It took me a second to remember who Mary Warren was. There were so many Marys—several among the accused, at least two involved in the accusations, Mary Walcott, who was Ann’s cousin, and Mary Warren, who was a servant at John and Elizabeth Proctor’s home. She and I had been friends. Or, at least, friendly. And she had been there the day I had spoken to Ann, the day she accused me. “What of Mary Warren?”
“Silly girl. She posted a note at the church, asking for prayers of thanks, that her affliction had ended.”
“Ended?”
“She had stopped having fits. She said it was not real.”
“She did?” Mary Warren had never been the smartest creature. I was not sure if this statement rather confirmed or contradicted my thinking that.
“Not in so many words,” James said.
“In what words then?”
“She said that her visions might have been her imagination. She all but accused the girls of lying.”
I saw the flash of a lightning bolt, then after it, the echo of thunder.
All but? “And then what happened?” For I suspected I knew.
“Well . . . ah . . .”
“Tell me.” I looked at Rebecca, frozen asleep. I had helped her with the pains of her arthritis that day. My healing powers were of some use here, though sleeping on a feather bed would have done her more good. This madness had to end! I did not care so much for myself. I had time, nothing but time. But I wanted her to be released, to be allowed to return to her family. And Martha too. Of course, Martha.
“The girls accused her of being a witch, and she changed her mind. She said that the Proctors had tricked her into saying that.”
“Oh no.” It was as I had feared.
“But it made people suspicious. Don’t you see?”
“I see that everyone who becomes suspicious gets accused of being a witch themselves.”
He sighed and stroked my arm. “Perhaps I should become suspicious then.”
Alarmed, I said, “Why would you do that?”
“So I could be here. With you. So you would not have to go through this alone.”
“No!” My mind was whirling, spinning in the light of the lightning and rain. I wanted him to be safe, but I knew I could not say that. He was a strong man, a man who would not stay safe at my command, nor at my expense. So, instead, I said, “I need you to be out there, to report back to me.”
He nodded. “Just so you know I would do it.”
“I know.”
He took me in his arms. “I love you.” He kissed my neck, my throat. “When this cruelty is over, I want to—”
“Shh.” I put my hand to his lips, stopping his words. I knew what he was going to say, that he wanted to marry me. But I did not know if I would ever be free, or even if that was what I wanted. It seemed safer to be alone. There was no one to disappoint.
“I love you too,” I said. “But we must not speak of the future. We must only concentrate on the present until this is past.”
Still, he kissed me again before he left.
A week passed. Then it was the day of my trial before Judge Hathorne. The weather had gone from being bitterly cold to hot, and as they led me into the meetinghouse, which had been made into a courtroom, I was already sweating. The room was filled with what looked to be half Salem’s population. Though it was a Monday and near summer, no one in Salem was planting beans or shoeing a horse or chopping lumber that day. They were all there to see. I was only the second to be tried, and the first had been convicted. I saw Goody Harwood with her daughter and son. She had a basket with her, and I wondered if it was a picnic lunch. In the front row sat Thomas Putnam and his wife, with their oldest boy and Ann. I wanted to wipe the sweat from my brow, but my hands were shackled. I could have done it with magic, but perhaps it was better for me to look as uncomfortable as the others.
The only sounds in the room were my footsteps and the jailer’s and the clinking of my chains. All eyes were upon us. I scanned the room for James. I did not see him for a long while, and I thought perhaps he was not there, perhaps he did not wish to see me prosecuted. But then I found him in a corner in the back of the room. I looked away, lest he make some motion, some gesture, some look that would tell people he knew me, tell people that he did not believe I had done it. Any such indication might cause him to be suspected as a wizard.
I did not know what would happen, if I would be led up for questioning or if others would testify against me first. I did not know what I would say, except that I had never harmed Ann or anyone. But the jailer led me to a bench near the front of the room, away from where the Putnams sat. He shoved me down. “Sit!”
I sat. I found I was trembling, though it was so hot.
The jailer pushed me. “Be still, girl!”
I tried, but when I looked around, I realized that no one in the room, save James, was my friend. My friends were the women I rotted with in jail, Martha, who was suspected on Ann’s word and because her husband had said she read too many books, and Rebecca. No one would believe me. No one would even care if I was convicted, except for the spectacle of a hanging. Goody Harwood had brought a picnic! I wanted to tremble more, but I summoned my magic to calm me. I breathed. How odd to think that fidgeting and sweating would make me look suspicious when, really, witchcraft was the cure.