Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 13



Verity’s unconscious form felt warm against his chest. He weaved through the stalks, his only thought—to get her inside. His legs pumped hard and fast, burning with the pace.

The realization hit when he spied the orphanage’s roof.

How will I explain this? His eyes dropped to her face. Explain her?

He mentally rifled through a million explanations and lies. Panic expanded, filling his chest like a helium balloon.

Her color, which outlined her like a separate living, breathing being, pulsed a weak purple. Beneath, a red-hot core revealed her terror.

Verity’s chest heaved; even unconscious, her terror remained.

He reached the corn’s mouth, and cut across the barnyard.

Ram was waiting on the porch.

He shot out of his chair, a look of complete incomprehension on his face.

His dark eyes widened, taking in Verity’s provincial clothing. “How? No. It’s impossible.”

Truman gave him a terse nod. “I told you she was real.”

Emotions flickered through his eyes. “I’m going to tell Sunny to keep the kids out of the way…till…we figure out a story. The converted guest loft in the barn—True, take her there.”

“Brilliant. That’s why you’re the doc.”

Instead of smiling, Ram looked as if he might vomit. He rushed inside the orphanage without another word.

Truman sped toward the barn, barely breaking stride as he kicked the door open. He clambered up the stairs to the apartment, his nose wrinkling at the musty smell.

He eased her onto the bed.

Verity’s skin was milk-white, and her lips parted as if in a dreamlike kiss. Desire spread through his mind and body as he stared at her.

He bit his lip.

He turned away, murmuring, “Focus, you’re pathetic. She’s bloody unconscious.”

Her dress was polka-dotted with mud. He stared at her dirt-caked boots and set to unlacing them.

Glimpses of her brother popped into his head as guilt ripped his conscience to shreds.

He swallowed, remembering his bravery. And selflessness.

His lanky body shook all over—but he stood firm, against a mob of witch-crazed zealots.

Proclaiming his and Verity’s innocence. Truman swallowed the lump in his throat.

The lad couldn’t be more than fifteen.

How long would he have? How long did a trial take in those days?

The steps creaked. Someone was coming.

Sunny appeared at the door, her dark eyes taut with worry.

“Oh, Sun. I need your help. She’s filthy. If I get her into the tub, could you…?”

Sunny’s eyes flicked from Verity to his face, back and forth like a cornered animal. “Is she Amish?”

“No….”

Her expression darkened.

“Sure, True. Anything for you. But you have some serious explaining to do. I’m not going to be charged with some sort of felony or anything, right? Please, tell me she’s eighteen.”

“I didn’t kidnap her.” He busted out laughing, but stopped abruptly when she continued to stare.

“It is a long, difficult-to-believe story, but I’ll tell you everything. If you’re sure you want me to. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

Sunny’s eyebrow rose. “Lose my right to plead the fifth, huh? I dunno. I’ll tell you after I hear it.” She eased Verity into her arms and walked toward the bathroom without another word.

Strange, new feelings bombarded him. Fear, married to a protective surge so strong, he pressed his fists against his forehead.

A fierce love—raw and savage—gutted his heart.

Verity was so innocent and so uniquely beautiful, inside and out, like no other woman he’d ever met.

“I’ll protect you, Verity,” he murmured.

Sunny poked her head out the bathroom door. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

* * *

John held his breath as Constable Corwin led him into the dank room. His boots clomped, echoing off the walls as they entered the witch dungeon. Flickering candlelight danced across the pools of water on the dark stones, shifting like a million blinking eyes. A shrill sound jabbed into his eardrum like a knife. He covered his ears. That pitch could only be one creature.

Rats. Loads of them.

His exceptionally acute hearing registered the clicks of thousands of tiny nails scraping across the stone floor.

“Here is where ye shall await trial, John.”

John swallowed and tried not to weep but felt the familiar burn in his nose and the resulting water fill his eyes. Tears of fear leaked out. Panic bloated his mind, screaming at him to strike the man—to flee.

He began to rock.

The cell before him was impossibly small; there was no chance of lying down. It was the exact size of an upright coffin. If he attempted to sit, his long legs would jut out the bars.

Corwin touched his back, sliding him in. The jail door clanged and closed with a loud, final click.

A glut of emotion squeezed his chest. A numbing fear rose, making his limbs feel disconnected, uncontrollable. They flailed uselessly.

He whimpered. Sliding down the wall, he wrapped himself into a protective ball and permitted the tears to come.

A younger boy stood beside Corwin. He did not know his name.

“Excuse my frankness, sir. But, John has always been different.” The boy’s eyes flicked to John on the floor of the coffin-cell. “I don’t think he is capable of malice, let alone maleficia.”

“That will be for the court to decide, son. Sometimes, the company we keep condemns us. His sister is surely a witch.”

The boy’s face was skeptical.

“Examine the evidence—those mismatched eyes, her flaming hair. Now this news he somehow sees shapes within music—undeniably this be the devil’s handiwork—”

The constable’s words cut through John’s protective bubble, reviving his immobile limbs.

His stomach clenched, his ears rang with his hatred.

Rage, which he so carefully controlled, always avoiding it like a leper, took control of him. He leapt to stand, shoving his face against the bars, snarling through them like a wild dog.

“Verity-be-not-a-witch! She’s the most loving, caring young woman in the world. All of you shall be guilty before God for hanging innocents! Look around you! These be people you’ve known for years!” Spittle flew from his mouth, splattering Corwin’s chin.

A renewed chorus of weeping filled the witch dungeon.

Tituba’s dark eyes bore into him from across the room; her small body in an identical tiny coffin cell.

The poor got the smallest cells. And while the rich were afforded larger accommodations—but all were made to pay for the food and lodging time in jail. Leaving servants and orphans as permanent inmates—without the assistance of fortune on the outside.*

Money, the root of all things injurious.

Many were dying, rotting on the cell floors.

Constable Corwin held up a hand as if to ward off his thoughts. “Let’s go, Tom, and leave the ravings of this lunatic for his fellow witches.”

Tom grimaced but followed.

John felt his rage reorganize and twist into something desperate. “Look at the faces of these people!”

All were staring. It was, no doubt, the most words they’d ever heard him put together. He guessed many thought him mute.

“Martha Corey? She has been in this cursed place five months! Accused because that malicious pack of girls say a yellow bird suckled betwixt her fingers? Because they claim, her specter haunted them, asking them to sign the devil’s book? I could create such fiction right now—against you!”

His chest felt heavy with the unfamiliar emotion.

“Elizabeth Proctor!” His finger jutted out between the bars, pointing across the dungeon. “She is pregnant. Have you no mercy? You incarcerate in the name of God. God would show mercy!”

Tom’s face was fearful. “John, calm thyself.” His eyes glanced warily at Constable Corwin’s face, which flushed a deeper red with each of John’s accusations.

“Dorcas Good—she’s been here seven months. She-is-a-child!”

The tiny girl, chained to the wall, began to cry and fretfully look about at the sound of her name.

She was clearly mad now.

“These should have considered the consequences, before signing away their lives to the dark one!” Corwin said, with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “Pray, answer me this, John. How does thou explain the palsies, and the dropping fits? The vomiting and odd contortions of so many afflicted in this village, if not for the devil’s design.”

“I saw one of the dogs that was hanged. It took ill, sir. It’s afflictions reminded of d-distemper.” His voice broke on the last word, and with it, his will.

Corwin looked thoughtful for a moment, then harrumphed, stomping toward the exit. Tom followed in his wake, eyes downcast. He murmured, “Only God and time will tell.”

The dungeon door clanged shut, and a fresh chorus of wails sang through the fetid air. John slumped back into a ball, rocking, closing his eyes, covering his ears to the pain.

* * *