Then, using the door like the mortal he pretended to be, he walked back into the shop.
I stole around the front. The position of the sun in the sky told me it was late, and even with James’s shortcut with the buttons, I had taken longer than I should. I would have to walk through the woods to get back to the Harwoods’. I was not afraid of wolves or other wild creatures, but I had been attacked once in the woods, as a girl, and had to use my magic to defend myself. Since then, I had feared the people who might lurk in dark places.
Still, that day, I took off at brisk pace. It was early March, cold, and darkness was settling in. I stuck to the path. But then I saw something that startled me.
Another person. Someone in crimson.
Ann Putnam. But that wasn’t what startled me. It was the creature to whom she was talking. Yes, creature, for Ann Putnam spoke to a wolf. A great, white one with snow-covered fur and eyes like pearls. Ann leaned in as if having a conversation with it.
“What should I do?” she said, and then she appeared to listen to the wolf’s answer. I could not hear it myself, for it was muffled by the wind.
Ann Putnam, daughter of one of the town’s wealthiest citizens, could talk to wolves? Or any animal? I knew that sometimes people—even ordinary people—spoke to their domestic animals, dogs, cats, or horses, even though the animals did not reply. But this was no cat nor even a dog. For Ann to be able to go up to a wolf in the wild . . .
Was Ann a witch?
Surely not. I would know if she was like me. I could sense it, as I had with James.
I remembered Ann’s shocked reaction when I had said that wolves were a witch’s familiars. Was it that she did not know that? Or that she did not wish it to be known?
Still, I determined to walk, quick as possible, back to town and take a more circuitous route home, a road that did not go through the woods or past Ann. If Goody Harwood questioned me, I would tell her I felt unsafe in the woods. It was true, after all. If she was angry, I would bear the consequences and, only later, put crushed-up insects into her food. But just as I started to turn on my heel, I felt the wolf’s eyes upon me. Then Ann was looking at me too.
“Hello, Ann.” I smiled best I could. “Did you, uh, get everything you wanted at the store?” I wondered if there was some sort of spell I could cast on Ann—or the wolf—to make them forget about me. I did not know one.
“Uh . . . I did,” she stammered. “Just some sugar to make a cake.”
A witch’s cake? She must have thought it too, for she flushed and looked down.
“I only had to get buttons,” I said. “I will be seeing you.”
I turned and went down the path as I had been before.
But I was not quite out of earshot when I heard Ann say, “She saw us. She saw us talking!”
4
Ann Putnam
“She saw us! She saw us talking!” I said to the wolf as soon as the girl was out of earshot.
“Mmm.” The wolf chuckled. “Do you want me to eat her?”
I felt hot, sweating around my temples, and my stomach seemed like a trapdoor, dropping to nothingness. I had been ill since that day at Betty’s house, since the first time I had seen the wolf. I had chills every night, and sometimes, my body went stiff as a tree trunk.
My parents did not care. They spoke only of the farm, the town, what was happening to others, but not of me, their daughter. Salem had been in an uproar. Betty and Abigail had accused first Tituba, then two other women, of causing Betty’s symptoms. Abigail had started to develop the same symptoms. There was evil afoot in Salem.
Some did not believe it. The night before, my parents had returned from a town meeting. I was charged, of course, with watching the younger children, so I was allowed to stay up. Later, I overheard them speaking as they lay in bed, believing me to be asleep.
“She is going to get herself into trouble if she does not stop saying that,” my father had said.
“Perhaps that is what she wants,” my mother replied. “Martha always was contrary.”
I had then been drifting off to sleep and was disturbed by their conversation. I covered my ears against it, but my father’s voice was quite loud. Still, I didn’t really hear his words until he said, “She is calling our reverend’s daughter a liar.”
“Reverend Parris—”
“Nay. I know. He is a hard man. But anyone can see how the poor girl suffers.”
I knew Betty was not a liar, if for no other reason than that she was too stupid to lie believably.
My interest piqued, I had listened more intently.
“She says she does not believe in witches,” Mother said. “Does not believe. As if it is for Martha Corey to decide whether witches exist.”
Martha Corey. Martha Corey was an old woman whose children had grown and whose husband was known for having a temper. Martha herself was stern and unforgiving and quite frightening. When I saw her at church, I tried to avoid her gaze. What had she said about Betty?
My mother continued to speak. “But she is a God-fearing woman,” she said.