“We cannot change history,” I whispered as I clutched the bundle of food. “It could set into motion events that are not supposed to happen. We could cause wars or famines—or worse. It’s not worth it, Hope. Not when we only have seven and a half months left to endure.”
She let out a weary, frustrated sigh. “Fine—but if anyone accuses me of witchcraft, you won’t be able to stop me.”
My heart fell at her words, opening the gaping darkness inside me.
I could never tell Hope that it would bemewho accused her one day. I had foolishly allowed my curiosity to get the best of me four years ago in my other path. While studying the witch trials, I saw words that had haunted me ever since.Hope Eaton, daughter of the ordinary keeper Uriah Eaton, was yet another casualty of the Salem Witch Trials when hersister, Grace Eaton, became her accuser.
How could I ever call my sister a witch? It was unfathomable, but history did not lie.
Or did it?
I had slammed the book closed before I could learn more.What had it meant by “yet another casualty”? I couldn’t bring myself to look, and I vowed I would never search for answers again.
“Don’t talk like that,” I whispered, trying to cover the anxiety in my voice. “You know what people already think about us.”
I stepped past Hope and walked through the connecting door into the main room of the tavern. It was past the noon hour, but there were several men and women sitting at tables with their pints of ale. The weather had made all outside work impossible, so people had come to the ordinary to visit, hear the latest gossip, and stay warm.
John Indian, Reverend Parris’s enslaved man, was tending the bar today for Father. He worked at the ordinary several days a week and kept an eye on things when Father was away. John glanced up at me and nodded toward the crackling hearth, where Sarah Good stood with her back to the room. Her worn and tattered dress had probably not been washed in a year. She carried her young son on her hip, while her four-year-old daughter, Dorothy, clutched her mother’s skirts. Neither of the children were properly clothed for the February weather.
I acknowledged John and moved toward Sarah and her children. Hope followed me out of the kitchen.
Several people in the room were watching Sarah, whispering to each other. Salem Village was a small agricultural community about five miles north of Salem Towne. With fewer than a thousand inhabitants, almost everyone knew everyone else’s business. Surely they all knew of the afflicted girls and the rumors swirling about bewitchment.
When Sarah saw me approach, she turned and snatched the bundle out of my hands, grumbling under her breath. “Is this all?”
Her unwashed body and sweat-stained clothing sent off a putrid smell. It was well known that her husband, William Good, had abandoned her. She and the children were left to the charity of neighbors, but they were cast out of one house after the other because of Sarah’s foul mood.
“’Tis all we can spare,” I told her. “Stay and warm yourself as long as you need.”
“All you can spare?” Sarah snorted. “You aren’t so high and mighty as you think, Grace Eaton. They may be whispering about me, but they’ve been whispering about you and your sister much longer.”
Hope took a protective step forward. “We’ve given you what we can—”
“You’ve given me nothing but leftovers,” Sarah spat.
The other patrons quieted, and John stepped out from behind the bar.
Sarah looked between Hope and me. “’Tis the likes of you who should be begging. With those strange marks of yours and the mysteries surrounding your birth. The only reason no one questions you is because your father owns the ordinary.” She took a step closer while Dorothy tripped along. “Do you ever wonder about your mother? Why no one knows her name or where she came from?”
Hope drew closer to me, and I inhaled, lifting my chin.
“You should leave,” I said. “We’ve given you what we can.”
Sarah snarled at me and then turned and left the ordinary, Dorothy trailing behind her.
The other patrons remained quiet as they stared at Hope and me.
What Sarah said was true. People did whisper about our marks and the mysteries surrounding our birth mother in this path—yet Father forbade anyone to speak of her.
Hope turned her back to the others and met my troubled gaze. “Don’t mind Sarah. No one listens to her, anyway.”
John returned to his place behind the bar, and the others slowly returned to their drinks and gossip.
The front door blew open, and Father appeared in a black cloak.
“Gather some food and firewood,” he said to Hope and me.“We’ve been summoned to the parsonage. Reverend Parris’s girls have worsened. Something must be done.”
The storm had intensified. Hope and I bundled up in our thickest coats, mittens, scarves, and caps to walk the quarter mile from the tavern to the Parrises’ home. Our properties abutted one another, but trees stood between them, so we took the road to Andover, trying to avoid puddles even though it was useless. Sleet pelted my face, so I kept my head down.
