Margo didn’t even hesitate. She screamed, a piercing sound of agony that raised fine hairs on the back of Malcolm’s neck. Then she whimpered loudly enough to be heard through the closed door. They waited for a moment, then Kit signaled to her again. She let out another gawdawful cry and started sobbing.
Kit said quietly, “I’m sorry, but Malcolm has to keep this.” He took Malcolm’s cassock and handed it back. Then he stepped to the door and opened it.
”Governor Salazar, whether this girl is witch or not, I have still not decided in my heart,” Kit said. “But the girl has been badly brutalized.” Reproach darkened his voice. “God does not approve of such violence against the weaker sex. Worse, you have left her naked and starving. We may chastise the body for the sake of the soul, but we are still Christian men. Bring the poor child a blanket, clothing, something hot to eat. Let her pray and sleep. Tomorrow we will examine her further.”
He lifted his hand in a Latin benediction, then motioned to Malcolm. Margo bit her lips as he turned to leave. He said with his eyes, Hold on, kid. Just hold on.. Then the traders brought a coarse shirt, a blanket, and a mug of soup. Kit saw to it that she was clothed and wrapped in the blanket, watched her finish the soup,, then consented to lock her in again for the night.
Then-and only then–did he and Malcolm finish the “confessions” they had begun. Neither of them was in any mood for it, but the charade had to be maintained at all costs. The confessions proved astonishingly petty, yet gave great insight into the factions which split the isolated men of Lourenco Marques.