He’d been in love with my dazzling sister since he was thirteen, but she had never given him reason to speak of his feelings. On the contrary, she had tried to discourage him for years.And for good reason. We didn’t intend to stay in 1692 and had turned down anyone who tried to pursue us. It wasn’t hard, since women outnumbered men in the community because of the casualties of King William’s War and the influx of female refugees from Maine.
But even if we had planned to stay, I doubted Hope would have been interested. Isaac was steadfast, kind, and dependable.
In other words,boringin Hope’s estimation.
To me, Isaac was the very best friend I’d ever had outside of my sister. If we were to stay in Salem Village, I could easily love him. Though he had never seen me in that light, since I lived in Hope’s shadow—both here and in 1912.
A commotion in the main room made me jump. Wails and screaming rent the air as something hit the wall.
Hope looked up at me, her usually fearless gaze full of trepidation.
“I will unload the firewood,” Isaac said, then quickly left the kitchen, allowing a burst of cold air to enter the house.
The door leading into the main room was cracked open, so I approached to see the girls for myself.
“Come,” Father said when he saw me. “See what witchcraft hath brought upon this home.”
I opened the door farther and stared at the scene before me.
Nine-year-old Betty Parris lay writhing on the floor, her body contorting in inhuman ways. Her twelve-year-old cousin, Abigail, sat in a chair, alternately crying out in pain and swatting at the air as if someone were attacking her.
“They have grown worse,” Reverend Parris said in a severe voice. “Five nights past, Tituba made rye bread with their urine and fed it to the dog. Her white magic has increased the girls’ sufferings.”
The girls’ wails grew louder, and Abigail threw herself to the ground like her cousin, Betty. They both began to writhe and jerk upon the floor.
I was familiar with the white magic Reverend Parris spoke of. After the dog ate the bread, it was supposed to point to the person responsible for afflicting the girls. All it had done, according to the reverend, was make his daughter and niece’s afflictions worse.
“Who doth afflict you?” Thomas Putnam demanded. His own daughter, Ann, was suffering similar afflictions in his home. “Speak their name!”
“Tituba doth afflict me,” Betty cried.
“No.” Tituba shook her head and stepped back.
“And Goody Good doth afflict me,” Betty continued.
“Anyone else?” Mister Putman asked, not questioning but accepting their claims to be true.
“Goody Osborn,” Abigail wailed. “Goody Osborn doth afflict me.”
“There is nothing else to be done,” Mister Putnam said. “My daughter Ann and Elizabeth Hubbard doth name these same women.”
“We must bring them for questioning,” Reverend Parris said, “or my daughter and niece will continue to suffer.”
“We will have them brought to Eaton Ordinary,” Mister Putnam said, “to be held there for questioning on the first of March. Do you agree?” He looked to the men assembled, and each of them nodded.
I glanced at Tituba, who silently shook her head. She looked at the girls and then the men, terror in her eyes, but she said nothing.
It had begun.
2
HOPE
FEBRUARY 28, 1912
JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA
1692 was far from my mind the day after we took firewood to the Parris home. Whenever I was in 1912, I purposely cast thoughts of Salem aside. I had no time or patience to lament our lives there—especially today. My pulse thrummed with excitement, and I couldn’t contain the wide grin that had been on my face all morning.
