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 overthe 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 usas 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.
