Chapter One

It was foolish of me to think this wouldn’t happen again. To give way to my hopes, maybe even start to believe. But I won’t make that mistake again. I know now.

Witches will continue to exist. And so will their burnings.

The same thing happens every time. Father leaves with a group of men from the town on a witch-hunt. Sometimes they’re gone only a couple of days. The longest was just over three months. But they hardly ever come back without a witch. Then there’s the trial. The witch is found guilty, of course, and after that all that’s left is the execution.

The process was almost natural to me by now. Not that I didn’t hope otherwise. But like I said before, it only makes things worse to hope.

“Burn! Burn! Burn!”

The chants started. Angry, harsh, unforgiving. I stood up on my toes to get a better look at the platform at the front of the crowd. Though I despised the witch burnings, I still retained a morbid curiosity for each of them.

I’d been attending the burnings for as long as I could remember, but that didn’t make them any easier to swallow. If anything, the executions consecutively became worse; each new burning reaffirmed my suspicion that I was the only one who really cared about the lives lost.

But I mustn’t think of that now. The idea was too depressing, too solitary . . . .

I cast my eyes about, scanning the heads of the crowd. Unbidden hope swelled in my chest again. Perhaps today would be the day when somebody—anybody—objected to the insanity of the execution.

A shrill cry broke loose among the crowd, creating a moment of absolute silence. My eyes immediately were drawn back to the platform. The witch, an older lady in her late fifties, was sobbing hysterically. The howl must have come from her. Her hair was in disarray, strewn about her face and tinged with grime and sweat from her overnight stay in the jail. One of the guards, a burly man, thrust her back against the torch in response to her outbreak. The woman clutched at her sides, head lolling onto her chest.

The crowd erupted into cheers at the sight, breaking the silence.

I closed my eyes. As if it might change what I was seeing. As if it might make the world disappear.

All at once, in the sharp blackness of my mind, my unwanted thoughts came rushing back. Could I really be the only one that cared? The only one to hear the voices of witches in my head, as clearly as if they’d spoken aloud? How could I—how was it even plausible, when the witch’s mouth was closed? Did some magic of theirs take hold on me, or had I somehow invoked the episodes? Was I really the only one?

The chants of “Burn! Burn!” grew louder now, and I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but my head still spun.

I ran through the logic in my head once more to make sure I got it straight.

As far as I knew, I was the only person in the village to ever show signs of mercy or pity to the witches. But more than that, I felt their pain. Quite literally. I had felt the flames lick my skin as they crept up the witch’s body, had coughed from the smoke, black around the witch’s head. And when the witch finally died, it always felt as if I should have too, with her.

Was I too sympathetic a person? I knew Mother considered my compassion for the witches insanity. Is that what drove their pain and dying thoughts into my mind?

Father would surely turn me in as a witch if he knew—anybody would. That is, of course, why I hadn’t told anyone. My episodes, unsolicited though they were, would undoubtedly be considered a sign of witchcraft. I wouldn’t be the fool who tied herself to a torch.

I sank back on my heels. If only my life were simpler. If only I might learn to enjoy the witch-hunts. I wouldn’t have to worry about trivial matters like whether the witch was in pain or not, or if she’d earned her execution.

My eyes crept back to the front of the crowd, to the small platform. The witch was now tied securely to the stake. She had only minutes.

Help me.

The thought burst into my mind the moment my eyes met the witch’s. I shrank back, clutching my head.

Dear child. The witch spoke again. Her voice sounded ancient, as if she was already dead. Dear child, she pleaded. Do something. Help me.

The voice echoed in my head. I shuddered, trying to block the sound out. I took a step closer to my parents and leaned my head against Mother’s shoulder, comforted for the time being.

The chanting reached an abrupt halt.

I didn’t notice I’d bitten my lip again until I felt the blood trickle onto my chin. A habit I’d picked up to try and forget the unavoidable.

“Hush, Elizabeth, they’re about to light the fire!” Mother scolded, though I hadn’t uttered a word.

A deathly silence hung over the crowd. I took a step back, only to be pushed forward again by my parents. And as much as I didn’t want to witness what was about to happen, I couldn’t help but watch.

Three guards approached the witch.

“Please,” she sobbed, this time aloud. “Please. Please!”

The first two men each dropped a stack of wood beneath her feet, ignoring her pleas. Finally, the crowd grew silent, and I knew the prelude to the burning had neared its end. The third guard approached the witch last, holding a lit torch. In that moment, all hope was lost.

It’s over.

The thought came as a whisper, fading away as suddenly as it had come. Not more than a second later, the guard threw the torch. The fire blazed to life.

Inside that same moment, that same instant that doomed the witch’s life, an immense burst of pain shot throughout my entire body, as if I myself had leapt into the fire. I sucked in a great breath of air, exhaling when the initial pain subsided. I shouldn’t have felt so relieved; the burning had only begun.

The numbing sensation was gradual at first, like always, just a faint prickling at my toes. But the feeling spread, fast as fire. The change from prickling to stinging was instantaneous; all the way up my leg, to my heart, right out the very tips of my fingers. I can’t say for a matter of fact, but as far as I knew, it felt just like I was the one up in the middle of the crowd, put at the stake. But I was surviving.

This fire spread quicker than most, eating away at the witch’s body. I was surprised at how she could stay silent through the pain, considering she was the one who was actually on fire.

Myself? I sure wanted to cry out. But imagine the peculiar sight I would be—me, Elizabeth Payne, a girl in no particular danger, screaming in agony at a witch burning. No, I was not delusional enough to believe Father wouldn’t declare a witch’s specter had taken over my body.

So I merely bit down on my lip, willing the pain to vanish. I felt myself shrink in the crowd’s eye. Mother and Father were far too involved in the burning to ever notice me. Their cheers and snide laughter made everything ten times worse.

But finally, a last anguished gasp escaped from the witch, and her presence melted away in my mind. She was dead.

Chapter Two

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I tugged at the wooden handle of the well. My throat burned, thirsty for a fresh gulp of water. Mary, our housekeeper, was paid richly for her services, but she always seemed to forget trivial chores such as filling the water pitcher.

With a heavy sigh, I returned to drawing the water up.

I should tell Father Mary doesn’t bring in the water, and then she’d have it! I scoffed. I pulled at the rope, my hands on fire.

The bucket finally reached the top. Though the task might seem particularly difficult to other girls my age, thanks to Mary’s forgetfulness, my hands were ruthlessly blistered and tough. I had been bringing the water in since I was tall enough to reach the rope at the well. I smirked, trying to imagine my parent’s reactions if they were to ever find out about this.

My father was George Payne, Huntington’s Reverend, a man of great respect and honor. He was the face behind the witch-hunts, the one who recruited volunteers for the hunts, the prosecutor at court proceedings, and usually the very first to arrive at the burnings. He, along with my mother, Barbara, made it a great priority to appear proper in all forms. They made sure I was learned in the necessary femininities, including embroidery, singing, and dancing; Mother still hadn’t given up on the idea of sending me off to finishing school to clear me of my clumsiness.

Unhooking the bucket from the well, I hauled it inside and poured myself a goblet. I took a deep drink, satisfied. I stuck a small loaf of fresh bread into my pouch-like pocket. There was only one more thing I needed, and then I could leave. I strode back outside and over to our pond, gazing intently into the water until I found what I wanted: water lilies. Careful not to fall in, I plucked a few out and stowed them in my pocket in place of the bread, to use later today.

Content, I took a bite of the bread and crossed the street to the marketplace, where, like any other morning, I found my best friend.

“Beth, there you are!” Ruth called. “I was worried you wouldn’t come in time.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You really think I’d be late? Have I ever missed it?”

“I suppose not.” She laughed too, her chestnut brown hair falling over her shoulders. “I’m just so excited!”

“And why shouldn’t we be? The fair only comes once a year.” Ruth and I had gone to the fair together every year, ever since I’d been old enough to escape from my parents’ watchful eyes. For whatever reason, Mother despised the idea of me visiting the fair. She considered it “a dirty playground for the lower class and criminals.” Today was the 9th annual opening.

“I heard there are some new games and prizes,” Ruth gushed.

I nodded, anticipating the carefree day ahead. Ruth’s favorite part of the fair had always been the games.

“I just can’t wait for the music and dancing.”

“Oh, then you still fancy a dance with Eadric Smith from down the lane?” Ruth inquired, a broad smirk planted upon her face.

I blushed. How had Ruth figured that out? Then again, Ruth could tell just about anything by looking at my face; we had known each other forever.

Just then, I spied our other good friend out of the corner of my eye. “Hey Ed! Edmund, we’re over here!” I called him over, glad for a reason to change the subject.

“I’m starved,” Ed said in greeting. He was a fairly plain boy with sandy brown hair and big brown eyes. “Savin’ up my appetite for the fair food—didn’t eat a thing last night!”

I could only roll my eyes.

Just then a loud trumpeting music grabbed everyone’s attention. I turned my head with the rest of the merchants and early-risers to find a black stallion trotting down the lane, carrying the trumpeter. A long line of horses followed the first, but none were nearly as majestic. Varying shades of browns, from amber to a dark chocolate stampeded past the crowd. Ed tugged at my hand, pulling me to the side of the road, out of the riders’ way. My eyes followed the gleaming horses, trailed by horse-drawn carriages, a party of nearly one hundred heading to the open field past the old MacEwan barn house. There was only one explanation for this. The fair had arrived!

I turned to Ruth to find my excitement mirrored on her face.

“Can you—”

“—believe it!” Ruth cried, finishing my sentence.

Edmund sighed and shook his head. I distinctly thought I heard him mutter under his breath, “Girls.”

Although the fair had only just arrived, a long line had started at the edge of the road before the field, and we raced to the end of it. One of the aspects the fair was known wide for was the short amount of time it took to set up. Sure enough, a large white tent had already been hoisted, followed by several smaller ones of reds and yellows.

The line inched forwards slowly, indicating that the bartering to enter the fair had already begun, and people were being let in.

“So, what have you two brought?” I asked, indicating Ruth and Ed’s separate packs.

“Just some apples,” Ruth said easily, opening her brown sack to show me. She closed the sack again and moved up in the line. “Picked ‘em last week with my Mum.”

“Potatoes,” Ed replied. “Not much, but it’s what we’ve got. They’re all over the house from last season, piled up in stacks this tall.” He stood up on his toes and stretched his arms high to prove his point. His family grew potatoes.

I chuckled.

“No need to ask what you’re bringing,” Ruth said. She paused as we moved forward in the line again. “Water lilies, no doubt about that.”

I nodded unblushingly. I’d brought the water lilies for going on six years now and had yet to fail access to the fair. They had no real use, of course, but the guard didn’t know that. Practiced as I was in deceit, the guards proved much less of a trouble than my parents.

“Next,” came a voice from ahead.

I started, unaware we’d gotten to the front of the line already. Mischief twinkling from my startlingly violet eyes, I gave a little wave to Ruth and Edmund and approached the guard who’d called me forward. On my other side Ruth moved toward another skinnier guard with horn-rimmed glasses to present her goods.

My sentry smelled strongly of fish, a fat old man dressed in the scarlet uniform.

“Water lilies, sir,” I said before he had even opened his mouth to speak. “Best of its kind, you don’t usually see them around this time of year.”

The man’s eyes drifted to the sky, as if asking the heavens the worth of water lilies.

“Haven’t you ever used water lilies before, sir?” I asked, mockingly aghast. “I would have thought a nice chum like you would have heard all about them.” I paused. The man nodded his head to me, waiting for me to go on. “They cure almost any sickness known to man,” I said, repeating the words I’d spoken each year. “But not many people know the trick to making them work properly. Most people will just pluck them while they’re still buds, see. But these, sir, they have bloomed, giving the user the most of their natural qualities.” I emphasized the word ‘natural’ so that it would get through his thick skull that I wasn’t trying to give him something infected with magic. That would have earned me a one-way ticket to death.

The guard took the water lilies from my hand and turned them over, muttering to himself. I sighed, looked over his shoulder, where I spotted Ruth and Ed already into the fair.

“Come on Beth!” Ruth called. I nodded, impatient to join them.

“Yes,” the sentry finally said, which seemed to be the only word he knew, because after that, he just waved me into the fair. I turned toward the colossal white tent but stopped at the sound of a shrill shout.

“Elizabeth!”

Everything seemed to stop. I gulped and swiveled around. I knew that voice.

Mother was wading through the mud up to the entrance of the fair, holding up the hem of her dress to keep it from dirtying, a murderous expression upon her face. She pushed her way up to the front of the line. Ruth’s sentry moved to stop her from entering the fair.

“Ma’am,” he said. “Please. If you’d like to enter, you must wait in line and pay like everyone else.”

“Excuse me sir,” she sneered, as though she regretted referring to anyone of his status as ‘sir.’ “That is my daughter.” She pointed directly at me.

The guard’s eyes followed the direction of her finger, an incredulous expression emerging on his face.

“She does not have my permission to enter your fair. I would like to retrieve her.” Without waiting for a response, she turned back to me. “Come. Now.”

Sighing, I looked back at Ruth and Ed. I couldn’t believe how close I’d been to entering the fair. Why did Mother always have to ruin everything?

“Bye,” I mouthed to my friends and sauntered out from the white tent toward Mother. I peered regretfully over my shoulder to see Ruth and Ed walking away into the fairgrounds.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Elizabeth!” Mother scolded, fixing her creamy hat upon her head. I flinched at the sound of my full name. Mother trudged back onto the gravel road, leading me out of the mud at the first opportunity. “What were you doing out here, dear?” she demanded.

I stared blankly ahead, pulling at the hem of my yellow dress. “Uh . . . um,” I stuttered.

“You know how I feel about that wretched fair! How many times do I need to remind you?”

I grunted, unwilling to give a direct answer.

“And please don’t tell me you were socializing with that . . . that Ruth, were you?”

“So what if I was?” I felt my anger flare up inside me at Mother and her ridiculous fixation of sticking to one’s own class in society. “Ruth and Ed are just ordinary people, Mother! It doesn’t matter if—”

“Well, Edmund would be fine, maybe, but I do hope you consider your suitors more carefully than some boy who hangs around the marketplace!”

“Meaning?” I could not believe what I was hearing.

“Meaning you deserve a lad who can support himself and his wife!”

“Ed’s not—” I started to protest, but Mother interrupted me.

“But that’s not what I came all the way over here to talk about, Elizabeth. A boy just came around knocking on our door,” she said. She led the way down the drive to our old brick house. “There has been a mass witch sighting.”

“A—a what?” I asked, sure I had heard wrong.

“A mass witch sighting, dear. Three witches escaped from the prison over in Chalfont and were headed this way! It’s rumored that they have a contact here in Huntington!”

I mouthed silently, unable to believe this was happening again, so quickly after last Saturday’s burning.

“You are not to wander freely about town until all of the witches have been captured. They are highly dangerous. Do you understand me, young lady?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. I didn’t understand why adults insisted on saying this. For as long as I could remember, the ‘witches’ our village prosecuted were completely harmless. Sure, there were always stories of the old days, like over in the new world, in Salem, when people had been attacked by witches. But that was all in the past, more than a hundred years ago. These people, even if they actually were witches, hadn’t hurt anybody.

“Elizabeth . . . .” Mother scolded, disconcerted at my laughter. She held the front door open for me.

“Yes, Mother,” I said, to avoid the lecture more than to please her.

I walked inside and turned for the stairs.

“Lovely,” Mother said, seeing where I was headed. “I thought I might need to tell you to change into some proper clothes.”

I rolled my eyes, not bothering to correct her.

“Oh, and while you’re up there, Elizabeth,” she said, “do practice your stitching. I expect you should finish that quilt by next Tuesday.”

I ignored her, slamming the door shut to my room and allowing misery to encompass me.

Why couldn’t I have been born into another class—one where it was okay to spend time with my friends and it didn’t matter if I knew how to stitch or dance? What wouldn’t I give to be at that fair right now?

I banged my fist down upon my desk, laughing bitterly at the pain it caused. In a burst of intuition, I dashed to my bed and crouched, reaching underneath it, my hand scanning the floorboards, searching. I knew it was there . . . “Gotcha,” I muttered under my breath, prying open the loose floorboard beneath my bed. I stuck my hand into the space beneath the floor, felt for the cloth material, and pulled it out.

A long chain of cloths tied together came from underneath the bed, nearly twenty feet long. I couldn’t imagine how I would have ever survived without this homemade rope. I’d made it years ago during the times Mother had sent me to my room, shredding my old, ‘inappropriate’ clothing to make this route of escape. Mother, of course, hadn’t objected to the disappearance of some of my favorite clothing; neither had she put too much effort into finding where they had gone and what uses they now served.

Unrolling the homemade chain, I walked to the end of my bed and tied it to the bedpost. I carried the other end to the window and yanked it open before stopping and heaving a sigh.

Who was I kidding? I couldn’t leave now. Mother was still home, and sooner or later she would come up to check on me.

I stuck my head out the window and stared out at the fair on the MacEwan’s field, where I knew Ruth and Ed still were, happily enjoying the day, unconcerned with ‘mass witch sightings’ or stitching.

Chapter Three

I was still in a foul mood with Mother the next morning, so the sight of the empty water pitcher only intensified my temper. True, Mary hadn’t brought in the water for years, but nonetheless I was irritated that she had forgotten yet again.

Thrusting the door open, I stalked over toward the well. I had spent the entirety of yesterday up in my room, furtively not stitching, my silent protest against Mother’s tyranny. Of course, when she knocked on my door at supper time, I couldn’t so easily explain to her why my quilt wasn’t finished.

I unhooked the water bucket from the well, but, in one of my usual spouts of clumsiness, it slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the ground. It had felt like the weight of a brick was inside the pail.

I bent to retrieve the bucket, astounded when a fat book fell out. How did that get there? I thought, picking it up to examine more closely.

It was a thick, aging book of royal blue. I traced my fingers over the peeling letters of the title, which spelled out: The Big Book of Witchcraft. I raised my eyebrows at the title. Where had the book come from? Someone must have put it in the well. I creased open the cover; it felt like it hadn’t been opened in a very long time. Written in a messy scrawl on the inside cover was the name ‘Lyons.’ Who was Lyons?

I stowed the book under my arm and brought up a bucket of water, thinking. The book was most likely a prank the village boys thought funny, planting a book of witchcraft in the Reverend’s home.

I brought the water inside and slammed the bucket down onto the kitchen table. I took the book out from under my arm, deliberating what to do with it. Just then, the grandfather clock tolled the first of eight loud gongs. I jerked my head up, startled. Mother and Father would be waking up soon, if they hadn’t already. Without considering the implications of what I was about to do, I ran the book up to my bedroom, stowing it away in the loose floorboard under my bed. Heaven only knew what Father would say if he found his daughter with a witchcraft book!

I came back downstairs and poured myself a glass of water, trying to act naturally. I took a sip and suddenly remembered Ruth and Edmund.

I hardly even said goodbye to them yesterday! I realized. I should go apologize.

Intending to wait for them at our usual meeting place in the market, I slipped on my shoes and pulled the door open. I wasn’t looking where I was walking, so naturally I walked straight into Mother.

“Oh, hello,” I said, startled.

“What do you think you're doing?” she asked. She was on the other side of the door, headed in. I silently cursed my abysmal timing.

“Oh, just seeing what the weather was like,” I fibbed.

“Well, go put on something a bit nicer, won’t you?” Mother said, her eyes falling on my pale yellow sack dress. “And hurry, we shan’t be late for the trial. One of the witches was found hiding out by the old MacEwan barn just last night! It’s all the town is talking about—she must have come from Chalfont! Your father is at the church already, preparing to question her.”

I could only stand there, shocked. “More witches?" I asked when I found my voice. Part of me hadn’t believed her yesterday when she’d told me of the runaways. "Just how many are there, do you reckon?”

“Now what sort of a question is that?” Mother shook her head with silent laughter. “We just need to be thankful for good men like your father who bring these people to justice.”

“But Mother, what have they ever—”

“Your jacket, Elizabeth.”

I sighed, slipping into my jacket, and followed Mother out the door.

***

Guilty. The word haunted me as I walked home alone through the woods. Mother had stayed after the trial with most of the village to congratulate Father on his “superb job.” I snorted in disgust, wanting nothing more than to scream. I kicked a pebble, stubbing my toe in the process. The girl, only sixteen years old, had been found guilty of the use of witchcraft, and was to pay the price with her life.

I could not help but feel sickened. Even if she was a witch, she hadn’t harmed anybody. There was no proof of that. Why must she die from the reputation other witches created? The witches from stories of earlier days, when people screamed in agony at the torture of the witch’s specter, those were the ones who ought to be condemned.

Father claimed to hunt witches so as to get rid of them before they could mingle with the people of Huntington and cause harm. But how did he know they would? Why did a witch deserve to be killed, then, if they’d never actually caused harm? It was as if just being one was enough.

I huffed, turning my head to make sure I was alone on the path before picking up the hem of my dress and breaking into a run. The adrenaline rush helped me forget my anger, focusing instead on the way my feet struck the ground, the exhilarating shortness of breath, the satisfying knowledge that what I was doing would surely be deemed utterly unacceptable . . . .

I turned a curve in the path and stifled a scream at the sight of a black cat. It jumped out from the surrounding trees, landing on the path. I stopped short and dropped my dress, out of breath. The cat must have been just as frightened by my appearance as I was by his; he stopped on the path directly in front of me.

Foolish as it may sound, my thoughts went immediately to the superstitions Mother had infused into my skull. Black cats neared the top of her list, and I knew the legend well. They were supposed to be witches’ helpers. If a black cat crossed your path, you were sure to have bad luck. More than that, if you were seen in the presence of one, especially if you were alone, it always started some sort of rumor throughout the town. And rumors of witchcraft never ended well.

Turn around, cat! I pleaded. Go away!

Surprisingly, the cat seemed to have understood me. He locked his amber crescent eyes upon my violet, cocked his head, and to my utter disbelief, began to talk!

“Why do you run from the truth?" he uttered in an astonishingly deep voice. "Many await the joyous return of their old friend. Run to them.” The cat finished his speech, twitched his whiskers, and ran off in the direction from which he came.

I remained where I stood, awestruck and uncomprehending. I peered into the thick cover of the trees, but no one was there. I was completely and utterly alone.

Had I just made up the whole episode? Or had the cat really opened his mouth and spoken? In that instant, my temper vanished. I took a slow step forward. I must have imagined the cat’s words, I reasoned, my head overflowed with thoughts of the trial. It must have just gotten too much for my mind to bear.

I set off down the wooded pathway once more, a nervous chuckle escaping from my lips. When I emerged from the woods, back out on the main street, I was overwhelmed by a purple sky. I stopped in my tracks, staring up at the sunset.

Funny, I thought. I’ve never seen such a gorgeous sunset put an end to a day as confounding as this.