Thank you also to Rose Fox, at Crown, who read and reread and drew parallels I hadn’t seen in my story, and whose knowledge of history was a huge help in the editing process. Thanks to you and to all those at Crown who are helping to bring this book to life: Molly Stern, Maya Mavjee, David Drake, Annsley Rosner, Rachel Meier, Rebecca Welbourn, Rachel Rokicki, Shannon McCain, Kayleigh George, Kevin Callahan, Joyce Wong, Linnea Knollmueller, Elizabeth Rendfleisch, Tal Goretsky, Andrea Lau, and Sally Franklin, as well as Susan Brown and Meredith Hamilton.
To all my readers around the world, without whom none of this would be possible. To those who have already read this manuscript, sometimes more than once, and offered invaluable comments. My husband, of course. Sarah Ditkoff. Susan Marchand, my devoted friend, who read and reread too many times to count and always offered words of encouragement. Therese Walsh, with whom I share a muse. Emily Bradford Nuell, who has read multiple drafts of all three novels. David and Cheryl Monahan. Mark Barry, whose legal expertise helped me fact-check Rafferty’s work. Manda Spittle, for her psychological expertise and many voluntary readings. Whitney Barry. Lela Clawson-Miller. Joanne Bailey. Jeannine Zwoboda. Christiana Bailey and Pamela LaFrance, for their knowledge of music therapy and sound healing. The Warren Street Writers: Jacqueline Franklin and Ginni Spencer. Katherine Howe, for her writerly friendship, and also for her Penguin Book of Witches, a must-read for anyone doing this kind of research. Alexandra Seros, a wonderful friend and writer, who always helps me with beginnings. And to Eve Bridburg and all my friends at Grub Street for their ongoing advice and support.
And lastly, to the city of Salem, Massachusetts, my home, without which there would be no story. Generational guilt aside, this is a wonderful place to live, and it’s the people who make it so great. The fact is, the present-day story I’ve written would probably be less likely to happen here than elsewhere in the world, just because we remember our dark history and embrace our “otherness” as a result. A special thank-you to the members of the Gallows Hill Project who have finally proven, once and for all, the real location of the 1692 hangings. To Kate Fox and the folks at Destination Salem and to Mayor Kim Driscoll. To the Salem Athenaeum, the House of the Seven Gables, and PEM. To Teri Kalgren and the other modern-day Salem witches who so patiently answered my never-ending questions. And to Pride’s Crossing, where my grandmother once lived, a favorite place full of great memories.
There have been some changes for the sake of my story, but not too many: a bit of the interior of the Salem Public Library, a few buildings on streets that don’t exist. The Salem Journal, which is fictional, is not to be confused with the Salem News, our very good local paper. Pride’s Heart is a compilation of favorite places in and around Pride’s Crossing. The names of certain characters come directly from my family. Helen Barnes was named after one of my great-grandmothers, as was Emily Sprague, representing a side of my family that came to Salem from England in 1628 aboard the Arabella. The Irish Catholic side of my family, who all came over much later, is represented elsewhere in many characters and in name by Mickey Doherty. All other names are fictional. And I have to say, I have nothing but respect for the police forces of both Salem and Beverly. Other than changes made to further the story, I’ve tried to keep things as real as possible when it comes to Salem and vicinity, though, please remember, this is all seen through my writer’s lens. Perspective is everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brunonia Barry is the New York Times and international bestselling author of The Lace Reader and The Map of True Places. Her work has been translated into more than thirty languages. She was the first American author to win the International Women’s Fiction Festival’s Baccante Award and was a past recipient of Ragdale Artists Colony’s Strnad Invitational Fellowship, as well as the winner of New England Book Festival’s award for Best Fiction. Her reviews and articles on writing have appeared in the London Times, the Washington Post, and the Huffington Post. Barry cochairs the Salem Athenaeum Writers’ Committee and serves as executive director of the Salem Literary Festival. She lives in Salem with her husband, Gary Ward, and their dog, Angel.
Chapter 1
MY NAME IS TOWNER WHITNEY. No, that’s not exactly true. My real first name is Sophya. Never believe me. I lie all the time.
I am a crazy woman….That last part is true.
My little brother, Beezer, who is kinder than I, says the craziness is genetic. We’re from five generations of crazy, he says, as if it were a badge he’s proud to wear, though he admits that I may have taken it to a new level.
Until I came along, the Whitney family was what the city of Salem fondly refers to as “quirky.” If you were old Salem money, even if that money was long gone, you were never referred to as “crazy.” You might be deemed “unusual,” or even “oddball,” but the hands-down-favorite word for such a condition was “quirky.”
Throughout the generations the Whitney men have all become famous for their quirks: from the captains of sea and industry all the way down to my little brother, Beezer, who is well known within scientific circles for his articles on particle physics and string theory.
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Our great-great-grandfather, for example, parlayed a crippling preoccupation with ladies’ feet into a brilliant career as a captain of industry in Lynn’s thriving shoe business, creating a company that was passed down through the generations all the way to my grandfather G. G. Whitney. Our great-great-great-grandfather, who was a legitimate captain in his own right, had a penchant for sniffing cinnamon that many considered obsessive. Eventually he built a fleet of spice-trading ships that traveled the globe and made Salem one of the richest ports in the New World.
Still, anyone would admit that it is the women of the Whitney family who have taken quirky to a new level of achievement. My mother, May, for example, is a walking contradiction in terms. A dedicated recluse who (with the exception of her arrests) hasn’t left her home on Yellow Dog Island for the better part of twenty years, May has nevertheless managed to revive a long-defunct lace-making industry and to make herself famous in the process. She has gained considerable notoriety for rescuing abused women and children and turning their lives around, giving the women a place in her lace-making business and home-educating their children. All this from a raging agoraphobic who gave one of her own children to her barren half sister, Emma, in a fit of generosity because, as she said at the time, there was a need, and besides, she had been blessed with a matching set.