5

GRACE

MARCH 1, 1692

SALEM VILLAGE

All morning, as I served the patrons in the ordinary, I could think of little but Hope's astonishing announcement the day before. I could still see the excitement on her face—her pure joy at the prospect of being the first woman to fly over the English Channel—and I felt guilty for being a naysayer. But someone had to talk sense into her. Mr. Voland should have discouraged her, but he appeared to be the one who planted the idea—or at the very least watered it. What would he gain from Hope making the flight? Money? More fame? Would he not rest until everyone in the world knew his name?

My initial dislike of him grew each time I was in his arrogant presence—and Hope's lack of discernment where he was concerned alarmed me most of all. The whole thing was a foolish idea. I scrubbed the tables in the dining room harder than necessary, wishing I could wipe away their plan.

Yet—would Hope have considered the flight if it weren't for J. B. Thurston's threats? If Hope was successful, this might be the only way we could save the orphanage. For that reason alone, I had agreed to go along.

I tried to focus on Salem and what was troubling me here. Father stood on the other side of the dining room, instructing John to haul two barrels of ale up from the cellar. I had not had the opportunity to question him about our mother's death, but even if I had, I doubted he would tell me the truth. With the oncoming witch-hunt, it was more important than ever that I learned what had happened. I knew how I might find out, but I would need help.

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts, I almost missed the moment Sarah Osborn entered the ordinary with the constable.

It was cold in Salem, despite the bright sunshine. An eerie silence fell over the occupants in our large dining room as Goody Osborn was helped into the building by one of her servants.

Hope was clearing dirty dishes as I washed tables. The ordinary was full of patrons who had flocked here, knowing today was the first day of questioning the accused women. Though John had little choice about being there, since Father paid Reverend Parris for his labor, I suspected he appreciated being close to his wife, who had slept upstairs, under guard, the night before with Sarah Good and her children.

"Grace," Father called to me, motioning for me to join him near the door where he had greeted the constable who brought Goody Osborn. His face was stern as I approached. The weight of today's proceedings was heavy upon his shoulders—though he didn't mind the business it brought his way. "Escort Goody Osborn upstairs."

Sarah Osborn turned her heavy gaze to me, pain and confusion in her every move. She was in her late forties and had been bedridden with melancholy for years. She was wobbly on her feet, requiring assistance, and looked as frail as a newborn colt.

"Yes, Father," I said as Hope came to take the rag and bucket from me. "Come with me, Goody Osborn."

"Do you not see me?" Goody Osborn clutched her servant's hands as she looked from Father to the rest of the silent gawkers. No one spoke. "I am more likely to be a victim of witchcraft than to be a witch. I have not strayed far from my bed in years, afflicted with a malady that cannot be cured. How could I afflict anyone else?"

"Pray, silence your tongue," Father said to her, his voice a hushed rumble, "if you know what is good for you."

Father nodded at the servant and the constable, and they followed me up the narrow stairs to the guest room above. A guard stood outside the smaller of the two upstairs rooms.

I did not realize that Father had followed us until the constable opened the door and Goody Osborn passed by me, making more room in the upper hall.

"You're to examine the accused," Father said to me. "You're to look for images or devil's marks upon their bodies."

"Father?" I frowned. I'd heard of such things, but I didn't know what they might look like. More importantly, I didn't believe they existed.

"Witch's teats," he hissed under his breath, causing the guard to look our way. "Preternatural excrescence of flesh where the devil or his familiars doth suckle."

Revulsion turned my stomach. Familiars were small spirit animals, like toads, birds, snakes, or most commonly, cats, sent by Satan to aid witches in their cruel acts. People believed the familiars sucked blood from the witch to gain nourishment, especially where they might have warts or other skin imperfections.

My first instinct was to run—but where would I go? Hope and I had discussed leaving Salem Village many times, but two single women in Puritan Massachusetts would be destitute and turned away from paying jobs. Besides, there were few places where Father couldn't find us.

"Please do not ask this of me." I swallowed, my throat dry. "I cannot do such a thing."

"You will aid the magistrates in this way," Father said, taking an intimidating step forward.

It struck me that if I didn't examine them, then someone else would. I could not ensure their dignity if the examination was undertaken by someone who did not care for their plight.

I nodded and cast my eyes down.

"It must be thorough," Father warned. "Every inch must be inspected."

I entered the room where Goody Osborn was being lowered to one of the hard beds. Tituba stood by the window, cradling her right arm, and watched everyone with a wary expression.

Goody Good, standing defiant in the center of the room, turned her steely gaze on me in a sort of challenge. She held her baby boy on her hip, and her daughter, Dorothy, sat in the corner of the room, quietly playing with the frayed hem of her gown.

"Grace will examine each of you," Father said as Goody Osborn's servant was escorted out of the room by the constable.

All three women stared at me.

"The magistrates will be here to start questioning them soon." Father gave me a pointed look. "Be quick but thorough."

He strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with a thud.

My hands trembled as I faced the three accused women. I wanted to weep for them—and for what I knew was to come. How could I stop this madness without willfully changing history and forfeiting my place in time? It was a risk I couldn't take, no matter how much I wished to save these women.

But I could not degrade them by examining their bodies for something that did not exist.

"Well?" Sarah Good asked as she lifted her chin at me. "What will you do, Grace Eaton?"

Each woman was in a precarious position, and though I knew them to be strong and capable, they were filled with fear—and rightfully so. Tituba was a black slave from Barbados in Reverend Parris's home. Goody Osborn was a widow who had purchased the contract of indentured servant Alexander Osborn—and then scandalized the village by marrying him. She had been related to the Putnams through her first husband and was in a legal battle over the land her husband had left in a trust for her sons—a legal dispute the Putnams were still embroiled in. Sarah Good was married, though she had been betrayed by her husband and was destitute. It was no wonder the afflicted girls had accused them. Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborn were already outcasts in Salem Village—ostracized and feared. The type of women historically accused of witchcraft throughout the ages.

"I will wait here for an appropriate amount of time," I told them, keeping my voice low so the guard didn't hear, "and then I will go below and tell the men I have found no markings on you."

My disobedience could not possibly change the course of events that would play out in the coming weeks and months, but perhaps it would spare these women a small amount of shame.

Tituba merely turned back to look out the window while Sarah Osborn wept quietly in her bed, but Sarah Good revealed a morsel of respect for me in the glint of her eyes.

It was the very least I could do for these falsely accused women.

An hour later, I descended the steps and entered the main room. The inhabitants had doubled since I'd gone upstairs. I knew that this heinous event would be the catalyst for the end of the Puritans' rule in Massachusetts, but I couldn't begin to understand God's sovereignty or why He had chosen to do it this way. I prayed that God would stop this thing from happening. But if He would not, I asked for strength for everyone who would endure it.

Hope saw me and moved through the crowded room with a stack of dirty dishes. It was hot and loud and smelled of unwashed bodies.

"Have the magistrates arrived yet?" I asked, taking some of the dishes from her.

"Just now. Father took them outside to speak in private." She studied me. "Did you examine them?"

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to hear. "I couldn't do it."

"What will you tell Father?"

"The truth. Those women do not have the devil's marks on them."

Hope smiled—a beautiful, approving smile. But then it dimmed. "The afflicted have arrived. They are being cosseted in the corner." She nodded toward the space where the four afflicted girls sat with their families and close friends. Susannah was there with her cousin, Ann Putnam. The girls were quiet—no signs of affliction at the moment.

The sight of Susannah made the hair on my neck rise. She smiled at me with the same look she had given us outside when she'd accused our mother of being a witch. As if she knew something I did not. Had Father told her about our mother? Did she know something?

As we moved from the dining room into the kitchen, my eye caught on Isaac, who sat at a table not far from the afflicted girls. His large hand curled around a cup of ale while he spoke earnestly with another man. His face was serious as he finished speaking and then glanced up, meeting my gaze. He nodded briefly, acknowledging my presence, before his gaze slipped to Hope.

Always Hope.

But I didn't have time to lament his affection for my sister. I was just happy he had come. I needed Isaac's help to learn the truth about our mother.

When the kitchen door closed behind us, I asked, "How long has Isaac been here?"

Hope sighed. "He is always here."

Her response angered me. "Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Treat him as if he's a nuisance. Isaac is one of the best people in Salem—and he's in love with you. You should be flattered."

"He's a rule-follower, Grace. He bows down to the elders without question. He is content to stay on his farm, attend meeting, and work himself to death. I would shrivel up and die if I had to submit myself to such a life. I want more than Salem Village can give me, and you know that."

My heart ached at her words, and I set the stack of plates on the worktable. If only Isaac would look at me the way he looked at Hope.

We returned to the dining room as Father and the magistrates entered the ordinary, and everyone quieted.

Magistrate John Hathorne was a formidable man in a black suit of clothes with a stark white collar and long white hair. He stepped forward. "We have decided to move the questioning to the Meeting House. There is not enough room in here for the accused to join us."

A low murmur filled the room as people began to rush to the door, hoping they might be the first to the Meeting House for the best seats—or afraid they wouldn't get a seat at all.

"I think I might go," Hope said.

I frowned. "Why?"

"I cannot stop the hysteria, but I have this strange fascination to see how it unfolds. Aren't you curious?"

"No." I had no desire to watch the accused being tortured and mocked by fickle teenage girls and frightened grown men. I had read enough in the history books—too much.

"There will be no business during the questioning," Hope said. "Father wouldn't mind if we go."

"I won't go," I told her, resolute in my decision.

"I'll tell you what happens, then." She touched my arm before following the others out of the building.

"Daughter?" Father approached with the magistrates, and all eyes were on me. "What did you find when you examined the accused?"

I forced myself to remain calm. "I found nothing."

The men were silent as they exchanged surprised, concerned glances.

"It will be hard to convince a jury without physical evidence," Magistrate Corwin said to Hathorne and Father, his voice low.

Hathorne nodded. "Do not fear. We will uncover the devil in each of them and have an abundance of evidence for the grand jury when the time comes. I do not doubt that the devil is afoot here in Salem Village. And it is our job to bring this evil to an end."

A shiver ran up my spine as the men passed by me without another glance, calling for the accused to be brought to the Meeting House by the guards and constable. In their eyes, the women were already guilty. They just had to prove it.

They stopped near the afflicted and created a sort of barricade around them, pushing aside others who stood in their way. Susannah sidled up to Father, and he gave her a heated glance that made me sick to my stomach. How was I supposed to watch them live as man and wife when I couldn't even stomach seeing them in the same room together?

And what if she perpetuated the rumors about our mother? I had to find the truth—and Isaac was the only person I trusted to help me.

As everyone departed the ordinary, I approached Isaac. "May I have a word?"

His gaze went to the door Hope had just exited. I had to glance away from the lovelorn look in his eyes, not wanting to acknowledge what my heart already knew. It made me feel lonely in a way that nothing else did.

"Aye," he said, hiding his impatience, though I knew he wanted to be with Hope at the questioning.

But this could not wait. I looked around the room one last time and saw we were alone.

"What is bothering you?" he asked, concern furrowing his brow.

"There has been talk of my mother," I told him, my voice low. "Rumors have begun to circulate again, and I am afraid that if they continue, it will put Hope and me at risk."

"What rumors?"

"Have you not heard?"

"People do not speak to me about you and Hope," he said. "They know I would defend you."

His words warmed me, convincing me I had come to the right person.

"They are saying our mother was a witch—and claiming that Hope and I have witchcraft in our blood."

His lips parted at the accusation. "What doth your father say?"

"He refuses to speak of her. But someone must know. It occurred to me that a midwife must have been present at our birth, and she might know what happened. But we were born in Boston."

"Ann Pudeator hath been a midwife for decades," he said. "She came from Boston. Mayhap she knew your mother. Have you thought to ask her?"

I nodded. I had thought of Ann, which was why I needed Isaac's help. "But she lives in Salem Towne, and I cannot get to her on my own without raising suspicion."

"Are you asking me to help you speak to Goodwife Pudeator?"

My pulse thrummed. "Will you?"

"I would do anything for you and Hope. I long to make her happy...." He let the statement go, but I knew what he meant.

I wanted to reach out to him, to tell him that Hope would never care for him the way he wanted, but that I would love him—did love him—and could make him happy.

It was on the tip of my tongue—but for some reason, I felt like I was betraying Hope by speaking the truth.

And it would be a fruitless confession, since I was not staying in 1692. I couldn't bear to win Isaac's love only to lose it when we left.