behaving?" he laughed.

"Oh, yes daddy," Jack assured him, solemnly. Then he snuggled into his father's shoulder. Anne, meanwhile, reached up and patted his face. "Da! Boo-boo!"

"Yes, Anne. Daddy got a boo-boo."

The little girl laughed. And then Jenny was running down the path, embracing the whole herd of them and kissing him. Jack made "ew" sounds, and Anne bestowed a slobbery kiss on John's cheek before laughing.

"So what did the doctor say? John your head! What hapened?"

John set the children down. "Go play," he said.

"But daddy!"

"No buts," he said, sternly. Then, as Jenny went to fetch water, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a stick of candy. "You'll need to go eat this," he whispered, conspiratorially. "But don't let mommy see, or..."

"It'll spoil my dinner?" Jack asked, laughing.

"Yep. Now, scoot."

Anne stayed with him. She was too young to really understand any of the things her parents would be talking about, and he felt a powerful need to hold his daughter just then. And so, when Jenny returned, he was putting on a show of telling her about the goings on in London. That faded as Jenny washed the scab on his forehead, and applied ointment, and told him why she looked so exhausted and why she was home at this time of the day.

"I..." He looked away, then held Anne close. "The doctors... they..." He swallowed, then set Anne down on the floor and handed her Fwee. "None of the ones I spoke with could help. None of them even know what's really... what her illness is." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, they said that if we could bring her to them, they might be able to learn more. But they've never heard of an illness that robs people of the power to walk."

He took Jenny's hands, pulling her down into his lap. "I... even consulted some folk healers. You know the types. People with herb lore. None of them could offer any help, or any medicines beyond what I've already concocted."

Oh, and I stole a book of magic from a half-crazed witch. And was nearly killed by a headless demon.

John slid his arms around his wife's shoulders. "I... I don't know what to do."

Beyond read that book, and see what it can offer.

Gently, he kissed her cheek. "Other than have faith, and keep looking. We'll find an answer, Jenny. We will."
 
Jenny sat back on the couch. She covered her mouth, a tear dripping down her cheek as her husband explained that the doctors didn't even know what was wrong with her baby. Doctors in London didn't even know what this sickness was or why it was happening to them. What had they done that had angered God so much that He had given their little girl an uncurable disease that not even the doctors in London had heard of?

"But...but they're doctors. They're doctors at the Royal Academy, and if they don't know, then...then..." Jenny hid her face in her hands, trying not to sob too hard. As John slid his arm around her shoulders she leaned against him. He promised her they'd find an answer, but she just didn't know if that was possible.

"John I...I don't know if this is the best time to mention this now..." Jenny wiped at her face again, sniffing thickly. "I mean, considering Anne's so sick...and the doctors, they don't..." She sniffed again and shook her head. "It's too soon to tell but John...I think I'm pregnant again."
 
John held Jenny as she sobbed out her grief at the news. He'd promised they'd find an answer, and he knew he'd move heaven and earth (and even rob a witch) to obtain it. But, right now, he didn't know how.

The Black Book had to have an answer, and one he could live with using. It had to.

"John I...I don't know if this is the best time to mention this now..." Jenny wiped at her face again, sniffing thickly. "I mean, considering Anne's so sick...and the doctors, they don't..." She sniffed again and shook her head. "It's too soon to tell but John...I think I'm pregnant again."

"Really?" he asked, excitement cutting through the fear and sorrow for a moment. "That's... that's great!" he kissed her, then pulled her close and rested his forehead on hers. "And yes, I know. With Anne being so sick, it'll be hard. It'll be devilishly hard." Smiling, he kissed her hair. "But... another baby. Another child, to call our own. And with the contract I negotiated from the East India Company, the apothecary will be doing more business than ever. Maybe..." He hugged her tight, swept away by the image of the future. "Maybe I'll finally earn enough that you won't have to work."
 
Jenny sob-laughed as John pulled her close and smiled. Since she realized she had been showing symptoms she had been agonizing over how to tell her husband. She had been worried he would be upset; but this...well, maybe things weren't so hopeless after all.

"Most men would despair at another child," she sniffled, hugging him tightly and nuzzling her face into his shoulder. "Another mouth to feed. You have an indomitable spirit, John Sparrow." Jenny laughed and held him tightly, glad he had such a positive outlook on these new developments. She didn't care what those doctors in London said, she knew John would go to the ends of the earth to save their little girl. They'd find a cure and the apothecary would thrive and they'd live happily, all five of them.

"Let's not tell Jack until we're certain, eh?" Jenny suggested. "Give it another month or two so the doctor can tell for certain." She glanced over at Anne on the floor, playing happily with Fwee. "I think even if she heard she's probably too young to understand."

Later that evening John was telling a bedtime story per Jack's request, and Jenny thought it would be a good time to unpack his things. She sorted between clean and dirty clothes when, at the bottom of his pack, she came across a black book. Frowning, she pulled it out and leafed through it. She had never seen it on their shelves before but perhaps John had bought it in London. Her frown deepened as she looked through the pages to find it was mostly in Latin and other languages she didn't know. Her heart clenched and her throat tightened as she saw in her flipping a strange diagram. Jenny dropped the book and scrambled back a few paces as though it had burned her when on one page she found pictures of a horrible demon stealing away a child. She covered her mouth with one hand, breathing heavily as she stared at the open page. What had he done?

Gathering herself Jenny picked up the book carefully and closed it, careful not to look at so much as a single word more lest they unintentionally invite something into their house. She stood by the fire in the kitchen, waiting for John to emerge from the children's room, which now was separated from theirs by the sitting room. Jenny folded her arms across her chest, book clutched to it, and once the children were asleep confronted her husband.

"John, what the Hell is this?" she demanded, keeping her voice low so the children wouldn't hear should they wake up. She held the book up for him to see exactly what it was.
 
"...and so Jack married the princess, and lived happily ever after."

John wasn't certain the boy had heard the end of the story. He was curled up under his blanket, arms wrapped around Scraps. Smiling, he leaned down and carefully kissed Jack on the cheek. "Goodnight," he whispered, before rising and carefully closing the door behind him.

He'd missed this so much in London. The gentle routine of bedtime, of seeing his children. Of returning to the sitting room to see Jenny, arms folded across her chest, glaring at him angrily...

Wait, what? Oh, hell. Was that...

"John, what the Hell is this?" she demanded, holding the book up for him to see exactly what it was.

John did some quick mental calculations: Jenny was swearing. Outside of sex, the only time she swore was when she was really angry. Jenny had the Black Book, and she was swearing. Clearly, she'd had a look inside. All of that equaled... he thought quickly... doom.

With a sigh, he sat down and gestured for her to do the same. "Desperation, Jenny. And hope."

That wasn't cutting any mustard with her, clearly. Carefully, he took the book from her hands and set it on the table. "I... all right. One of the folk healers I went to see was locally reputed to be a witch." Quickly, he held up a hand. "Let me finish, please. I... didn't believe it. You know how folk are, get an old woman who knows a few things about herbs and medicine, and everyone blames her for everything from pimples to plague. And... and I hoped that folk healers might know something the doctors didn't."

He stared at the book. "She.. uhm..." The events of that night flashed through his mind. "I... think she really was a witch. She..." He swallowed. "Tried to get me to... sell my soul. To get a cure for Anne. I didn't/," he hastily added. I was tempted, though. For a minute.

"She got angry, and I... grabbed her book." He flipped it open. "It's not all wicked, Jenny. Really. A lot of it is prayers, things I don't think the witch even understood. Listen..."

He jabbed a passage, titled "For Bleeding". The latin text was hand-written in shaky block letters:
Christus Jesus, in qua natus esset beatus; Christus Jesus, qui mortuus est in diebus beatus; Benedictus Jesus Christus resurrexit a mortuis, qua die. Isti sunt sancti, et quater confitebantur, a quibus degimus, prohibere sanguinem. Tuum erit Neque tument neque ulcere pessimo, quod accidere non magis quam Maria Virgo pariet filium.
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"Blessed is the day on which Jesus Christ was born," John read. "Blessed is the day on which Jesus Christ died; blessed is the day on which Jesus Christ arose from the dead. These are holy three hours; by these... and here you put in the person's name... I stop thy blood. Thy sores shall neither swell nor fester; no more shall that happen, than that the Virgin Mary will bear another son. And then you cross yourself three times."

He looked at his wife, agony in his eyes. "There's no wickedness in that, Jenny. Evil can't conjure with the name of God. And... and..." He looked away, glancing at the children's room. "And... there may be something here. Something that can help."
 
Jenny didn't sit. She remained standing, lips pursed into a thin line, nostrils flared, waiting to see what possible excuse John could have. When he told her that one of the folk healers he'd gone to see was thought of locally as a witch she opened her mouth, but closed it again as he begged her to let him finish. Her jaw set, teeth clenched, but she said nothing.

"She...tried to get me to...sell my soul. To get a cure for Anne."

"John!" Jenny's heart pounded in her chest. Nothing was worth that price.

"I didn't!" he added hastily. He explained how the witch had gotten angry, how he'd taken the book and run away. Jenny listened as he translated a passage which invoked the name of Christ, claiming there was no wickedness in it.

"Evil can't conjure with the name of God?" Jenny blinked as though in disbelief. "John, what do you think a false prophet is? The Bible even says the Beast will quote scripture! And even if that passage isn't wicked then tell me about this! And this!" Jenny flipped the pages and jabbed with her finger at the pictures she had found so hard she nearly ripped the page. She breathed hard through her nose, nostrils still flared and jaw still set. Mrs. Sparrow was typically a gentle soul, but when something pushed her too far she was unrelenting.

"John Sparrow you've invited witchcraft into this house," Jenny persisted. "You've stolen from a witch and put our entire family in danger! Put yourself in danger!" She slammed the book shut and put both hands on the table, leaning her weight on it. "What if you had given in to that temptation, hmm? You would have given up your immortal soul and this life would be all we had with you, maybe not even that. Who knows? John I know you'll do anything to save Anne, so will I, but there has got to be a line and that's it. God can't help us if we turn our backs to Him and if you keep this book that is exactly what you're doing."
 
John wanted to argue. Because it hadn't been the voice of a devil, urging him to cross that bridge. Hadn't been the voice of a devil, warning him to flee to the other side, ahead of the Horseman. Whatever else it had been, it wasn't a devil. But...

He slumped in his chair, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I... that... you're right." With a sudden cry of frustrated, helpless rage, he hurled the book across the room. Then he fell back into the chair, shoulders slumped in defeat. "You're right, Jenny. I know you are. I knew it, even when I was doing it."

He stared at the book. "I just... I feel so... so helpless. And... it was so easy, you know? Convincing myself that, that there were godly things in there. That God had given me the means... to... to help..." His voice began to break, and he bit his lip to try and retain his composure.

A minute passed. "Could you... build up the fire?" he finally said, softly. "We... I should... should burn it."
 
Jenny jumped as John cried out and hurled the book across the room. It hit the wall with a bang and fell to the floor. For the first time in the conversation Jenny's expression softened as John slumped in the chair. She sighed and sank into the chair next to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and leaning her head on his arm.

"Oh John..." Her voice was soft, sympathetic. "The Devil's ways will always be the easy ways, and it's nothing less than human to give in to temptation. The Devil will wrap himself in an angel's robes if he has to to get you to give in. But that's what makes you a good person, John; even when you do give in, you always set things right again." She leaned in and kissed his temple, squeezing him gently. "We'll beg, borrow, and steal to save our little girl, but we can't give in to temptations like witchcraft. Yes it's easy...but we would pay the ultimate price for it, and if it's not in God's plans for Anne to..." Jenny choked on the rest of the sentence, unable to say it aloud. "Then the best chance we have is seeing her again in the next life. Can't do that without a soul, love."

A minute passed. "Could you...build up the fire?" John asked softly. "We...I should...should burn it."

"Yes, John." Jenny kissed his head again before standing and crossing the room to get the book. She laid it on the table before building up the fire once more. Standing aside, she looked at her husband then at the book. "You're doing the right thing, John."
 
A minute passed. A minute in which he composed a hundred arguments against Jenny's words. In which he raged in his mind, wanting to fight, aware even as he did that it wasn't Jenny he was angry at. It wasn't even the witch that he was angry at. He was angry at the world, angry at having hope - even, as Jenny had pointed out, false hope - dangled in front of him and snatched away. "Could you... build up the fire?" he finally said, softly. "We... I should... should burn it."

"Yes, John." She kissed his head, then picked up the book and laid it down next to him. Then she tossed wood on the fire, building it up to a roaring blaze. Standing aside, she looked at her husband then at the book. "You're doing the right thing, John."

He looked at the book, then back at the door into the children's room. "Am I, Jenny?" A sigh. "No, I know I am. But.." He picked it up, weighing it in his hands. "But... I wish it felt like the right thing."

John stared at the book for a moment longer. Then, before he tried to second-guess himself, he stepped forward and threw it on the flames. It slipped forward, so he took the poker and shoved it back into the burning wood. "You're right, love," he said, staring into the flames. "Whatever... whatever was in that book... Anne needs no part of it."
 
She pursed her lips a little, not in anger but in sympathy, as John picked up the book and wished doing the right thing felt like the right thing. "Often the right thing to do is the hardest," Jenny said quietly. "I can do it for you, if you want."

Instead John stepped forward and threw the book onto the flames himself. It slipped forward and he poked it back into the flames. He stared into them as he agreed that Anne needed no part of whatever was in the witch's book. Even as he spoke, the pages began to catch and then the cover. The entire book all at once burst into purple and green flames, hissing and spitting sparks onto the hearth like a flaming, angry cat, causing Jenny to jump back from the fire. A thick smoke, black and crimson, rose from the book as it burned and there was a high pitched sound that sounded almost like...screams. An acrid smell filled the room and, coughing, Jenny stepped away to open as many windows as she could. Pulling off her apron she waved it through the air, trying to clear the smoke as she covered her nose and mouth with her hand. Once the smoke had cleared the book was still in the fire, though significantly damaged.

"You definitely did the right thing." Jenny coughed and stuck her head out the window for fresh air before pulling her head back in and looking at John. "Whatever was in that book, whatever did that...your soul would have been bound to it, and maybe even Anne's." She crossed to him and hugged him tightly, laying her head against his chest. "It was the right thing, John."
 
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