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.”
