One
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GRACE
FEBRUARY 28, 1692
SALEM VILLAGE
It was a strange reality to be on the precipice of tragedy and not be able to stop it. Stranger, still, to live two simultaneous lives and know that one day I would have to choose one and leave the other forever. But this had been my existence since birth. A gift, my mama had called it, though I am certain she only said that to placate the fears of a child.
A child born with the mark of a time-crosser.
As I kneaded sourdough in the kitchen of my father’s tavern, my hands and wrists covered in flour, my mind slipped from the harsh conditions of Salem Village in 1692 to my colorful life in 1912. It was the only way to cope with the drudgeries of my work and the foreknowledge I had about the witch trials that would soon be upon us. Reverend Parris’s daughter and niece had been ill for the past six weeks, and the whispers hadalready started—soon the accusations would fly and the event I had dreaded for a lifetime would be at my doorstep.
Bringing with it the revelation of my own dark secret.
I glanced up as rain slashed against the leaded windowpanes in the small kitchen and pushed aside the blonde hair that escaped my white cap. It seemed that no amount of daydreaming could keep me safe from the life I was currently living.
Outside the tavern, a storm had been blowing for the past six days, bringing relentless wind, rain, and sleet. The real storm, though, was picking up strength in the clouded minds and hearts of Salem’s inhabitants, who were always on the lookout for an attack—whether from the Abenaki Indians or from the spiritual realm, which was much more frightful and heinous to battle.
My twin sister, Hope, entered the low, timber-ceilinged kitchen at the back of Eaton Ordinary and snatched a dried fig from the worktable. The tavern was the only home we’d ever known in Salem Village. It was the center of the community, and our father, Uriah Eaton, the tavern’s proprietor, was the most beloved man in the county. Generous to a fault—when it served him well. Ruthless and shrewd when it did not.
“Sarah Good is here begging again,” Hope said.
I shaped the loaf of dough and laid it into a bowl before setting a linen cloth over the top. Without a word, I wiped my hands on my apron and reached for a few sweet biscuits and baked potatoes, fresh out of the brick oven.
“You’re not going to give her food, are you?” Hope frowned. “She’ll keep coming back if you feed her.”
I sighed. “She has two small children to feed, and they’re homeless. What else are we to do? Especially with weather like this?”
“You’re far too kind for your own good, Grace. You know Father wouldn’t like it.”
“Father isn’t here.” I laid the items onto a square of linen andtied it shut, pushing aside the guilt that propelled my generosity. If Hope only knew the secret that had been burning in my chest for the past few years, she would not call me kind.
I started to leave the kitchen, but Hope put her hand out to stop me. We were identical, though anyone who knew us well could tell us apart immediately. Hope was a little taller, a little slimmer, and more talkative. She had a beauty mark to the left of her full lips that I did not. But we both shared the same brown eyes, the same curly blonde hair tucked under our white caps, and the same delicate features.
“They’re whispering about her,” Hope said quietly so our indentured girl, Leah, did not hear from the hearth where she tended the fire.
“Everyone is always whispering about Goody Good,” I responded, trying to move past her.
Hope shook her head, and I could see the concern in her eyes. “Reverend Parris’s daughter and niece are worse—and now young Ann Putnam and Elizabeth Hubbard are showing signs of affliction. They claim that Sarah Good is one of the women who has bewitched them.”
I continued forward, but Hope took hold of my arm.
“Let us leave,” she pleaded. “You know we can change history and forfeit this path. 1912 is vibrant and promising—we could stay there forever and not have to return here.”
I stared at my sister, younger than me by fifteen minutes, apprehension tightening my mouth as I said, “’Tis dangerous to change history. Mama has warned against it our whole life—especially for selfish reasons. Something catastrophic might happen, and it would be our fault.”
“But we would not have to endure this godforsaken path any longer,” Hope insisted. “We could leave the hardship and the trouble behind us. You know it’s going to get worse.”
How many times had we fought about this issue?
Our mother in 1912, Maggie Cooper, was a time-crosser andhad passed the gift on to us. Hope and I had been born with Mama’s mark on the backs of our heads that sent us between 1912 and 1692. When we went to sleep in 1692, we woke up in 1912, and when we fell asleep in 1912, we woke up in 1692 without any time passing while we were away. On our twenty-fifth birthday, October twelfth, we would choose which path to keep and which to forfeit forever.
We both knew we would not stay in 1692, but Hope had always wanted to leave early, and the only way to do that would be to knowingly change history in 1692. If we did, we would forfeit our lives here. Our physical bodies would die in 1692, and our conscious minds would stay in 1912.
But it was much too dangerous. It would be easier—and safer—to bide our time.
