Hour of the Witch(103)

“If I am mistaken, I am sorry.”

“Oh, thou hast done nothing that demands an apology.”

Constance grinned, but her face was cryptic. “I have heard nothing of any illness in thy household or among thy friends. Thou must feel much blessed.”

“Thou knowest the truth.”

“I do not. Thou hast other plans for Edmund Hawke’s tincture?”

“I chose not to use it.”

“Ah, the spirit moved thee,” she said sarcastically.

“I had a change of heart.”

“One that I pray does not lead to thy death.”

“I thank thee.”

“Tell me…”

“Yes?”

“Art thou that fearful of being a woman alone?” Constance asked.

“That was not the reason for my decision to set a new course.”

“What was the reason?”

“?’Tis not in my nature to use wolfsbane. I learned that when I had the chance.”

    “He’s vile, Mary. And he’s dangerous. I was serious when I said I will pray thou dost nothing that leads thee to an early grave.”

“I won’t. I am sure.”

“But how?” the woman implored her, and Mary was moved by her urgency.

“Do not fear for me; my hap and fortune are assured. Let’s leave it at that.”

Constance saw that she could press Mary no further. “Very well. So, why hast thou come? Why wilt thou not come inside?”

“I wanted to wish thee well and thank thee. Thou art a remarkable person, and I am pleased to know thee.”

The woman folded her arms across her chest. “Thou art leaving. Now I can see it for certain: I can see the red in thine eyes. This is goodbye.”

Mary sighed. It may have been the sympathy in Constance’s voice, but she felt a tremor inside her that was comprised of heartache and relief. She replied, a confirmation of sorts because the other woman deserved that, “Let me say, if our paths do not cross again, that I wish thee health and contentment, and I am grateful for all that thou hast done for me.”

Constance embraced her, and Mary was surprised. She hadn’t viewed her as the sort who would hug. But Mary leaned into her and was enfolded in her arms. She rested her eyes on the woman’s wool cloak, allowing the fabric to soak up her tears.



* * *





As she walked home, her mood vacillated wildly. The idea that she was leaving tomorrow left her at once giddy and melancholy. She tried to focus only on how wonderful her life would be with Henry Simmons. This was the man she should have married. Once wed, she would devote herself to a life that glorified God. Yes, she might be damned. But until she knew, she would labor to exalt her Lord and Savior, and to love her second husband.

It was when she was two blocks from her house that she began to grow uneasy. She told herself that it was only because it was time for dinner and Thomas would be angry that she hadn’t been home when he had returned. But she feared there was something more going on. She began to suspect that she had been followed, and tried to convince herself that this was nonsense.

    But intuition was a remarkable thing; she had seen it from Constance that very morning.

And so as terrified as she was when she opened the door to her house and saw who was present, a part of her—a small part of her certainly—was awed that she had almost expected what she was seeing. It was as if she had known. It was as if she had foretold in her mind that this was how it would end.

There, crowded into their large room around the table, were Thomas and Catherine, the constable, the very same captain of the guard she had seen whip Henry Simmons, and the magistrate Caleb Adams. And there on the table was her apron and two forks with three tines. Ones that her father had imported. Adams held up something else without saying a word, and she looked at it closely: it was a pine coin a little bigger than a shilling, and there carved into it was the Devil’s five-pointed star. It matched exactly the mark that had been carved into the doorframe and, she supposed, they had already discovered.

She might have hoped they were about to arrest the servant girl, but she knew that wasn’t the case. They were going to arrest her. There in the magistrate’s arms was the small satchel she had packed and the note she had hidden in her chest.





Thou saw the Devil’s mark in the doorframe of the house?

    —The Remarks of Magistrate Caleb Adams, from the Records and Files of the Court of Assistants, Boston, Massachusetts, 1663, Volume I





Thirty-Four



Her cell was half the size of her bedroom at home, and the outer walls of the building had stone as thick as three feet in some sections. The room lacked a hearth, and so she huddled most of that day and then that night inside the blankets her parents—her mother weeping inconsolably—had been allowed to bring her.

The jailer was a tall, slender fellow named Spencer Pitts who was a little older than Thomas, with receding hair that was a mixture of faded red and bright white. He was courteous, if firm, when she had guests, and inscrutable when she was alone. He was Rebeckah Cooper’s uncle, and he neither comforted her nor tormented her. But she sensed he was kind. She gathered he read his Bible during the day and made sure a boy brought her supper and emptied her slop pot before he left for the evening. One night she stared out into the dark through her wrought-iron bars, down the black corridor where he sat during the day, and realized she was the only prisoner at the moment. But for the rats, she was utterly, completely alone.