Free Dancing in the Palm of His Hand by Annamarie Beckel

Steinbach had come to the meeting: witches, not taxes.
    â€œI have been informed by the Prince-Bishop’s bailiff that all five of the accused–’’ the judge read from his own ledger “–Frau Eva Rosen, Frau Lilie Lamm, Frau Gertrude Bettler, Fraulein Ursula Spatz, and Herr Christoph Silberhans – are now in custody. The first question before us is: Do we wish to retain the services of Herr Georg Freude?”
    Bayer sneered. “The man is vulgar and offensive, but he seems an able executioner, quite skilled at eliciting confessions.”
    â€œI agree,” said Meier. “Herr Freude knows his business. And his fees are not unreasonable. I recommend he be retained.”
    â€œDo you all agree?” said Judge Steinbach. There were nods from both benches.
    Bayer recorded the decision, then picked up a small ivory-handled knife and sharpened the quill with a few quick strokes.
    â€œThe second question,” said Judge Steinbach, “concerns the Commission of Inquisition for the Würzburg Court. As judge of the court, I will, of course, preside at the preliminary inquisition. Prince-Bishop Philipp Adolf has appointed his chancellor, Herr Doktor Johann Brandt, to represent the central government. Herr Doktor Wilhelm Hampelmann is to represent the
Malefizamt
. His Grace has also appointed Father Streng fromthe Cathedral Chapter and Upper City Council. The physician, Herr Doktor Hans Lindner, has also been reappointed. That leaves only the representative from the Lower City Council.”
    The councilmen looked at the floor, the windows, their hands, the hearth. Through his robes, Lutz toyed nervously with a loose button on his doublet.
    Judge Steinbach blinked his watery eyes. “His Grace has honoured Herr Doktor Franz Lutz with the appointment.”
    Lutz’s hand jerked. The copper button hit the slate floor with a ping that echoed off the walls.
    Hampelmann regarded him with undisguised contempt. “You agree then to serve, Councilman Lutz?”
    Lutz pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his wet palms, then mopped the sweat from his brow. “
Ja
,” he squeaked, his throat tight.
    Walking from the town hall to his home on Augustinerstrasse, Lutz looked up toward the Prince-Bishop’s castle high atop Marienberg Mountain, its pale towers gleaming in the sunlight. He tried to convince himself that the appointment was a good thing. If he served well on the commission, His Grace might reward him with an appointment to the Upper City Council, perhaps even as second burgomaster when old Judge Steinbach finally died and Hampelmann took his place.
    Maria, the wife of a burgomaster. She would be so pleased and proud.
    The sun was almost directly overhead. Lutz felt its warmth on his face. Pink blossoms covered the cherry trees, the fallen petals forming a carpet beneath his feet. Hadn’t both the Dominicans and the Jesuits written that God protects those who do his work? Hampelmann himself was evidence of that. He’d served on the commission time and time again, and he and his family prospered.
    As soon as Lutz stepped through the doorway, Maria began fussing. He feigned mild irritation while she tut-tutted over his rumpled doublet and the missing button, straightened his wide white collar, and made him pull up his sagging hose. She sat him down in the dining room, then bustled about, setting the table with silver and porcelain. They retained two maidservants, but Maria preferred to prepare and serve meals herself.
    Breathing in the heady fragrance of simmering carp and onions, Lutz felt his stomach begin to settle, then rumble with hunger. He watched his wife open the damask drapes to let in the midday sun. Twenty-four years of predictable fussing, predictable ritual. Some men found it constricting. Lutz found it comforting. He’d never tell her so, but he’d miss it if Maria didn’t fuss. And he enjoyed the good food and drink prepared by his