I had all but held my breath the whole night, hoping to find I had simply dreamed the vision at the Corwins’ and the sheriff was still alive, but somehow sleep had found me.
Opening my bedroom door just a sliver, I heard Mr. Putnum and the reverend in heated conversation.
“When did it happen?”
“Not long past midnight. Lydia Corwin said he awoke with pains in his chest. He got out of bed and couldn’t stop pacing and then his heart just gave out.”
Reverend Parris bowed his head as I exhaled.
It was no dream; it had really happened. I leaned against the wall as my legs seemed ready to buckle.
“I hesitate to tell you this”—Mr. Putnam lowered his voice—“but right after he fell, she saw a large black bird—a crow—peering through the window. She said there was no mistaking, it was looking right at her. You know what this means, don’t you?”
The reverend’s face darkened, and he drew a fist to his chin. “It is an ill omen. Corwin was but thirty years old and appeared to be in good health. Was the bird sent by someone with malice on their mind or by the very Devil himself?”
My legs shook, and I felt as if my own heart might give out. It was easy to hope a vision seen after a strange night in the woods could be fantasy or delirium, but the sheriff was indeed dead—because of me, because I stole that book.
And Mistress Corwin had seen Opias.
I wanted to blame it all on Tammy, but without the stolen book, there would have been no name and I had spilled my blood on the page the same as she. I felt as if I could burst into a million pieces. I deserved it—I had killed someone—a young boy was fatherless.
Reverend Parris pounded his fist into his other hand. “Since the governor warned us to keep all ‘frivolous’ suspicions of witchcraft at bay, those who sign the Devil’s book may have become emboldened. Best to keep that piece of it to yourself as to not alarm the village, but cast a sharp eye for other signs that witchcraft may be infecting us again.”
Mr. Putnam pursed his lips and cocked his head. “Again . . . or for the first time?”
The reverend stiffened. “Again,” he said pointedly.
The two eyed each other and it seemed clear to me that Mr. Putnam was not in agreement with the reverend. “There is one more thing, Parris. Phillip English has put a lien on Corwin’s corpse.”
“What madness is this?”
“It is well-known Corwin was quick to seize the property of the accused before they had even been tried. English lost a great deal before he was pardoned, so he’s put a lien on the corpse, demanding reimbursement from Corwin’s estate. There are whispers others may follow suit. As you can imagine, Lydia is worried that even if she is cleared to bury his body, his resting place may be vandalized by any number of others who felt . . . abused by the sheriff.”
“I will talk sense into English before services today. Corwin—and anyone—should have a proper burial, no matter how . . . disliked they were. Leave me, I must amend my sermon to reflect his passing and to keep others from following English’s lead. I fear dark times may be upon us again.”
“Again. You keep saying the word, but it doesn’t erase the past—erase what we did or allowed to be done or said. These are dark times of our own making. Or perhaps the Devil has really come to Salem to make us pay for our sins?”
The reverend looked up at the ceiling, and I thought he was thinking of Betty and Abigail sleeping above him. “You talk in riddles, Putnam.”
Mr. Putnam folded his hands across his chest. “Perhaps you and I have a different understanding of what went on, or perhaps you are in denial.”
The reverend shook his head. “I know only God’s word.”
“Well, you had best use God’s words to convince whomever sent that bird to shun Satan’s grasp, Reverend. There are many who still bear the scars of Corwin’s interrogations. Lydia is right to fear the desecration of her husband’s grave—or even that of his body.” He hung his head. “These are things I fear myself.”
The reverend drew back. “Oh?”
“Parris,” Mr. Putnam began, in a hushed voice, “God forgives those who repent. I am not wrong in thinking that to be true?”
“Do you have things you wish to repent?”
“Don’t you?”
The reverend stood tall. “No man is without sin.”
Mr. Putnam nodded. “I have perhaps behaved in an un-Godly manner in the past. Hearing that Lydia saw that bird, well, it has given me a terrible pause. I am not . . . proud of some things I have done—claims that were made under false pretense. I fear a dark bird may come to my own window. I fear for myself and my wife and my little Ann.” Mr. Putnam looked the reverend in the eye. “You should fear the bird, too.”
The reverend turned away from him. “I have no reason to fear some black bird coming to my window—I have always behaved in a Godly manner. My conscious is clear.”
“Have you? There are some that would dispute that, and what of your girls?”
The reverend stiffened. “And what of your little Ann?” he shot back coldly. “And her mother? And you? I’ll have you remember no accusations ever came from my lips.”
Mr. Putnam nodded. “No. Not from your lips—just your girls and that servant of yours. Necks snapped because of them. I am not guilt-free, but I am at least owning up to what I did, and I hope God is listening and can forgive me.”
The two stood glaring at each other until Mr. Putnam looked away. “I will keep quiet about the bird, Parris, and hope that if Lydia Corwin spoke the truth, God has indeed forgiven me and will shield me from a fate such as Corwin’s. The Lord knows my sins pale compared to his, but still I fear. I hope you and your girls are shielded as well, for we all know that the madness started in this very house.”
He looked around the room, and I thought he might be searching for spirits, but it was clear from his expression he found this to be just an everyday room in an uncommon house.
This home might not have housed evil spirits, but it carried a heavy weight. I could feel the air pressing on me, and I thought Mr. Putnam and the reverend did as well.
Mr. Putnam brought his hand to his mouth as his eyes darted around the room. “God protect you, Reverend Parris. God protect us both.”
He placed his hat on his head and left.
The reverend walked to the bookshelf and took a Bible into his hands and brought it to his chest. “God, protect Betty and Abigail, let them be free of Satan’s grasp, and let them repent their lies.”
Reverend Parris sat at his desk and began to write in his sermon book as I carefully closed my door, lifting the latch so the bottom of the door would not scrape against the floor.
I looked out the window, taking in the fog that kept the rising sun at bay.
Lies.
Did lies send my mother to prison? Did lies cause Mama to tell stories to protect herself or to inflict harm?
Or both?
Would she have told such tales if she knew what would happen—if she knew how many would die?
The reverend seemed truly concerned that dark magic had crept back into Salem—he seemed to believe it. Yet I felt—no, I knew—his prayer to God showed me he was all too aware that Betty and Abigail were liars and he was worried for their souls.
How many had people died before he discovered the truth about their tales?
I could not answer my own question, but it was clear—both lies and magic had the power to kill.
I sat at the end of my bed and folded my hands in my lap.
“Mama lied,” I whispered to the fog.
My body rocked back and forth.
I had known that for a while now, but I had yet to say it out loud until just then.
My heart ached.
Mama and Betty and Abigail and Ann Putnam and Mercy Lewis and all the others had lied, knowing people would die.
Why did they do it?
My chin sunk to my chest.
Why had I signed my name in a book? Had
I become so accustomed to death that I thought it would not affect me? That I would not be overcome with guilt and remorse that a small boy was now fatherless?
I had prayed for magic, but I had not prayed for death.
Was it too late to prevent another person’s name from appearing in blood in our book or would it come at the next full moon?
What were the rules, if there even were some?
Would Mama’s name be written in my own blood?
I shuddered.
Mama may not have known the deaths her stories would bring, but I now knew what the book I stole was capable of. I had not known exactly what form revenge might take, but in the back of my mind I surely knew death was a possibility.
The reverend was right, though—dark times had indeed come back to Salem.
I buried my face in my hands. Mama had recanted her confession—she said Reverend Parris had beaten it out of her—but how could she have known that her story would be used to make others suffer, to steal their land and possessions?
Mr. Putnam was frightened; I saw his haunted eyes. He had all but admitted his family’s many accusations of witchery were lies, and the reverend had just asked God to save Betty and Abigail because . . . he feared they both might share the same fate as Sheriff Corwin’s.
I think they both knew that things were different this time.
Betty and Abigail started a lie about magic—but now, the magic was real.
I needed to talk to Elizabeth; we had to figure out how to stop this. I needed to talk to her without Tammy around, twisting words and making it seem like this was all fine or something I even wanted. All I wanted were Mama and Papa, not this.
“Violet!” Mistress Parris barked as she opened my door, causing me to jump. “Why is the hearth cold and the table not yet set?”
“Sheriff Corwin is dead,” I said hurriedly, rising to face her.
She sniffed, and our eyes met. It was clear she had no tears for the sheriff, perhaps no tears for anyone. “I have heard, and I have prayed for Mistress Corwin, but still the sun rises, and we must carry on. Make haste, Violet, it will be a busy day.”
She turned and left the room.
I felt her coldness wash over me and I knew just then that I could not endure any more cold, any more darkness. It was at that moment I rejected Tammy’s command.
I rejected Mistress Parris.
I would not harden my heart—I could not.
I did not wish to be like Mistress Parris or Tammy or any of those who lived without light.
I could not walk in my mother’s shoes. She had faced more horrors in her life than I could even imagine, but I would have no more blood spilled upon my family with no name.
I would not let these people steal the light I once had, the lightness Mama had given me or the quiet peacefulness Papa had shared every evening.
My mind reeled. I had to get my hands on the book, but I had to tread carefully.
Tammy was determined—but so was I.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We made our way to the meetinghouse with a gloom still hanging in the air. Fog swirled in eddies that the late-spring sun seemed unable to burn off, and I hoped it wasn’t an omen signaling that the day would never find its light—a light I was hoping to reclaim.
Thomas walked swiftly in front, while Betty and Abigail took labored steps behind Reverend and Mistress Parris. By now, word had spread of the sheriff’s death and though he was disliked, I thought no one would show anything but sadness in public. Even Mistress Parris dabbed her dry eyes every minute or so as she nodded to people we passed.
I entered the meetinghouse and the air hummed with whispers. Lydia Corwin sat clutching her son to her chest as women of stature huddled around her where the men usually sat. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was shocked that some who were standing to the side or up in the gallery could barely conceal their glee to see Mistress Corwin’s sobbing.
Tammy surely would be pleased to see such open contempt, but it saddened me that such callousness was present in a house of worship. Arms were folded across chests, and many faces showed not even the pretense of mourning. The ugliness on display made me more determined to get Elizabeth alone and find out where she and Tammy had hidden our book. I could not stand another day knowing we had caused this tragedy.
I bowed my head. Was it even possible to stop another?
Could Tammy look on Mistress Corwin and not feel for her and her child? I hoped she could; I hoped she would agree to destroy the book.
I looked up to the balcony—usually the girls would have their heads bent together to gossip—but today, all eyes were trained down on Mistress Corwin.
The Widow Corwin.
We had caused this—Tammy, Elizabeth, and me.
I couldn’t take back what we did, but I had to stop it from continuing.
But would ripping out the pages with our blood prevent another tragedy? Would it be enough to break our pact?
I bowed my head and made my way upstairs, and no one paid me, Violet Indian, any mind. I took my usual seat and marveled at the quiet, growing undercurrent of whispers beginning to overwhelm my senses.
He had it coming.
It’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner.
It was God’s doing—it’s retribution for what he did.
The Devil finally came to claim one of his own.
Mistress Corwin saw a crow at her window when it happened.
That is the Devil’s work for sure.
People had heard about Opias at the Corwins’ window.
I heard fear in their voices. They were afraid my Opias might visit them, not knowing it was the book that was the harbinger of death and not my bird.
From my seat, the rush of hushed voices engulfed me. Some voices snickered—and then all was quiet.
“Who is that?” Mercy Lewis asked, pointing to the main level.
I looked down and saw that Mr. Osborne, Elizabeth, and Tammy had entered the meetinghouse with Elizabeth’s brothers.
Tammy held her head high and she was wearing what was obviously one of Elizabeth’s dresses, though she filled it out much better. Even from the balcony I could see she had reddened her lips. I shook my head—this would not go over well. Mr. Osborne introduced Tammy as his late wife’s niece to the people closest to the door and she beamed as heads turned her way.
Mr. Danvers took Mr. Osborne aside and there was a hushed exchange. Mr. Osborne then turned to Mistress Corwin and bowed his head. “Sorry for your loss,” he said.
I watched Elizabeth pale at his side as she took in the news.
Ashen, she turned to Tammy, who could barely contain glee. Elizabeth looked up to the balcony. I nodded as her horror-filled eyes met mine. She pulled Tammy to the steps and dragged her up as she rushed to my side.
“When did it happen?” she whispered frantically, her eyes darting around at the other girls.
“Last night.”
“We did it, we actually did it!” Tammy exclaimed.
“Hush!” Elizabeth cried. She leaned in toward us. “We must not let on that we had anything to do with this,” she whispered.
“Where is the book?” I asked. “We have to destroy it before another is named.”
Elizabeth nodded as Tammy looked incredulously at us. “Are you mad? This is what we want; this is only the beginning.”
“Where is the book?” I asked again.
Tammy tilted her chin up. “Someplace safe.”
Deep down, I had known what kind of person Tammy was. I had just underestimated her resolve—her true ruthlessness.
“Elizabeth?” I implored.
“I know not where it is. I wanted nothing to do with it; I went to my room to await Tammy’s arrival at our door in the early morning.”
“I must say your stepfather was most gracious taking in a long-lost niece,” Tammy said with a smirk. “Thank you for vouching for me, Elizabeth.”
I put my hand on Tammy’s arm. “Is it in the barn, or
did you leave it in the woods?”
“It is someplace safe. I will check for another name, but I obviously cannot trust you two with it. Your change of hearts is most unfortunate, but I will not be swayed from seeing this through to the end.”
“Tammy, this is serious,” I said. “That boy down there is without a father.”
She sniffed. “Mistress Corwin will no doubt marry again—I’m sure her wealth will draw any numbers of suitors.”
Elizabeth stared at her. “How can you be so heartless?”
“I prefer the word cold,” she said matter-of-factly. “I just hope we don’t have to wait until the next full moon to see another name, but I will keep you both apprised. Oh, there is Thomas. Excuse me, please, ladies.”
I clutched her wrist as she started to stand and pulled her back to the seat. “It is not proper to go to Thomas,” I warned, through gritted teeth.
She pulled her arm from my grasp and rose, looking down her nose at me. “What makes you think I care about truly being proper?” She laughed. “I thought you knew me better than that, Violet.”
“Tammy,” I whispered, “you have to be careful. You are new here and all eyes will be on you. All eyes will be judging you—watching your every move. If you want to be accepted in Salem, you must heed our warnings.”
She shook her head and rolled her eyes as if I were a child still learning how the world works. “I make my own rules, Violet, and with our book, I will be the next sheriff of Salem if I so choose!”
She promenaded away, casting a disdainful glance at the other girls, and made her way down the stairs.
I stared after her with an open mouth.
Elizabeth buried her head in her hands.
“We have to find the book,” I implored, turning to Elizabeth.
“I am shaken to the core,” she said. “And to think my stepfather has welcomed her into our home! Of course, I have no one to blame but myself, but I now have to share my bed with her! How can I sleep, knowing I am lying next to a monster? And she is a monster. Look at her. I wish she had never made her way to Salem. I wish everything could just go back to the way it was.”
Below, Tammy sauntered over to Thomas, who looked at her with surprise.
Only the Stars Know Her Name Page 10
