I went to the Vicar’s burial today with my parents. Several people have testified that the Vicar already had a fever when he arrived so no one thinks that I killed him with witchcraft. I don’t know any witchcraft and I’ve never been to the Stones, but that didn’t stop him from accepting Laetitia Forgell’s accusation a year ago. I thought all this was behind me when the Bishop called him back to Carlisle.

After his burial, I asked my parents whether I could dance on the grave. They said no, but I think they thought I was justified. Nor am I to dig a grave next to it for Laetitia. I wasn’t going to kill her. Just take my garden shovel, dig a grave and put up a wooden marker with her name on it. I think she can read. I know my brother Nathaniel would have helped.

Actually, I wouldn’t have dug a grave for Laetitia. I’d be too scared. I just wanted to.

I had been apprenticed to Mother Burgess as a healer but she died two years ago. She would have understood, but would have made it clear that I was never to cause death intentionally. Dancing after it happened might be different.

I miss not having her advice. I still have her notes and medicine recipes. And my own, of course. I haven’t needed any of them since she died and it would be scary to be asked to help someone on my own.

No one asked me to help the Vicar, which is a good thing. It would have been hard to say yes. Mistress Potter played nursemaid because he treated her like his own servant and she just accepted that.

I do wonder what people are going to do about the Stones now that we know there is a spirit up there. It doesn’t seem to be evil, but I’m certainly not going to be talking to it. Jenefer Blexham said the Vicar stole a holy relic from the Cathedral to fight the spirit and it didn’t do anything.

Clarice was talking yesterday about how a year ago she wanted an unexciting life. It seems that excitement has found us again. I feel like I am living in a story and waiting for someone to sing a song about a battle in the hills and love and … actually, most songs seem to be about people getting killed.

I guess I will just go back to our garden and pretend I’m digging a grave for Laetitia. Weeds. Laetitia. Same thing, different names.

Mathilda Potter (July 2, 1643)

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