3

GRACE

FEbrUARY 29, 1692

SALEM VILLAGE

I hacked at the ice in the water bucket with more force than necessary that morning, my thoughts on the orphanage, J.B. Thurston, Hope, and Lucas Voland. We'd spent the evening brainstorming possible solutions for the orphanage during dinner, but any option we could imagine would take time—something we didn't have.

Daddy told me I wasn't to blame—but we all knew the truth. I hadn't knowingly caused this to happen, yet it was because of me that the orphanage was at risk. If I hadn't exposed Thurston's illegal and dangerous business practices, he wouldn't be coming after my family.

That wasn't all that was on my mind this morning. Hope had invited Luc to join us for supper to meet our parents, but he hadn't shown—a fact that had left Hope melancholy and me irritated. How could he stand up our parents? And why did Hope like someone so self-important?

I jabbed at the ice harder, and it finally broke, splashing cold water against my apron and face.

The winter morning was sullied by a thick blanket of clouds blocking the sunrise and dropping more sleet upon our village. I was usually the first to rise, with our servant girl, Leah, next; Father after that; and Hope last of all. My physical body rested while my conscious mind was in 1912, and I was usually refreshed and ready to face the day when I woke up in either path. I had two identical bodies, one in 1692 and one in 1912, but it was my consciousness that moved between them. If something happened to my body in 1692, it didn't affect my body in 1912. I could have an illness in 1692 and be perfectly healthy in 1912. It was the same for Hope.

If I fell asleep and then woke up before midnight, I would wake up in this same time and space. I never crossed over until after the midnight hour. If I stayed awake past midnight, as was common in 1912 when I attended the theater with Hope, I would remain in that path until I fell asleep.

When Hope and I were younger, we had tried to stay awake for as long as possible in the 1900s, hoping we could skip a day in our 1600s path, but it never worked. As soon as we fell asleep, we woke up the next day in the 1600s. Unless we purposely changed history in the 1600s, there was nothing we could do until our twenty-fifth birthday. On that day, whatever timeline we wanted to remain in forever was the one we could stay awake in until past midnight—and we would never wake up in the other one again.

There was a noise on the stairs, and I turned, expecting to see Father coming down from the rooms above. But it was Hope, adjusting the white coif on her head, yawning.

"Still mad at me?" she asked.

I poured water into a kettle and set it on the iron crane over the open fireplace to warm for our tea. I had laid the fire when I first came downstairs, and it had begun to warm the kitchen. Sleet blew outside the ordinary, promising another miserable day of cold. My hands were chapped and red, but I didn't mind the work. It passed the time and kept me occupied while distracting me from the trouble swirling around us.

I glanced at the lean-to door where Leah slept, just off the large kitchen. She was mute from her trauma in Maine, but she listened to everything we said.

Reaching for the tin of tea leaves, I kept my voice low. "I don't want to talk about it here." We had agreed, long ago, that we wouldn't discuss our 1912 life in 1692 unless necessary. It was a dangerous risk, given the mystery of our birth mother and the spiritual turmoil in Salem. We didn't need to provide more reasons for them to be suspicious of us.

Hope sighed as Leah's door opened and she entered the kitchen in her dark dress and white apron—pausing for a moment at the sight of Hope, probably just as surprised as me that she had woken up so early.

We were soon busy preparing the morning meal for the three lodgers who had slept in the rooms above the ordinary and those who had come for breakfast. Our rooms were in the attic over the kitchen, separate from the rest of the public spaces in the large home. The size of the building was a testament to Father's wealth and standing in the community.

The smell of baked oatmeal pudding, fried venison sausage, doughnuts, and fried potatoes filled the kitchen and made my stomach rumble. Hope enjoyed serving the food more than I did, so she lifted the platters and took them to the dining room. Father was there, sharing and receiving news as he oversaw the meal.

When the food had been served, Leah and I took our plates to the table in the corner of the kitchen. Leah was no older than fifteen, though she had never spoken her age. She'd come to us as a war refugee from King William's War, which was raging between the colonists and the Abenaki Indians in Maine. The bloody battle had lasted for four years already. Leah had been orphaned during one of the massacres, and she had no family to care for her. She'd fled to Salem Village with other refugees and become Father's servant. Though Hope and I had tried to draw her out, she had remained mute since her arrival, the terror of her experience locked tightly in the recesses of her mind.

We ate our fried potatoes and venison sausage silently as Hope entered the kitchen and filled a plate. She brought it to our table and sat next to me.

There was tension between Hope and me—though it would soon blow over. I wasn't angry at her for flying—or for keeping it a secret. I just hated when she took unnecessary risks. She'd been doing it her whole life.

Secretly, though, I wished I was more like her. Hope's recklessness had forced me to be the dependable one. Mama and Daddy worried about her, so the last thing I wanted them to do was worry about me, too.

The door opened again, and Father entered. He wore expensive clothes befitting his station. A long white shirt, gathered at the cuffs, with a black doublet over it. Black breeches and white stockings clad his legs, with black buckled shoes on his feet. His long hair was worn back and off his forehead. He wasn't handsome, but he was commanding, his emotions swinging like a pendulum. Merry and gregarious one moment—harsh and moody the next. I had done my best not to exacerbate his bad temper, but Hope didn't care if she darkened his moods. They often stood toe-to-toe, and she refused to back down unless he used physical force.

"Sarah Good hath arrived," Father said. "She will be kept in one of the upstairs rooms with her children until she can be questioned tomorrow. Take her and the children food when you are done eating."

He was about to leave the kitchen when he paused and turned back to us. There was uncertainty in his brown-eyed gaze—something I didn't see often—but resolve soon filled his face. "I will marry Susannah Putnam nine days hence. Because of the recent difficulties, Reverend Parris has agreed to waive the reading of the banns to allow us to marry in a timely manner."

My mouth slipped open in surprise, but he wasn't finished.

"As the Word of God says, ‘It is not good that the man should be alone.' ‘Tis past time I take a wife. She will join us for supper this evening."

And with that, he left the kitchen, not waiting for our response.

My gaze sliced to Hope's, whose mouth hung parted, her fork half-risen to her lips. Shock pulsed through me, followed by denial and confusion.

"Susannah Putnam?" Hope asked as she slowly lowered her fork. "She is naught but a child."

I rose, my legs weak beneath my heavy skirts. I wanted to demand that Father explain himself, but he would never answer to me.

Leah looked up at us, her curious face filled with a hint of fear.

There was nothing to recommend Susannah but her beauty. She had never treated me well, though we rarely spoke. At the age of eighteen, she was six years younger than me.

And she was soon to be my stepmother.

The storm finally cleared late that afternoon, and for the first time in a week, the clouds broke and a pale blue sky appeared. Though it was cold and I had supper to prepare, I stood outside making kindling, raking the fresh air into my lungs.

Father's announcement had turned my world upside down, and I needed time and space to contemplate the ramifications. An eighteen-year-old stepmother? And Susannah Putnam, of all the spoiled, selfish girls. Unfortunately, it wasn't uncommon for an older man to take a young bride. As long as Father could provide well for Susannah and Susannah could give him a male heir, both parties would be satisfied.

Hope walked through the back door and joined me in the snow-covered yard. There were horses hitched to the posts out front, owned by men who had come to discuss the witch accusations against Sarah Good, Tituba, and Sarah Osborn. Tituba had joined Sarah Good in the upstairs room, awaiting their questioning tomorrow. Magistrates from Salem Towne had been contacted and would join Father and the others.

A cold wind sliced through my cape, ruffling the edges and drawing a shiver along my spine.

Hope wrapped her arms around herself and glanced across the road to where the watchhouse tower stood. Guards were stationed there around the clock, on constant alert for an Indian attack.

"I hate this place," Hope said as her breath fogged out of her mouth.

"'Tis not all bad." I tried to sound convincing, though I struggled to believe it myself. "Their hearts are in the right place."

"Are they?" Hope looked back at the ordinary. "They long to control everything we say and do. If Father didn't need us so much and men weren't so scarce, he would have forced us to marry long before now. The elders are simply looking for more ways to control us. They will use the witch trial to their benefit."

"We saw Reverend Parris's daughter and niece. There is something causing their affliction, whether mental or physical. The leaders don't yet know about disease and mental illness like we do. They must blame it on something, and witchcraft is all they know."

"I think the girls are faking."

I shook my head as I gathered the kindling. As a journalist, I longed to look deeper to find the root cause. "I think they suffer from mental turmoil, which has brought on the attacks. The constant threat of war, hunger, and God's wrath has overcome them. Reverend Parris's family has lived from meal to meal for months, always wondering when their next load of wood will be delivered. It must take a toll on them."

"If men like Isaac would stop bringing them wood, perhaps they'd leave."

My loyalty to Isaac made her words sting. "He thinks he is doing what is right."

"He cares too much about the elders' opinion of him. He follows their rules blindly."

"'Tis not that he agrees with their strict beliefs or that he bows to the Putnams, but he does not like to see the Parris family suffer. Isaac is good, and he cannot help but be kind to them."

"He should take a stand against them. Half of the village has refused to pay Reverend Parris's wages, and they are decrying this witch-hunt. Why can't Isaac be more like them?"

The color was high in Hope's cheeks, but before she could go on, a movement along the road brought our conversation to an abrupt end.

Susannah Putnam had appeared with her friend Mercy Lewis. Both were in their late teens. Mercy had been orphaned, like Leah, and worked as a servant in the Putnams' home, though she had freedom to come and go.

My stomach dropped at their arrival.

A self-satisfied smile lifted Susannah's lips, and she tilted up her chin at the sight of us. With confidence, she strode across the lawn, Mercy following.

"Your father hath told you our news?" she asked us.

I nodded, trying to hide my displeasure. What good would it do if she knew I was unhappy?

"We have heard," Hope said, "and we believe it to be foolish."

I wanted to groan.

Susannah eyed Hope from the hem of her gown to the coif on her head and lifted an eyebrow. "It matters not what you think, for I shall be the mistress here, whether you like it or not."

Hope pressed her lips together as she stared at Susannah. I put my hand on her arm to still her retort.

"Are all three accused women abovestairs?" Susannah asked, turning her gaze to me.

"Just Sarah Good and Tituba," I said, "for now."

"They will be examined on the morrow?"

Hope nodded, crossing her arms. "Though 'tis the accusers who should be examined."

"Hope," I said sharply.

"The Holy Word says, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.'" Susannah studied Hope. "Some say that is why your mother was killed."

I caught my breath and shook my head. "Our mother died in childbirth."

"She was not a witch," Hope added, defiantly.

"Was she not?" Mercy asked, her keen gaze just as calculated as Susannah's. "'Tis not what I heard. Some say she was hanged in Boston and that witchcraft doth run in your veins, Hope Eaton. Mayhap you should be abovestairs with the others."

Hope clenched her teeth. "Those women are no more a witch than me."

I squeezed her arm to still her words. "Hope is just as concerned as the rest of us." I tried to reassure them and calm the tension that had coiled around us. "We want the truth to be known."

"'Tis what we all want," Susannah said, her words laced with accusation. "The truth about all the inhabitants in Salem Village. The hand of the devil is at work here, and we must root out evil, especially generational witches who perpetuate the darkness."

Did she truly believe our mother was a witch? Did others? It couldn't be true. Father did not speak of her, but he would have told us if she had been hanged as a witch. Wouldn't he?

I motioned to the ordinary. "We must get supper ready."

"And I must hasten to my betrothed's side," Susannah said to Mercy. "Come."

They walked toward the front of the ordinary and entered the building as Hope and I stayed by the woodpile.

"They are nasty girls," Hope said with spite. "I cannot wait for this day to end. I long to be in my aeroplane again."

"Aren't you afraid of their accusations? Surely they're spreading the rumor that our mother was a witch. If others believe them, we will be treated with suspicion."

I had been so preoccupied with the idea that I would accuse Hope, I hadn't wondered if I was to be accused, as well.

"We have always been treated with suspicion," Hope said. "'Tis nothing more than rumors and gossip."

"Not anymore." I gathered the last of the kindling. "We cannot let the rumors spread or we will be accused with the others."

"How will you stop them?"

"By finding the truth. There must be someone who knew our mother and will vouch for her innocence."

"Why do you care?" she asked. "We are almost done with this place."

"We have several months to endure. I don't want to spend them rotting in gaol, only to be hanged."

"At least we would hasten to 1912."

I let out an exasperated sigh.

As we returned to the ordinary's kitchen, I couldn't stop thinking about our mother. What if the rumors were true? What did that mean for us? And what did that mean for the accusation I would make about Hope?

It was a puzzle with pieces that didn't make sense. But I would not rest until I knew the truth—and somehow, in the process, change the history books.

I could not accuse my sister of witchcraft—or let anyone else.