9

GRACE

MARCH 24, 1692

SALEM VILLAGE

Nothing had changed since Father married Susannah—except that we had one more person to care for, and we had to be extra cautious about what we said and did. She slept late, came down to the dining room during the busiest social hours to visit with friends and family, and then returned to the room she shared with Father for the remainder of the day.

Whenever Hope or I asked her to assist with one of the chores, Father was quick to quiet us. He made it clear he had not married Susannah for the extra help.

In truth, I was thankful she wasn't under our feet, trying to change the way we operated the ordinary. Life went on as before, just with a little more work now that Susannah lived in Father's room.

I had far more important things to worry about. The breakfast hour was upon us, and Hope, Leah, and I were busy serving the meal while John tended the bar. With the uncertainty of the examinations and accusations, people flocked to the ordinary to get up-to-the-minute reports. If Tituba's ongoing and consistent confessions were to be believed, there was a coven of witches in Salem—at least nine, and they were being led by a powerful man. So far, Sarah Good, Sarah Osborn, and Martha Corey had been arrested and questioned, along with Tituba. That supposedly left at least six more women and a man on the loose. Who were they? Did they reside among us? Eat at our tables? Rumors and accusations swirled.

As suspicions grew, more people became afflicted, and everyone was remembering old disagreements, unsolved mysteries, previous witch accusations, and individuals with Quaker connections. In their minds, these things could easily be explained by witchcraft.

But it wasn't just Salem on my mind as I served the morning meal. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I couldn't stop worrying about Hope's upcoming flight—or her relationship with Luc.

I had been surprised at his silliness with the children on the tramcar to Hardelot and his protectiveness as we navigated a foreign country. After the incident in the café, I started to question his reasons for flying. He didn't seem to do it for attention and fame, as I'd first thought. So then, what drove him?

He was still reserved, but I had begun to see that he wasn't being aloof so much as watching, assessing, and studying those around him. I suddenly wanted to know more—and not because I had promised Hope I'd try to get along with him. Perhaps it was the investigative journalist in me, but whatever it was, I felt a pull to understand him. He was a complex man who didn't allow others to get close. Did anyone know the real Lucas Voland? Did my sister?

Father went from table to table, visiting with his patrons, while Susannah sat with her friends, Mercy Lewis and Mary Warren. Both were orphaned refugees from the war and were now working as servants, though they had more freedom to come and go than Hope and me. And both were now dabbling in affliction—and whispering behind their hands every time Hope or I passed their table.

As I served two patrons, I glanced at Father and saw that he was smiling indulgently at his new bride. He wore a perpetually pleased expression of late—in stark contrast to Hope's scowl.

"He does not notice your anger," I said to Hope as I met her near the kitchen door with a pitcher of cider in my hands. "You could frown all day and he wouldn't stop to ask what troubles you. All it does is make your face look sour."

"I don't care how my face looks," she said, her brown eyes sparking. "The less likeable I am, the better."

I wanted to roll my eyes. Hope could be dramatic on the best of days. It served her well on stage—but in day-to-day living, it was exasperating. "There's no need to draw more censure."

"Hope," Susannah called out across the busy room, "I need you."

Hope ignored Susannah's bidding and walked into the kitchen.

I followed her. "She will not be happy if you ignore her, especially in front of her friends."

"I care not what she thinks. She can scream and demand all she wants, but I refuse to serve her."

I set down the cider and sighed. There was no use pretending that Susannah was going away. Instead, I reentered the dining room and walked to her table.

All three young women looked up at my arrival. "What do you need?" I asked.

Susannah narrowed her eyes. "I need Hope to obey me."

The two other girls giggled, eyeing me to see what I would do.

"Hope is busy. I can help you, if you'd like." I ignored the girls. It didn't pay to give them a show. "Do you need something to eat or drink?"

As Susannah pondered my question, the front door opened, and the constable entered with Rebecca Nurse and Dorothy Good.

The entire room quieted, and my heart sank. Rebecca Nurse was one of the oldest and dearest women in Salem Village. In a time when the Half-Way Covenant had been adopted to try to draw more people into the church without all the responsibilities of a fully covenanted member, Rebecca had stood firm in her Puritan faith and become fully covenanted. She was a woman to admire—though now she was pitied.

Her thin, pale skin looked whiter than normal. She had been frail for years and had recently been ill. Her dress hung off her emaciated frame, and the circles beneath her eyes were dark and sunken. At her side, holding her hand, was four-year-old Dorothy. She had been sent to live with her father when her mother was put in the Salem gaol with her son. Now she was being brought in for questioning—and her father was nowhere in sight. What could a four-year-old understand about any of this? And why would Ann Putnam accuse her? Why would she accuse either of them? They did not fit the stereotypical qualifications for witches. They were not widowed, religiously questionable, cantankerous, or destitute.

I had heard about a legal squabble Rebecca had with the Putnams years ago, but that was the only issue I could think of. Perhaps that was the only one necessary. I'd also heard that Dorothy had bitten Ann not long ago when the little girl was being teased. Was that the cause of her accusation?

"Constable Herrick," Father said as he nodded at the newcomers. "Take the accused upstairs. I will send Mistress Eaton up to examine them for the devil's mark."

Susannah rose from the table with importance. Now that she was the mistress of the ordinary, she had been tasked with examining the accused—perhaps the only job my father had given her since their marriage. But it saddened me that I could not protect Rebecca or Dorothy from the shame.

Everyone in the room looked toward the door where Rebecca and Dorothy stood, but I looked at the afflicted girls. How could they sit there and watch this happen? Some whispered it was because they were servants and orphans past marrying age, seeking attention. Others said it was because the atrocities they had seen in the Indian wars had addled their brains.

It didn't matter to me. I couldn't abide either of them.

Suddenly, Mercy stood and pointed toward a corner of the room and screamed. All eyes turned to her.

"I see the specter of Goody Proctor!" she cried. "She hath come to hurt us and demand we sign the devil's book."

Mary's eyes grew large. Elizabeth Proctor was her mistress. What would happen if Goody Proctor was brought in for questioning? Would her husband John turn Mary out?

For a split second, Mary seemed to vacillate—but with all the attention on her, she had no choice. She began to cry out, as well. No one looked at Rebecca or Dorothy any longer.

People rushed to Mary and Mercy's side, trying to calm them. They writhed and screamed, shouting as if they were being pinched and pricked by needles.

I stood, motionless, unsure what to do.

Hope stepped out of the kitchen and quickly took in the scene. She walked over to Mercy and put her hand on Mercy's shoulder, her knuckles white as she pressed upon the young woman.

"Stop this," Hope said in a firm voice, silencing the whole room—including Mercy and Mary. "There is no specter. Quiet yourself, Mercy Lewis, or leave the ordinary and take your antics elsewhere."

Mercy looked up at Hope, her mouth slipping open in surprise—and my breath caught. Had Hope angered her? Would she accuse Hope next?

Slowly, a smile tilted Mercy's lips, and she began to laugh. "We must have some sport, Hope."

Several people gasped at this declaration, but Father quickly stepped in.

"Away with the accused," he said to the constable who ushered Rebecca and Dorothy up the stairs.

Susannah pressed her lips together in disapproval. She scowled at Hope and then strode to Father's side. Sidling up to him, she whispered into his ear. He nodded and looked toward Hope as Susannah left the room and walked up the stairs, presumably to examine Rebecca and Dorothy.

I followed Hope into the kitchen.

She crossed her arms and paced, anger radiating off her. "This is absurd. Those girls are taking advantage of this situation—"

Father slammed through the kitchen door, his face distorted in rage. We both jumped.

"You have no right to question the afflicted," he said, getting close to Hope. "They suffer unimaginable torments—things we cannot see or hear."

"Mercy admitted she doth this for sport," Hope said incredulously, not backing away from him. "She's lying for attention, and you believe her. The hysteria is growing because of fear, and the Putnam family is using it to their benefit. When will it end? After all their enemies are accused?"

"Hold your tongue," Father said, leaning forward until his nose was inches away from Hope's face. "You are accusing my wife's family."

"I am your family," Hope cried. "Yet you care little about what I think or feel."

Father breathed heavily. "You embarrass me with your disrespect, especially in front of our patrons. Leave the questioning to the elders. You are a mere girl who knows nothing."

Hope stared at him, her eyes hard. "I am a woman with a mind that God gave to me."

"Then use your mind to keep your mouth shut." Father glared at her for another heartbeat and then left the kitchen.

"I will not stop questioning the afflicted," Hope said, pushing away from the worktable to pace again. "I believe Reverend Parris's daughter was afflicted with an illness that cannot be explained—but the others have been driven by fear, attention, or revenge. Mercy Lewis is only doing this for show. You saw how she acted out there. She is a troubled young woman who loves having control. Nothing more."

I moved closer to Hope and put my arms around her. "You're afraid, too," I said as I hugged her.

She was stiff in my arms. "I'm not afraid."

"It's okay to admit your fear, Hope. All of us are afraid from time to time. It's only natural."

She shook her head and pulled back. "1692 can't touch me. I'm only here for a few more months. I won't be afraid of this place. I won't let them get to me."

I tilted my head in sympathy, thankful there was no one in the room to hear her. I spoke quietly. "1692 is a part of you, Hope, whether you like it or not. God doesn't make mistakes. He placed us here because it's supposed to be a part of us—for good or for bad. We are a product of our lives, of the people and events that shape our experiences, our personalities, even our hopes and dreams. The things we're learning here will help us in 1912."

"I'm not learning anything helpful here," she protested. "Just anger and bitterness—and what not to do."

"That is a valuable lesson. Learning from other people's mistakes helps us grow. Hardship deepens our faith. Nothing is wasted."

"I don't think my faith is deeper because of this place." She shook her head. "Mayhap people like you and Isaac have good hearts and desire to live pure, godly lives—but the rest struggle under unrealistic expectations and rules that no one can possibly follow."

"The rules that are hard to follow are the manmade ones," I said.

She stared at me for a long time, then said, "I wish I could understand these things as easily as you do."

"I don't always understand—I question and wonder, too. We all do."

"Why would God allow this to happen here? What's the point?" Her eyes pleaded for an answer.

Four years ago, I wanted to know the answer to Hope's question—a question I'd had since I was a child—and that was how I learned that I would accuse her of witchcraft. I'd been researching the trials to make sense of them. Once I discovered the unthinkable, I had stopped. But I knew enough to answer her.

I leaned in and whispered, "The witch trials will undermine the Puritan religion. Highly respected ministers of the faith, like Increase Mather and his son, Cotton Mather, who control every aspect of this colony, will align themselves with the magistrates and defend their decisions." I studied her. "Puritanism will begin to die after the witch trials—and laws will be enacted to protect people accused of witchcraft. It will no longer be a hanging offense."

Hope nodded slowly. "'Tis a tough price to pay, but at least something good can come of this misery."

I wouldn't tell her what else I knew about the coming witch trials. Not all of it was good, though perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps there was a reason I would accuse Hope—something I could not possibly understand yet.

The day wore on, and I grew more and more anxious to be done so Hope and I could wake up in 1912. Even though I was nervous about her flight over the Channel, I was eager to see her test-fly the new Blériot. It was the most innovative of all the aeroplanes that had come before it, and if she could fly it well, it would ease my worries.

Darkness had started to descend upon Salem Village, and the ordinary had closed for the evening. There were two travelers staying overnight, besides Rebecca and Dorothy, who were being held in the other upstairs room under guard. I had brought them a warm meal and extra blankets since the night was cold. I tried to comfort Dorothy, but she huddled alone on the floor and wouldn't let me hold her.

Hope was fixing a hem at the table. We were the only two awake. Father and Susannah had already retired for the evening, and Leah had gone to bed, pale and presumably ill.

I looked out the lone window in the kitchen as I finished wiping a dish. Fog blanketed the cold ground, swirling in the early moonlight. The trees still held their winter gloom as gnarly branches clawed toward the heavens.

A shadow crossed the yard, causing me to pause.

"What is it?" Hope asked. I hadn't realized that she'd been watching me.

"Nothing," I said, knowing my eyes were playing a trick on me. It was easy to be afraid, given the rumors about bewitchment. Everyone seemed to have a story about apparitions, specters, and wild beasts prowling in the night.

Hope joined me at the window. "Did you see something?"

I shook my head, not wanting to get caught up in the drama and hysteria.

But then a burst of panic quickened my heart. Was that why I would accuse Hope? Would I give in to the hysteria?

It couldn't be possible.

"It was nothing," I said, pushing the panicked thoughts away. "Just a shadow. Mayhap a cloud passing in front of the moon."

Another movement caught my eye, causing the hair to rise on the back of my neck. Someone—or something—was out there.

"I saw it, too," Hope said cautiously, reaching for a rolling pin.

A knock at the back door made both of us jump.

My hands shook as I turned to face the door. "Who could be here at this hour?" I whispered.

"Let's find out." Holding the rolling pin, Hope walked to the door and motioned for me to follow.

"Hope?" a male voice whispered through the door. "Grace. Are you awake? I saw the candle still burning."

"'Tis Isaac." With relief, I reached around Hope and yanked open the door, wincing when it creaked on its hinges. "Come in," I whispered with a warm smile, though my heart still pounded.

Hope backed up, clearly relieved to see Isaac, as well, though she probably wouldn't admit it.

"Are you alone?" Isaac asked quietly.

"Yes," I said, "everyone is abed."

Isaac nodded and then held up his hand, asking us to wait, and disappeared into the darkness again. Cold air filled the kitchen and made the flames flicker in the hearth.

I frowned and exchanged a look with Hope.

Within seconds, Isaac was back—and this time he was not alone.

"Ann," I said, surprised to see Ann Pudeator on Isaac's arm. "'Tis too cold to be outside. Come in."

She entered the kitchen slowly, looking around, as if to make sure we were alone. Her hands showed signs of arthritis, and I could only imagine her knees and other joints also ached in the damp night air.

I put several more logs on the fire, though it was late and Father would hate the excess. He'd probably hate to know Ann was here, as well, but we wouldn't tell him.

"Warm yourself," I told her as I pulled a chair closer to the fire.

Isaac helped her sit. She was much too old to be out this late at night, and at such a long distance from home.

"Is it true they've arrested Rebecca?" Ann asked, her brows wrinkled.

I nodded. "She's upstairs now."

Worry lines creased her eyes and mouth. "I've known Rebecca my whole life. She is no more a witch than I."

"She's under guard," I said, "or I would suggest you visit with her."

Ann lifted her hands to the fire. "I cannot stay long. Isaac was kind enough to fetch me when I sent word, but I must get home as soon as possible. If anyone knows I've come here ..." She let the words trail off.

I pulled chairs over to the fire so we could sit with her. "What brings you all this way?"

The firelight danced in Ann's eyes as she looked from me to Hope. "I could not live with myself since your last visit. There are things you must know, and it wasn't right that I withheld them."

"You were afraid," I said, understanding. Whatever she had to tell us had brought her out on a cold, dark night. It must be very serious.

"Fear is no excuse for doing the wrong thing. In my desire to protect myself, I have deprived you of the truth. That isn't right."

I put my hand over her arthritic one. "I do not want you in harm's way."

"What I have to say will put all of us in harm's way—you most of all."

Her words sent a shiver up my spine.

"You can tell us," Hope said. "Your secrets are safe with us."

"If only that were true." Ann took a deep breath and glanced at Isaac, uncertainty on her face.

We had told Isaac what Ann said in Salem Towne, so I wasn't surprised when Hope said, "Isaac is safe. You can trust him."

He sat up straighter at Hope's comment. Did she realize the power she held over him?

Ann seemed satisfied with Hope's reassurance. "I told you that your mother didn't die in childbirth. But I didn't tell you how she died." She glanced over her shoulder toward the stairs that went up to our private rooms. She dropped her voice and said, "Your mother was hanged in Boston."

My mouth slipped open. "Then 'tis true?" I couldn't believe it. "As a witch?"

Ann shook her head. "As a Quaker."

No one spoke as we absorbed this information.

"Our mother was Quaker?" Hope whispered in shock.

The Puritans did not tolerate other religions in the Bay Colony—but they had a special hatred for Quakers. The Quakers, like the Pilgrims, had broken away from the Church of England and promoted democracy among its people—whereas the Puritans hadn't broken away. They were still part of the Church of England, attempting to purify it from afar. Unlike the Pilgrims, the Quakers were pacifists and believed that God existed in each person. They also practiced spiritual equality between men and women, allowing women a voice in the church. This enraged the Puritan elders. At one time, a person could be sentenced to death for giving a Quaker directions from one town to the next. Other religions were banned from Massachusetts—and stayed banned. The Quakers refused to leave, however, even under penalty of death. It was no longer legal to kill them for their faith, but they were still hated.

"Yes, your mother was Quaker," Ann said. "And she was warned twice by the authorities to stop preaching. She was arrested on both occasions. When she met your father, they were so in love, she thought she could abandon her faith—and her family—and follow the Puritans. She changed her name so no one would connect her to her former life. That was when I met her. They lived in Boston when you were born, and no one knew her real identity.

"She tried to conform to the Puritan faith, but her conscience got the better of her. When you were only six months old, she began to preach under her old name again. Your father wanted to move her out of Boston and bought the land here in Salem Village to build the ordinary. But she refused to go with him and would not let him take you. This time, when they arrested her, they sentenced her to death by hanging. It was within their legal rights at the time. She pleaded for your father to save her—but he had started to build this establishment and did not want her crimes to follow him. He was angry that she had left the Puritan faith, and he knew that if he aligned himself with her beliefs, he would face ruin."

"So he let her hang?" I breathed in disgust and disbelief.

Ann nodded. "He went to Boston to retrieve you from the prison, but he refused to speak to her. He came back here and told everyone that she had died in childbirth and that you had been staying with family until he could get the ordinary built. I begged him to save her, but he threatened me for interfering. I knew if he could let his own wife die, he could do the same to me."

We were silent again as the information seeped into our hearts and minds.

Father had let our mother die without a fight, afraid people would learn that she was his wife—and he hadn't even said good-bye to her.

"No wonder he hath never wanted us to speak of her," Hope said.

"He hath been living with the guilt his whole life," I whispered.

"If he feels guilt." Hope shook her head. "I doubt it."

"Did her family live in Boston?" Isaac asked Ann.

"If I remember correctly," Ann said, "Tacy was from the town of Sandwich. There is a large Quaker colony there."

"Thankfully, it's no longer legal to hang a Quaker," Isaac assured us.

"No," I agreed, "but 'tis legal to hang a witch, and some Quakers are accused of witchcraft as a means to destroy them."

"Do you think her family still lives in Sandwich?" Isaac asked Ann.

"I cannot say. Their name was Howlett, I remember that much. I never spoke to Tacy's family. I only knew what she told me."

"She must have trusted you," I said. "Thank you for being a friend to her."

Ann's smile was weary, but she nodded. "Tacy was a special woman, and I'm blessed to have called her a friend. I still miss her."

"I do, too," I admitted, even though I didn't have any memories of her.

"Is there anything else you can remember?" Hope asked.

"I'm afraid that's all I know about her." Ann sighed. "I wish I knew more."

"Thank you for coming to us," I said. "It gives me hope that mayhap we can find her family and learn more about her."

"Sandwich is over eighty miles away." Hope frowned. "How will we learn if her family is still living there?"

"Let me help," Isaac offered. "After planting season, I can make a trip there on your behalf."

"You don't need to take time out of your busy life to help us," I said to Isaac. "You've already done so much."

"I want to help." His voice was serious. "I hope you'll let me."

I glanced at Hope, and she nodded.

"Of course." I smiled at Isaac, knowing how much it meant to him to help us—or rather, to help Hope.

Ann looked at both Hope and me intently, fear in her gaze. "Your father threatened my life if I ever breathed a word of your mother's story to anyone. All these years, I thought he had at least told you the truth. When I realized he hadn't, I decided I must say something. But if he learns what I've done..."

I took Ann's hand again. "I promise we won't tell him. You have our word."

She nodded, but the fear did not leave her eyes. "I'm afraid I've put you and your sister at risk. If anyone knows you have ties to a Quaker—one hanged for sharing her faith—you will not be safe."

I took a deep breath and said, "None of us are safe right now. Not after they arrested Rebecca and Dorothy. If they are willing to question them, they are willing to arrest and question anyone."

As long as they weren't a Putnam.

It wasn't long before Isaac helped Ann back to his wagon. I closed the door behind them and turned to look at Hope. As I did, I noticed that the door to Leah's room was cracked open—and she stood on the other side, staring at us.

"Leah?" I stepped forward, my heart racing.

She slowly closed her door and did not say a word.