There I was… Standing behind the bar awaiting my turn to be examined by the Justices of the Superior Court of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Let the fun begin. The chambre was filled to capacity by ne’er-do-wells and other pillars of Boston society, all either appearing before the bar today, or just curious about the proceedings. Some interesting lads were appearing today, including the first witch to appear before a Massachusetts court in eighty years. I nudged Pathos as the accused man was led before the Justices. I heard a soft crunch next to me, and then chewing. I looked at Pathos. “Where did you get that cookie?” “Tree outside.” “Oh. Wait, what?” But I stopped speaking, as the Justices were addressing the accused witch. “Andrew MacNair, you stand before this court, lawfully convened, accused of the crime of witchcraft. How do you plead?” He was a tall, thin man, early-thirties in age, with a nappy, scraggly beard that fell limply over his heavy black cloak. I watched as he let a small, glass sphere drop from his sleeve into his hand, and he glared at the Justices with a look of triumph. “I asked you,” repeated the elderly justice in the centre, “How do you plead?” MacNair laughed out loud, raised his hand (still clutching the small glass ball) above his head, and exclaimed, “This is how I plead, foolish mortals!” With a flourish, he shouted DISAPPEARO!!! and hurled the small glass ball to the floor, where it shattered. A tiny plume of white powdery smoke rose about two inches off the floor, then dissipated in the cold breeze blowing into the room from under the door. MacNair seemed genuinely surprised that he was still standing in the centre of the room. Defeated, he slouched sadly. The head Justice twisted his face at the pathetic man, and bellowed, “Not guilty. Get him out of here.” There were a few giggles in the courtroom, and MacNair did not move. “Mr. MacNair,” began the lead Justice, after a moment’s silence, “You are free to go home.” “I cannot,” whined MacNair. “Why the deuce not?” “My mother locked me out.” Pathos finished his cookie as the bailiff lead out MacNair. My turn. I rose and approached the bar. There were more giggles… undoubtedly at my socks. The Justices were silent as they eyed me. The room fell completely quiet, aside from the assorted chortles and giggles. After a long, awkward silence, the lead Justice cleared his throat and said, “Er… yes, um, if I may, Mr…” “If it’s about my socks, I can explain.” See, when packing for our trip from Portsmouth to Boston a few weeks ago, Pathos neglected to pack any of my socks, so I had to purchase some en route. The issue was that there was a shortage of wool for winter stockings, and the only merchant we found who had sufficient quantities on hand had them only in red – bright, gaudy, obnoxious, blinding red. And we had to buy nine pair. Everyone stared everywhere I went. There were sniggers, and chortles, and giggles, and sometimes even the hearty guffaw. Sigh. Mercifully, I was expecting a delivery of normal socks any day. The Justices heard the tale, never taking their eyes off my socks. When I had finished, they did not speak. Total. Bloody. Silence. Finally, there was a creaking of the chairs, and the lead Justice asked me, “Er… why did we call you to the bar, again?” “Something about tea, I believe.” “The tea in the harbour?” “Aye, that’s the lot.” “Ah.” The Justice stroked his chin, still glaring confusedly at my socks. “Well… um, did you do it?” “I did not.” “Right. Off you go, then.” I turned to leave the courtroom, and stomped out, Pathos in tow, brushing mysterious cookie crumbs off the front of his waistcoat. These are the sorts of days I’ve been having. | 
