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  To all the twitches out there who believed in me when no one else did

  June 10, 1692

  It was the day Bridget Bishop was sentenced to die and all she could think about was how she would never get the chance to see her daughter marry. She had had three husbands herself. With each marriage she’d learned something different about love and life, and had intended to share these lessons with her only daughter, Christian, so she might save her from some of the mistakes she herself had made.

  For instance, make sure your husband-to-be has a strong heart, so people cannot accuse you of bewitching him if he suffers an untimely death, she thought with a sigh.

  Then again, maybe the first lesson she should have taught Christian was how to go unnoticed. After all, wasn’t it the fact that Bridget was considered a wanton woman that had landed her in the dank basement of the local jail, where she was now shackled? Her friends had warned her about wearing red. That the color seemed to elicit a reaction in the men of Salem Town and, of course, annoy the women whose men drooled after her. Not that she was the only one who donned the attention-drawing color—albeit none of the others also owned taverns. Several taverns actually, which in the 1600s was somewhat unseemly for a God-fearing woman. Men were usually the ones who controlled the flow of ale, and some thought it distasteful for a woman to be around so many inebriated men.

  The thought of work made Bridget begin to fret over what was surely happening without her watchful eye on things. No doubt her barmaids were refilling steins for free and allowing the men to gamble. The places were probably in ruins without her. And likely, not nearly as fun.

  But she supposed that soon, all of that would no longer be a concern. In the nearly two months since she’d been arrested on suspicions of witchcraft, time had ceased to exist for her. She never knew what hour it was, her cell had no windows and the criminals were all kept separate. But, given the steady flow of visitors she’d had over the past day, she knew that her time must surely be running out.

  At least, that’s what she’d gathered that morning when the reverend had read Bridget her last rites and asked if she had any confessions before meeting her maker. Bridget’s answer had been the same as it had always been: that she’d never done anything in her life to harm another living thing. She’d barely been able to contain her anger as the man of God sighed and shook his head in disbelief before once again leaving her alone in her cell.

  She still had no idea how the situation had gotten so out of control.

  Before her mind could once again recollect the sequence of events that had brought about the trials, she heard a shuffling of feet and then the sound of a man clearing his throat from just outside the bars of her cell. Although it was rather dark in the room, she knew who her visitor was without seeing him.

  “Reverend Samuel Parris,” Bridget said evenly. “What brings thou here? I already had my meeting with the church today. . . .”

  “You know that is not why I am here, Bridget,” Reverend Parris said, walking toward her, the lantern in his hands casting an eerie glow across the cold stony space. He moved forward until his face was just inches away from the bars.

  “Come to break me out then, have you?” she asked sarcastically, then snorted.

  The reverend didn’t answer, but instead looked around the room uncomfortably.

  “Oh, come now, Samuel, I know there is aught you can do,” Bridget said, her tone turning sad. She looked down at the chains that bound her hands, tugging at them halfheartedly. “I have been trying to get out of these confounded things since they brought me here, but it looks like it will take some serious magic to free me.”

  It was a rueful pun, but Reverend Parris remained stone-faced. Bridget rolled her eyes and sighed. She had long since accepted her fate.

  “’Tis but a folly,” she said, trying to catch her friend’s eye. When she finally did, he gave her a small smile in return. “How did we get here, Samuel? How did things become such a mess?” She hesitated before asking her next question. It had been weighing on her mind since the whole thing had begun, and she could no longer hold it in. “Samuel, why did they accuse Sarah and Tituba of being witches? How could they have done that knowing . . . knowing what they know?”

  “Children will be children, I suppose,” he said softly, as if it were a suitable excuse for all that had happened.

  “But they’re your children, Samuel. At least Betty is. And Abigail, your niece,” she said. “And they are part of us! Why would they publicly accuse those in their own coven of casting spells on them? They had to have known that it would create this kind of hysteria.”

  “I suppose they did.”

  The reverend slowly bent down until he was eye level with Bridget, placing his right hand on one of the bars for support. At first she thought he might be feeling faint, but another glance revealed something else shining in his eyes. Surely she was seeing things, because she could have sworn there was the tiniest hint of hatred there.

  “Oh, Bridget,” he said slowly. “Don’t look so surprised. I would have thought thou would have figured it all out by now, given your extraordinary ability to perceive the future. But perhaps you are not as powerful as you would have us think?”

  Bridget felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. The truth of what Samuel said hit her harder than even the initial accusation of witchcraft. But she was a proud woman and the last thing she’d do is let anyone see her weaknesses. Let alone her enemy.

  “Well, you know better than anyone that what we do isn’t exact,” Bridget said with a shrug, even though she felt like lashing out at him. “So, why then, Samuel? Why turn your back on your own kind? Your coven? Was it because the Cleri would not elect you its leader?”

  The Cleri was Salem’s secret troupe of witches—well, they had been a secret until recently at least—and the biggest coven in Massachusetts. When Bridget uttered their name, Samuel let out a laugh, low at first and then hearty as it moved through his body. The sound was unlike anything Bridget had ever heard, and for the first time in the thirty years she’d known the reverend, she realized she never really knew him at all. What was worse, since he was a member of the Cleri himself, she’d taught him many of her secrets over the years. Some of which, if in the wrong hands, would prove to be dangerous to everyone around them.

  “All you had to do was vote me in,” he spat. “No one would have done a better job of leading and shaping the Cleri than I. We could have been the most powerful coven in New England. Possibly even the world. But every time I raised one of my ideas, you overruled me. You treated me as insignificant. As if you cared nothing for me or my plans.”

  Bridget kept her mouth shut, but her mind was racing, trying desperately to think of a way out of her current predicament. Testing the chains’ strength again, she whispered, “Oxum expedis,” and put all her energy into trying to free her hands. But a slight tug later, she realized she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Ah, yes,” Samuel said smugly. “You have no doubt noticed that the chains are difficult—nay, impossible—to break. I suppose I am not as impaired in my spell casting as you may have assumed.”

  Bridget couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The man she’d trusted day in and day out was now saying that she was a prisoner because of him. That he was jealous of her power and wanted to run the
Cleri. And that was why she would die today.

  “I never wanted to dominate the Cleri,” she said honestly. “All I wanted to do was oversee my pubs, spend time with my daughter, and perhaps marry once more. That is all.”

  “I know. And that is most infuriating. Your lack of imagination is tragic,” he said. “If you had just seen things my way, used your powers for something more than mere small-scale trickery, I would not have had to do any of this.” He swept his arms around the room grandly as if he were giving a tour of the dungeon, rather than confessing his sins.

  “I told you then and I will tell you now, Samuel. It goes against the witch’s oath to use her powers for personal gain or wrongdoing. The line between dark and light is thin and we have all heard what happens to those who confuse the two.”

  “Indeed,” Samuel answered, raising an eyebrow at her mischievously. “Those witches become infamous. And so will I once all this is over.”

  Bridget was getting ready to argue with him when half a dozen guards entered the small corridor outside her chamber and gestured to Samuel that it was time for him to leave. He nodded in assent and then turned back once more to look at her.

  She thought he might be remorseful after so many years of working beside her, but she discerned nothing. Which was what Bridget was beginning to feel.

  Nothing.

  “I truly wish it did not have to end like this, Bridget,” he said. To the guards it probably sounded like a good-bye, but she knew better. Samuel meant it as a justification of his despicable actions. And whether he was being genuine or just saying it because they had an audience didn’t really matter. The truth was, there was nothing anyone could do for her now. Her time was up.

  But things were far from being over. Samuel may have bound her powers, making it impossible for her to get out of her chains, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have abilities that she could still use.

  She needed to reach her daughter.

  Bridget had begged Christian to stay home that day so she wouldn’t have to witness her own mother’s execution. Which meant Bridget couldn’t warn her face-to-face about Samuel’s plan. Instead, Bridget fell back on one of her oldest skills.

  My darling, are you there?

  Bridget sent the message from her mind to her daughter’s, much like she used to when Christian was a child. She had used this particular gift when trying to teach Christian how to listen to her conscience growing up. But it had promptly backfired when Christian’s friends told her that they didn’t actually hear the voice of their conscience in their heads. When her daughter figured out that it was her, Christian forbade Bridget to use the powers again unless Christian initiated it.

  Given the current circumstances, however, Bridget decided that Christian would forgive her this time.

  I am here, Mother. Are you all right? What is happening?

  Bridget winced at the pain she could feel in her daughter’s voice. She knew that her death would weigh heavily on her only child, and now she had to admit that the only family Christian would have left might be working against her. This made Bridget feel even worse about leaving. Bridget tried to clear her mind so none of her anxiety would transfer to her daughter.

  Everything is fine, child. I have had several visitors today and some lovely conversation. Her white lies hardly mattered now. There is something I need to talk to you about and I do not have much time . . .

  Yes, Mama?

  There is a traitor among the coven. Reverend Parris is not your friend. He is hungry for power and will do anything to attain it. He is the one who divulged the names of our sister witches. I am not sure whether he will come after you and the rest of the Cleri, but you must get away from him in order to stand any chance of survival.

  There was a pause on Christian’s end and Bridget could tell that she was trying to make sense of what her mother had said. Finally, she responded.

  I understand. Do I have time to tell the others?

  I am not sure who can be trusted. It is probably best if you just leave quietly and without notice.

  Okay. I will gather my things right away. Where am I to go? Christian was asking this more to herself than to her mother, but Bridget had an answer.

  Do you remember where we spent our summers when you were little? Go there. Nobody knows about the cabin, which means they should not be able to find you. Go there, hide, and be safe, my child.

  Bridget could sense the pain her daughter was feeling as if it were her own heart breaking. Perhaps it was just as well that Christian had forbidden her from entering her mind. Sometimes it was simply too overwhelming to feel another’s emotions.

  “It is time, Goodwife Bishop,” one of the guards said, appearing in the doorway after escorting Samuel out of the dungeon and unlocking her cell door. She noticed that he said it as if they were heading out for a walk, not off to her execution.

  Bridget nodded and walked over to meet the guard at the door. She held out her hands, hoping they’d take off her shackles and give her one last chance to save herself. But her luck had run out. The man took hold of her arms and began to pull her to the front of the building. She didn’t put up a fight. Instead, she spent her last living moments saying her good-byes.

  They are calling me now, Christian. It is my wish that you go right away and do everything you can to live a safe and happy life. But promise me this: if they do find you . . . fight them. Fight for me. I love you to eternity, darling. I will always be with you.

  I love you, too, Mother. Bridget could sense that her daughter was weeping uncontrollably now, and she had to pull away before Christian could experience what was about to happen to her.

  By this time, the guard had already led her outside and through the square to the large wooden structure, standing high above the hundreds of townspeople who’d gathered on Gallows Hill to watch. Bridget kept her head down as she moved through the crowd, being careful not to trip while making her way up the crudely constructed stairs. Bridget knew people hadn’t expected that the law would carry out its chosen form of justice so swiftly, but here she was.

  A big black X was painted across the boards and she took her place on top of the dark lines. Lifting her bare feet, she examined with curiosity the black marks that now decorated them. When she finally looked up at the audience that had congregated in front of her, she saw a mix of friends and enemies. On some faces there was sadness, even a few tears rolling down dirty cheeks. There were more, though, who looked smug, even pleased, to see her up there.

  This is what fear does to people, she thought. Bridget knew these bystanders weren’t at fault, not directly anyway. The person responsible for these horrific trials was another witch, same as her. Samuel Parris. All because she wasn’t willing to use her magic in the ways he wanted.

  The sheriff slipped the noose around Bridget’s neck and tightened it until it began to make breathing difficult. Still, she kept her chin up and refused to cry.

  “Do you have any final words, Witch Bishop?” he asked her.

  Bridget swallowed hard and hoped that her voice would remain strong. “Just that I am as innocent as the child unborn,” she addressed the crowd loudly. “I have made no contact with the Devil. I have never seen him before in my life. I am innocent.”

  Hushed conversations began all around her and she could hear a few people begin to object, but the hood was already being thrown over her head, blocking out any chance to see who was saying what.

  “My allegiance is with my maker and even in death I will always do thy will.” The prayer was barely above a whisper, but it filled her with a calmness she hadn’t felt since before she’d been arrested. “Goodness will always prevail and evil will be punished. As God is my witness I will make sure of that.”

  And with those final words, the floor dropped out from beneath her and Bridget Bishop fell to the darkness below.

  Chapter One

  My body jerked violently as I woke up, just as the woman fell to her death. I was breathing heavily an
d my hair was matted to my head with sweat. My heart beat as if I’d just run a marathon, even though I’d been asleep for hours.

  I looked over at the digital clock on my nightstand and cursed when I saw what time it was. I didn’t have to be up for school for another hour at least, but I knew from experience that once I’d had this particular dream, there was no going back to sleep for me.

  Great. So I guess I’ll be applying extra foundation to cover the bags under my eyes today. I bet no one else has to worry about their beauty sleep being interrupted by the memories of a woman killed during the Salem witch trials.

  I sighed and threw back my covers dramatically before hopping out of bed and making my way over to the bathroom. After pulling open the shower curtain, I turned the knobs in the tub until steam filled the room. A quick glance in the mirror showed me what I’d feared: I looked like I’d gotten only four hours of sleep.

  That was actually the truth. I’d stayed up extra late, catching up with people on Facebook and adding friends who’d requested me. By the time I’d forced myself to crawl into bed, I’d accepted over twenty-five new people. My count was now at 11,280.

  Did I know everyone on my friends list? No. But there was a very good chance they all knew me. I guess I’m what you’d call “popular” at my school. Not to sound snobby, but people seemed to be drawn to me. It’s always been this way, and after a while, I stopped questioning it. Because who really wants to question popularity? Unless you’re on the sucky side of it, of course.

  I pulled at the bags under my eyes until they disappeared into my face. When I let them go, the puffiness returned, making me look much older than my seventeen years.

  “Gross,” I said under my breath, and made a face at my reflection. Knowing what I had to do to rectify the situation, I concentrated on the dark circles and said, “Delemin barrit.”

  I blinked and they’d disappeared. Smiling, I admired my fresh-looking skin from various angles, and then stepped into the shower and relaxed under the stream. Placing my hands on the wall in front of me, I let my head fall forward so the water was pounding across my neck and shoulders. Whenever I dreamed about Bridget Bishop, I woke up with the worst pain in my upper body. The rational part of me knew it was probably because of the stress, but the magical part of me wondered if my neck hurt because I’d been connected to Bridget when she was hanged in my dream.