15

HOPE

JULY 2, 1692

SALEM VILLAGE

I opened my eyes and inhaled a deep breath, as if I'd been holding it for hours.

"Hope!" Grace cried as she rose from the bed we shared in the little attic room at the ordinary. She crushed me in her arms, weeping. "Hope!"

I stared at the slanted ceiling beyond her shoulder, my heart pounding hard. Why was she crying?

"Hope," she said again as she pulled back and looked down at me.

The sun had not yet risen on Salem Village, though there was a faint glow in the eastern sky. I stared at Grace, trying desperately to get my bearings.

I sat up, forcing her to move back. Putting my hand on my head, I frowned. "What happened?"

She wiped at the tears on her face and sat back on her heels. "You were thrown from your aeroplane at the Boston meet." Her face crumpled into tears again, and she threw herself at me, hugging me tighter than she'd ever hugged me before.

Slowly, the memories started to return.

The Boston air meet. Luc. Grace. Mr. Willard.

Mr. Willard!

I forced Grace away from me. "What happened to Mr. Willard?"

She shook her head, weeping. "Oh, Hope, it's just awful. Don't you remember? You were both thrown from your Blériot about a thousand feet in the air. Your bodies landed in the tidal flats. You were both pronounced dead at the scene."

I stared at her, a frown tilting my brow. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you died, Hope—you died in 1912. I saw your body." A sob shook her, and she struggled to breathe. "It was so awful. They took you away in an ambulance, you and Mr. Willard. It was the most dreadful thing I've ever witnessed. The entire audience saw what happened, Hope. Five thousand people. Everyone was devastated."

I listened to what she said, but I couldn't make sense of it. I had died? But I wasn't supposed to die in 1912.

My eyes opened wide, and it felt like my heart stopped beating.

"Grace." I swallowed the dread and grabbed her arms to steady her. "If I died in 1912, that means—" I couldn't finish the statement.

She nodded, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. "Your only path is 1692."

I shook my head, denial rising within me. "No. Tomorrow, I'll wake up with you in 1912. I must. I can't stay here." Panic overtook me, clawing up my legs to devour me, while grief twisted in my gut like a violent storm. I had to move—to get out of the bed and pace. My entire body shook as I hugged my arms around myself.

Grace stayed on the bed. "You won't wake up there tomorrow, Hope. There was no pulse, and I saw your body." She looked down as more tears fell. "I wish I hadn't."

Rubbing my hands over my upper arms, I tried to calm down. I couldn't solve anything if I was upset and panicked. There had to be something I could do—there was always something.

"I fell asleep last night on the train from Boston to Washington," Grace said. "When I wake up tomorrow, Daddy and Mama will pick me up at the train station. Hope—they're destroyed. But at least they can still communicate with you through me, and I'll tell them whatever you need me to."

I stopped pacing and tried to take a deep breath to still my racing heart. I would never see Mama and Daddy again—would never fly an aeroplane again—would never have the freedoms I had enjoyed.

And I would never see Luc again.

The grief was overwhelming and all-consuming.

I crumpled over, my face in my hands, and wept. Great sobs wracked my body as denial washed over me in wave after crushing wave.

Grace stumbled out of our bed and wrapped me in her arms. She held me tight, crooning reassuring words.

I didn't know how long I wept or how long she held me. When I finally felt like I had no tears left, I lifted my head and realized we had moved back to our bed and were sitting on the edge. The sun was resting on the horizon, sending pink and purple light into our room.

We were late to start breakfast, and if we didn't get downstairs soon, Father would come looking for us. What would he think when he saw my tears? How would I explain?

For the first time in my life, I was truly frightened. When I'd had 1912, there was always an escape available. No matter how Father treated me or how others judged me, I had the hope that one day I would be done with this place once and for all. It had given me foolish confidence.

But now? Tears threatened again, but I swallowed them back and lifted my chin.

I would not let Salem win. I would not give in to the fear and intimidation. I would make my life what I wanted—regardless of what they said or did to me.

Even as I made the resolutions, I knew it was all nonsense. The truth was, I did have to play by their rules if I wanted to survive. Because now I didn't have 1912 as a backup. Now, if I was accused of being a witch and sentenced to die, I would truly die.

"Hope," Grace said, quietly, "talk to me."

I pulled back from my sister and wiped my cheeks with the edge of my nightgown.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

Shaking my head, I shrugged. "I don't know. There are so many thoughts going through my head."

"God has a plan," she said. "He doesn't make mistakes—even if His decisions don't make sense to us. One day, they will."

I pressed my lips together as fresh tears started. "I don't know, Grace. I don't know if I believe that."

She drew me into her arms again and hugged me. She didn't try to make me understand or believe or accept that this was okay—and I loved her even more for it.

I might have lost 1912 and all the people and things I cherished there, but God had allowed me to keep Grace. She had always been my one constant in life.

Everything felt dark and unimaginable. The loss too raw to comprehend. I couldn't even think about Luc right now. It hurt too much.

So I didn't allow myself to think of him or anything else I had lost.

Instead, I focused on Grace. She was all I had left.

As the day unfolded, I felt numb. I went through the motions, served the meals, cleaned the rooms, weeded the garden, and even listened to the horrifying gossip about the witch trials.

Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Good, and three other women had been sentenced to hang and were awaiting the gallows. My heart was traumatized from my own grief, so I took the news without emotion. I wished I had researched the witch trials while in 1912, but I had not thought it would affect me. Now I wasn't so sure. What if I was accused? What then? Would I hang on Gallows Hill, too?

The fear I had felt earlier continued to mount with stunning intensity. I began to think of every misspoken word, every person I had angered, and each time I had defied the elders. Would they come back to haunt me?

Just before supper, I entered the kitchen, where Grace was rolling out muffin dough. She studied me, her face filled with grief and worry.

"Do not look at me so," I begged as I took up several plates filled with mutton cutlets and stewed peas.

Leah was in the kitchen, quietly preparing the supper plates. She glanced at us but remained silent. Ever since Susannah claimed that Leah confided in her, I had felt a deep aversion for the girl. It was Grace and I who had taken Leah in and treated her with kindness—not Susannah. Had Leah really betrayed us? Betrayed Ann Pudeator, who was now rotting away in Salem gaol—accused for the second time by Sarah Churchill? And had Father paid Sarah Churchill to make the accusation? It seemed too coincidental that we had witnessed him paying Sarah. Did he suspect that Ann had spoken to us, or had he paid Sarah to accuse her because she was the only person who knew about our mother?

How many accusations had been made because of long-standing grudges, revenge, or simply to keep a secret safe?

And if Father had paid for Ann to be accused and had let his own wife hang twenty-four years ago, what else might he do?

So many people had been accused, I couldn't keep track. Men, women, and children awaited questioning and trials. When would it end?

"How would you have me look at you?" Grace asked as she took a cup and cut out the muffins, then quickly laid them on a hot iron pan to cook.

"The same as usual," I told her, sending a pointed look at Leah to remind Grace that there were ears in the room.

Grace laid some of the recently cooked muffins on the plates I was carrying and offered me a reassuring smile. "We will get through this," she whispered.

I couldn't imagine how. Melancholy weighed so heavily upon my shoulders, part of me wanted to give up completely. But as much as I hated 1692, I was thankful that I still had it. If Grace had let me forfeit this path before now, I would have nothing left.

How odd that while I slept, Grace would have a full day away from me for the first time. She would have to deal with the grief and mourning there, would have to help plan my funeral. It was too much to think about.

It took concentrated effort to serve supper. My mind was so distracted, I forgot what I was doing and had to be reminded constantly by Grace, by the customers, and even by my father. He watched me carefully, though he didn't ask what was wrong.

Susannah watched me as well, but her stare was more calculating—and I wondered how much she hated me. Would she accuse me if I wasn't careful? She had yet to become afflicted, but was it only a matter of time? Her friends and cousins were suffering affliction, and she spent a lot of time in their company.

When the supper dishes were washed and Leah had gone to bed, I finally allowed myself to sit down for the first time that day. I had wanted to stay busy—needed to stay busy—but I was tired. I'd never been so exhausted in my life.

Grace walked into the kitchen with a rag in hand. She had been wiping the tables in the dining room. "Father and Susannah have gone to bed," she said as she set the rag in the bucket.

"Leah, as well."

She stood with her hands on her hips and studied me. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired, scared, and bewildered." Tears came to my eyes, but I refused to cry again. Crying was a waste of my time and energy. I had to face reality—and the sooner I accepted it, the sooner I would find some semblance of normalcy. There was some comfort to the familiarity of the ordinary. It was my home, after all.

Grace nodded. "I'm feeling the same."

A sound outside the door brought both our heads up, and I went to the window. Though it was dark, I could make out the form of Isaac on his wagon, and a wave of affection overcame me. He was another constant in this path—just like Grace. He was steady. Something I could be sure of.

"'Tis Isaac," I said.

"Do you think Pricilla has arrived?"

I felt a quickening in my pulse. Now, more than ever, I wanted and needed answers about our mother. I longed to connect to my family. I had Grace and Isaac, but I had purposely not drawn close to anyone else. I didn't want it to be difficult to leave Salem. But now? Now I needed connections like never before.

I opened the back door while Isaac was still in his wagon and walked out into the sultry July night. It was humid, and the frogs were croaking in a nearby swamp. The moon was starting to wane, but it was still bright and vibrant, casting shadows onto the yard.

Isaac's eyebrows lifted as he secured the reins to the brake, probably surprised that I had come out to greet him.

"Good evening, Isaac." I wished I could throw my arms around him for a hug. I didn't realize how much I longed for physical comfort until this moment. "Have you come with good news?"

"I hope so." He jumped off his wagon and strode toward me. "Are you and Grace able to come? I have a visitor."

I nodded eagerly, wanting to distract myself with something encouraging.

Grace stood in the doorway, her white coif and apron shining bright in the moonlight. She smiled at Isaac, admiration in her gaze. Grace was giving up so much to stay with me in 1692; there had to be a way to convince Isaac to love her. She deserved to be happy with him. I resolved to make it happen—even as my own heart was breaking.

We changed our aprons, blew out the candles in the kitchen to make it appear as if we'd gone to bed, and made our way to Isaac's wagon. He helped us up—Grace first and then me—before stepping up to sit beside me.

It was a tight fit, but we didn't have far to go, and his steady presence beside me reassured me in ways I couldn't explain.

The moon was like a beacon in the dark night, but the shadows it cast made simple objects appear ominous. We had to pass by the watchtower across the road from the ordinary.

"I'll have to explain myself to the guard tomorrow," Isaac said quietly as we passed. Thankfully, the guard didn't stop us as we drove south.

"Hath she been here long?" I asked Isaac as we drew closer to his farm.

"She arrived earlier this afternoon after stopping in Salem Towne to speak to her other niece. I thought it wise to wait until dark to summon you."

"I've been curious about our cousin in Salem Towne," Grace said. "I hope Pricilla tells us her name. Mayhap we already know her."

"How strange that we have a cousin so close," I mused.

Isaac's farm was now in sight. It was one of the most prosperous in the village, and he'd grown it since inheriting it a few years back. He had taken care of his aged mother until her recent death and provided well for his servants. The main house was large and painted red, with a central chimney and a lean-to in back that ran the length of the first floor. Two rooms flanked the chimney downstairs and upstairs, much like the floorplan of the ordinary, with a central front entrance and stairwell.

There had been many improvements to the farm under Isaac's care, and even in the shadowed moonlight, I could see it was well-maintained. Isaac took pride in everything he did, and it was evident in the prosperity of his property.

He pulled up to the front of the house, and one of his indentured servants, Jabez, appeared from around the corner to take the horses and wagon. Isaac jumped down and walked around the wagon to help Grace down, and then he reached up to take my hand.

His grip was firm and steady, and when I was on the ground, he gave my hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before letting it go.

The front door was opened by a house servant, and Isaac said, "You remember Judith?"

She looked at him tenderly and then smiled at us. She was one of the refugees from Maine, like so many other young women who had come into Salem. Judith had been widowed in a massacre and had come with her two small children. Isaac had given her a job and provided a home for all three of them. She seemed content—unlike Mercy Lewis, who was intent on taking down the whole village.

"Good evening," I said to Judith with a smile. Until now, I hadn't wondered about her feelings for Isaac, but I could see them plainly on her face. Did he know she was in love with him?

Did he know Grace was in love with him?

I followed my sister through the entrance hall. A lantern burned in the keeping room to the left, and a woman rose from a chair. She was probably in her late forties, but she bore a striking resemblance to Grace and me, with the same color hair, the same shape of face, and the same nose. We had inherited our daddy's brown eyes and our mama's mouth from 1912, but I had always wondered where our other features came from.

Now I knew.

She stepped forward, her hands to her mouth and tears in her eyes. With a shake of her head, she opened her arms, and Grace and I entered her embrace.

The feeling I had for Pricilla Baker was inexplicable. I felt as if I had always known her. Tears pooled in my eyes again, but this time it wasn't from grief. Here was the connection I hadn't even realized I longed for in 1692. Was meeting her a special gift from God on a difficult day?

"Let me take a look at ye," she said as she stepped back, glancing from me to Grace. "Which one are thee?"

"I'm Grace."

Pricilla turned to me. "That means thee must be Hope."

I nodded, wiping away my tears. "And you're our aunt Pricilla?"

"Yes." She took a deep breath, wonder in her gaze. "I didn't know if I would ever lay eyes on ye again. God is good." She looked up at Isaac, who stood by quietly, and said, "And Goodman Abbott is good, as well."

I smiled at him, my heart expanding for Isaac in ways it never had before. He was good—though I had never taken the time to appreciate it before now.

"I will leave you in privacy," Isaac said. "When you're ready, let me know, and I will take you home."

He left the room before we could stop him, and Pricilla motioned for us to take seats across from her.

The keeping room was large and full of comfortable furniture. The thick paneled walls were painted a rich, creamy yellow, there were woven rugs on the wide-plank floors, and pictures of magnificent scenery graced the walls.

"I have so many questions for ye," Pricilla said as she looked from Grace to me again. "But the first one hath been uppermost in my mind for almost twenty-five years now."

I waited, wondering what she might ask.

"What other time did ye live in?"

Grace and I stared at her, and my mouth slipped open.

"How do you know?" Grace asked in a stunned whisper.

Pricilla rose and slowly unbuttoned the top of her waistcoat, then lowered her white linen shift just enough that we could see the top part of a sunburst birthmark over her heart.

"Ye are from a long line of time-crossers, and yer mother, Tacy, was one of us." She buttoned up her waistcoat again, studying us closely. "What we never understood was why the marks ye bear are on the backs of yer heads. No one in our family bears a mark there."

I turned in bewilderment to Grace, and she stared back at me, just as befuddled.

Finally, I said to Pricilla, "We bear the mark of our time-crossing mother, Maggie, from 1912." I leaned forward, my voice low. "Are you saying that our mother in this path also bore a time-crossing mark?"

It was Pricilla's turn to look perplexed. "Yes." She shook her head. "Mayhap that's why there are two of ye. Ye are born of two time-crossing mothers."

I put my hand to my mouth, uncertain what any of this meant.

"Tacy left us when she was only nineteen and still had two years to make her final decision," Pricilla said. "We did not want her to pledge herself to a man in this path before she left her other one. I pleaded with her to reconsider, but she abandoned us without any word so we wouldn't look for her. When she returned to us, she was filled with remorse—not only for leaving us, but for sacrificing her faith. She was hanged just months before her twenty-first birthday, and my only consolation was that she was still alive somewhere."

"If Tacy was a time-crosser," Grace asked, slowly, "when was her other time?"

"She was born in 1869 in New York City."

For the third time that day, I was stunned.

"If she was born in 1869," Grace said, looking down as if trying to put all the pieces together, "that means—"

"She might still be alive in 1912," I finished for her. "She would only be—" I paused to do the math in my head. "Forty-three-years old."

Pricilla's face crumpled, and tears came to her eyes again. "That means ye might be able to find her for me and tell her I'm sorry that I couldn't save her from hanging."

I started to nod—but then realized I could not find Tacy in 1912, because I would never go back there again.

But Grace could.