“It can be silly,” I said. “For example, if I wanted to make an egg appear and crack itself onto your head right now, that would be quite silly.”
I moved to conjure up an egg with a gesture of my hand. I had played such tricks on him before. But now, James caught my hand in the air.
“Do not do it, Kendra.” His eyes were intense, and his fingernails dug into my wrist. “No witchcraft. It will put you at risk.”
“Why do you worry so much?” I tried to laugh, but it was hard, for his grip was like a claw on my arm. Yet another part of me wanted to obey him. It was sweet, him being concerned for my safety. It had been a great while since anyone had been.
“Because I have seen what can happen.” He pressed his lips together, and I heard him catch his breath.
“What do you mean?”
“I am a bit older than you, I suspect. You, I know, were alive for the English plagues.”
“Aye. I lost my family to them. Thank you for reminding me.”
“So if you saw someone about to be struck with Plague, I daresay you would warn them about it, so they might avoid it.”
“Of course.” I whipped my arm around, in an attempt to get away from him. To my surprise, he merely let go with a shrug. I looked down, pursing my lips.
“’Tis the same with me. I lost my family, my mother, at least, to witch trials in Scotland.”
“Was your mother a witch?”
“Aye, she was. But not an evil witch who cast spells on people, merely a poor woman trying to support her children. She sometimes performed funny spells too, like making our cat appear to talk. But in 1590, the king of Scotland sailed to Copenhagen to marry his princess. The weather was bad, and when he finally returned, he looked for someone to blame for it.”
“And your mother was implicated?” I asked. “How awful!”
“Aye. Along with seventy other women. Someone accused a neighbor, and then the neighbor named someone else, and soon, over a hundred people were on trial, my mother among them.” He looked downward, not meeting my gaze. “They tortured her to get her to confess, pulled out her fingernails, and twisted her toes with thumbscrews. Such torture would have killed a normal person, but since she was a witch, she survived it.” He shook his head.
I did too, imagining it, the horror. “But witchcraft does nothing for the pain.”
“Nothing.” James passed a hand across his face. “Finally, she confessed, just to stop the torture, though she was innocent.”
“And that did not work?” I asked.
“Nay, of course it did not. After she confessed, they burned her alive. I can still hear her screams.” He closed his eyes against the vision. “Someone else, someone who was not a witch, might have died from the smoke inhalation, but she was a witch, so only the flame itself could kill her. It probably was only minutes, but it seemed so much longer.”
“I am so sorry.” I imagined the pain he must have felt, losing her, the first of his family. I had lost my family, one by one. Only another witch would understand what it was to outlive everyone, to be alone. I wanted to take him in my arms, comfort him as I had once comforted my brothers and sisters when they were sad. But I dared not touch him.
And then his arms were around me, and he was weeping. “It has been over a hundred years. I was merely a boy. Yet I still feel that I could reach across the decades and stop it. But I cannot. I cannot.”
“Poor James.”
Suddenly he pushed me away with an intensity that shocked me. “Do not say that! Do not pity me. Save yourself. If you are called out as a witch, they may torture you. They may hang you. But, eventually, they will find the way to kill you. Or, if they do not, and if you do not die, you will provide the proof that witches are real. And then who knows how many innocent people will be killed for it.”
Innocent people. Did he mean me? Was I an innocent person? Or did he mean only people free of the sin of being born a witch? I could not help it. What I was, was not a choice. If I could but have died with the rest of my family, I would have chosen that. As it was, the decades and centuries stretched before me with no promise of anything but heartbreak.
But James was right. It would not be fair to the other women of Salem for me to make their choice for them. And, if I gave them reason to know that witches were real, so many more might die.
I nodded. “I have to go. Goody Harwood will wonder what happened to me.”
“Of course,” he said. “Let me . . . you must have your buttons.”
“Aye.” I thought he meant to walk into the shop to get them for me, but I felt something in my hand, and when I turned it over, eight black buttons shone in my palm.
“Be on your way, Kendra,” James said. “And remember what I said. No magic.”
“But when . . . ,” I whispered. “When can I see you again?”
He looked around. “I will find you.”