Every time she started to sleep, another memory jolted her awake, some detail she’d forgotten, some lesson Rose had taught her. More snippets of poetry: Longfellow, Emerson, Yeats. Rose teaching her to sound out words. Her mother and the others laughing until they cried as she tried to pronounce the new words they’d ask her to recite.
Her hand started to burn, the same way it had when feeling finally started coming back to it after the murders. It had been numb for a long time, more than a year. The doctors had told her that the scarred palm would probably remain numb forever, but, one day, it started to tingle, and then to ache, and finally to burn. The burning went on for weeks before feeling came back completely.
She rubbed at her hand, then buried it palm up under the cool of the feather pillow, the way she’d learned to at the home. If she could get it in the right position, the burning would stop.
Just before she fell asleep and began to dream, she remembered something Sister Agony had said when she’d cried about her burning hand. “They didn’t hang witches back in Europe the way they did your ancestors,” she told Callie. “In Europe, they burned witches at the stake.”
He rowed down the North River, his palms blistered and burning from the six-mile voyage. Heaving the boat ashore, he quickly began to climb the hill, his dread building as he neared the pit. He dared not look up at the hanging tree: Its very existence filled him with rage. Instead, he kept his eyes low, searching for the crevasse where they had thrown his mother, hesitating before he lowered himself among the bodies. There were far too many dead, and the pit was deep. He felt his way among the corpses, touching first a cold leg, then an arm. He followed the skin, and his fingers touched her face. It was Susannah Martin. He gasped as he saw her blackened tongue, her bulging eyes…He began to choke, huge wrenching sobs. He had to leave her here. He only had strength enough to carry one body, and it was his mother, Rebecca, for whom he had come. Even as he told himself he would return for the others, he knew he would not. It would be too dangerous to come back to Salem Town. He had to find his mother, take her home, and give her a proper Christian burial. Standing deep in the crevasse, surrounded by bodies, he searched until he found the hand he knew so well, a hand that had so often held his own. He couldn’t see her face: In its mercy, the sky had darkened against the vision he had no fortitude to bear. With the last of his strength, he hoisted his mother’s stiffening body onto his back and made his way down the hill to the rowboat.
In a series of events that bears a striking similarity to those of 1989, Rose Whelan remains in psychiatric custody at Salem Hospital but has yet to be arraigned on any charge.
—The Salem Journal
Callie didn’t wake up until the smell of cinnamon rolls climbed the staircase and slid under her door. She was starving.
Her nightmares had kept her from the deepest sleep. It had been this way since childhood, and no amount of therapy had changed it. Sometimes she dreamed in fragments from the night of her mother’s murder, mixed with pieces of her own life. Sometimes, like last night, she saw other things that couldn’t possibly be her own memories. She looked at her phone. Almost 10:00 A.M. That made her one of the regular people today, though she felt anything but. Her head was pounding, and she couldn’t quite rid herself of the traces of her dream energy, so she showered and dressed, putting yesterday’s clothes back on, smoothing some wrinkles before descending the stairs to the tearoom.
The walls were frescoed, vaguely Italianate. Small tables crowded the room, and lace was everywhere, from the tablecloths to the curtains. Each table held a different teapot, with varying patterned cups and saucers set on individual lace doilies. A long glass counter in the far corner held canisters of tea, all hand labeled. There seemed to be hundreds of them. All of it made her yearn for coffee.
There were only a few customers: two distinguished-looking older women deep in conversation at the table by the window and another, younger woman sitting by the door. Callie took a seat at the smallest table, one near the fireplace and out of earshot.
“You can’t get coffee here,” the waitress said after Callie ordered a cup. She handed her a menu. “Only the tea.”
Great. There were hundreds of varieties, from herbal and flower to hand-blended concoctions with names like Serendipitea and Chakra Chai. It made her head throb. Callie ordered a simple black tea with orange and mint.
“Let it steep until the sand runs out,” the waitress said when she delivered it, turning over a small hourglass. She hurried back to the kitchen before Callie had a chance to order food. A minute later she was back with a plateful of pastries: scones, croissants, brioches.
“I didn’t order these,” Callie said.
“Towner always sends out the plate of pastries. You only pay for what you take.”
“Oh. Thank you,” Callie said, helping herself to an almond croissant. She ordered a soft-boiled egg and fruit. The egg came in a little silver eggcup, set on a china plate that matched her teacup. Next came a single pear—cut and perfectly fanned out on the plate, a tiny stripe of honey across the slices.
Callie ate slowly, paid for her breakfast, left a generous tip, then made her way to the kitchen.
“How did you sleep?” Towner asked, introducing her to Sally and Gail, two of the women who were cleaning up.
“Pretty well,” Callie lied. “The bed is comfortable.” Gail was the woman she had seen coming out of the bathroom the previous night. Callie saw her exchange a glance with Sally.
“Glad to hear that.”
“I want to help out,” Callie said, watching them clean. “What can I do?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Towner said. “You’re a paying customer.”
Callie ignored her, gathering some dirty silverware and putting it in the dishwasher as Gail and Sally were doing.
“Okay, then, thanks,” Towner said. “I’ve got to start making a salad for lunch.” She went into the pantry.
Callie could feel the women’s eyes on her. No one spoke. She saw them glance at each other again. She turned to face them. “May I help you with something?”
Sally said nothing.
Gail was braver. “You know Rose?”
“I do, yes.” Somehow she couldn’t imagine that it was Towner who’d spread the word, but it certainly had traveled fast. “Why?”
Gail said nothing. Sally blurted, “That woman’s weird.”
“What is that supposed to mean, exactly?” Callie held her eye.
Intimidated, Sally took a step behind her friend.
“She is a little scary,” Gail said.
Callie started to defend Rose as Towner returned with a very large bowl. She looked back and forth among the women. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Gail said, too quickly.
She and Sally hurried back to the tearoom to collect another round of dirty dishes.
“Making friends already, I see,” Towner said.