Only the Stars Know Her Name

by Amanda Marrone

  Mercy Lewis sat down suddenly next to Elizabeth. “Who is that girl?” she asked, her eyes filled with jealousy. “Did I hear correctly that she is your cousin?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, Tammy—Tammy Younger. We had not spent much time with her part of the family before my mother passed, but she will be staying with us . . . indefinitely it seems.”

  “Pity for you.” Mercy narrowed her eyes. “Has she rouged her lips?”

  “It is only strawberries,” Elizabeth said, her cheeks flushing. “She was eating strawberries. I am sure it was not intentional that she stained her lips, but I did caution her.”

  Mercy curled her lip. “Well, you should have cautioned her more strongly. I suggest you let your cousin know that is not how we do things around here, especially on the Sabbath. A girl like her could very well end up in the stocks. And look at poor Thomas. It is obvious he is quite uncomfortable to be around a girl who would rouge her lips.”

  She stood and looked down at me. “I would also caution you to mind the company you keep, lest you be judged as well, Elizabeth Prince.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mercy left to join the older girls, I bowed my head as a cold, clammy feeling filled me up.

  Was she referring to Tammy or me?

  Was I someone Elizabeth should be ashamed to be with?

  Elizabeth reached out and put a hand on my knee. “Don’t let her words touch you, Violet. Mercy Lewis does not know the things we know. Though she—”

  “She what?

  Elizabeth looked away. “Mercy has also lost both her parents,” she said softly.

  I nodded. Mercy Lewis’s parents were slain by Wabanaki Indians. I wished I could tell her how peaceful Mama and Papa’s people were—that they were stolen from their homeland—but that is not a tale that would console Mercy or perhaps change her thoughts about me.

  I looked down to see Tammy try to sidle up to Thomas.

  Thomas did indeed look uncomfortable. Tammy smiled at him in a knowing way, and he blushed and shook his head. I could not hear what he told her, but he quickly turned away and took his seat with the other young men, and I could see her face cloud over.

  If only Thomas knew how much of a viper Tammy was and that his very life could be in danger by crossing her.

  Suddenly all whispers ceased; Mr. English had entered the meetinghouse with the reverend right behind. “English, see reason,” the reverend implored.

  “I will have restitution, Parris,” he declared, looking past the reverend at Mistress Corwin. “And I encourage anyone else who was robbed by the late sheriff,” he proclaimed loudly, “to make a claim on his estate as well!”

  “This is not the time or place for such talk, English!” Reverend Parris exclaimed.

  Mistress Corwin’s face crumpled, and she hurriedly made her way to the benches toward the back, surrounded by a protective group of women.

  Mr. English eyed her, and it was clear he was staying resolute with his promise to keep a lien on the sheriff’s body.

  The reverend motioned for everyone to take their seats. Elizabeth bowed her head and ignored Tammy as she rejoined us. But I saw Tammy boldly stare at all the girls eyeing her. She sat down next to Elizabeth and folded her arms across her chest.

  “You would think these girls had never seen a strong girl from Gloucester.” She sniffed. “It is obvious they sense Thomas is sweet for me.”

  “I told you it was not proper to go to Thomas,” I whispered as the reverend started on his opening remarks. “It was unseemly.”

  “I care not,” Tammy declared, “but I will meet with Thomas later, when we can be alone without the prying eyes of these busybody girls.”

  I looked down at Thomas. If he could meet Tammy in the woods, then Elizabeth and I could search for the book. I saw him look up to the gallery, and Tammy beamed at him. He quickly turned away, and I wondered if he was having second thoughts about kissing a girl like Tammy. Seeing her boldly approach him with rouged lips, I wondered if he would agree to meet with Tammy or perhaps set his sights on a more proper girl like Mercy Lewis, who knew how to obey the rules.

  I bit my lip. He just had to meet her! We could not let the book continue to hunt people down, even those who the whole village might agree deserve it.

  It occurred to me that Opias might be able to do some scouting for me, even find the book, so I would not have to rely on Thomas’s meeting with Tammy.

  I pictured the book in my head. I pictured Elizabeth’s farm, its fields and barn. Opias, I mouthed. Look for the book. Check the barn and check the woods.

  I glanced at Tammy and jumped. She was staring at me. “What is on your mind, Violet Indian?”

  “Death is on my mind,” I said truthfully, hoping she did not see into my head and discover I was plotting against her.

  She nodded. “Harden your heart, Violet Indian. We have only just started.”

  With a bored look, she turned her attention to the reverend. Though I caught her frequently looking in Thomas’s direction throughout the service, he made no other motion to look our way.

  Please, Opias, find the book.

  I waited, hoping Opias would let me see through his eyes, but suddenly, there was a disturbance below. We all peered down, and then Ann Putnam Jr. cried out just down the bench from us. “Mother!”

  We all rose, and I saw that Ann Putnam Sr. had collapsed to the floor, her chest heaving deeply and her breath rattled with phlegm.

  Ann Jr. rushed down from the gallery to her mother’s side as Mr. Putnam cradled his wife in his lap. “Ann!” he cried.

  Everyone in the gallery crowded toward the rails as my heart raced. Mr. Putnam had voiced his fear for his family to the reverend this very morning.

  Was this just a coincidence?

  My vision clouded over and the meetinghouse faded from my view. There, in Mr. Osborne’s barn, was Opias. He pecked and scratched away at a mound of straw, and I saw he had uncovered the book.

  “Violet?” Elizabeth whispered.

  I felt her grab my arm and help me sit, but I could not respond to her. “Are you all right? You’re staring—staring at nothing!”

  With his talons, Opias pulled away more straw and then pecked at the cover.

  Open it! Open it!

  “Violet?”

  He scratched at the cover and then flipped the book open. He peered down and I saw the name Ann Putnam written on the page, where the sheriff’s had been.

  A rattle pierced the air, Opias turned, and I saw Bone-Shaker strike. With a loud caw the vision was broken.

  “Tammy, where are you going?” Elizabeth asked.

  I looked up and blinked. Tammy was racing down the stairs.

  My stomach lurched. She knew I had found the book, and I knew there was no way I could follow her. How would I be able to explain my departure to Reverend Parris?

  “Elizabeth, Ann Putnam’s name is in the book,” I whispered.

  Elizabeth looked around to see if anyone might overhear us, and we slowly separated ourselves from the other girls. “What? How do you know?”

  “I saw the book, in your barn. The Putnam children will soon be motherless, and I fear Opias is dead.” I clutched her hands. “Elizabeth, it’s all happening so fast. I prayed we might have at least until the next full moon. And I’m sure Tammy knows I have seen the book, or she would not have left.”

  Elizabeth stood. “What should we do? Should I go after her?”

  “Yes, but wait,” I whispered. “We are going about this all wrong. We have to convince Tammy that we have indeed hardened hearts, otherwise we may never see that book. Go after her, and whatever you do, make sure she does not feel the need to hide the book again. And when you get the chance, you must rip the pages out and throw them in the fire!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It wasn’t until evening that we got word that Mistress Putnam had finally succumbed to what those in town were attributing to wasting disease. She had been ill for much of the l
ast year, so there were no eyebrows raised as when the sheriff had died and Opias was seen at his window.

  The reverend looked troubled, though, and I imagined he was thinking back to his conversation with Mr. Putnam this morning.

  I imagined he was praying hard.

  I was praying hard, too. I was praying Elizabeth could get her hands on that book.

  There had been no sign of Opias. When I called to him and there were no visions or sight of him, I feared the worst—that Bone-Shaker had indeed killed him.

  I was heartsick that I had led him into danger, but I figured Tammy would be quite pleased that her own familiar had killed the spy I had sent.

  I wished I could go to Elizabeth and find out whether she was in possession of the book—to find out if she was able to convince Tammy we had both embraced our roles of wicked women, doling out revenge to those who deserved it.

  I feared Tammy’s ability to see into my head and feared she would see through the charade.

  And most of all, I hoped the book would not be so quick to write another name in our blood, but given what had happened—that Ann Putnam’s name had appeared, likely just after the sheriff had died—I braced myself for another death if Elizabeth could not destroy the book.

  Suddenly, I heard a caw. I looked to the darkened window, wishing I were free to run outside without causing suspicion. Was it possible that was my Opias and he was somehow alive?

  My heart raced as the reverend looked up from his Bible and Mistress Parris from her stitching.

  “’Tis an odd hour to hear such a call,” Mistress said. Her face darkened, and it was obvious she was thinking of the stories of the great black crow that had visited Lydia Corwin. “It worries me, Father.”

  “Shall I go out and chase it off?” I asked.

  “No,” Mistress Parris said. She settled back down and turned to her stitching. “You best stay inside, Violet.”

  I was shocked to hear a bit of concern in her voice.

  “I’m sure it has flown off by now,” the reverend added.

  I tried to hide my disappointment and excused myself to my room. I shut my door and blew out my candle. As my eyes finally adjusted to the dark, I saw Opias’s outline against the open field. Relief flooded through me.

  He was alive!

  I knew not how long I stared at him, but soon I realized the house was quiet. I carefully opened my door to find the house asleep. I slipped on my boots and made my way to the door.

  I stepped into the night and raced to the wall where Opias was perched. He flapped to my shoulder and rubbed his head against my cheek.

  “You are a lucky bird!” I said.

  His talon scratched at my shoulder, and I saw a note tied to his leg. I quickly untied it, and he flew off, over the fields into the dark wood.

  What is this? Who could have gotten so close to my bird?

  I carefully shut the door behind me, and brought it to my room. I lit the candle and opened the paper.

  My hands shook as I made out the words.

  Violet,

  I tried to rip the pages out, but they stayed fast. I even threw the book into the fire, but it did not burn. There is another named: your Betty. I am so sorry I failed you.

  E

  I paced back and forth as my heart pounded in my chest.

  Betty was named!

  What could I do to stop the book from claiming another life? From claiming Betty’s? Why had I been so stupid and reckless as to sign my name in that book—to spill my blood on its pages?

  “Think, Violet!” I whispered to myself. “Think!”

  How long did she have? What could I do?

  Martha Wilds.

  My eyes widened. She had told Tammy how to use the book. Maybe she knew how to stop it? But Gloucester was too far to travel, and even if I could sneak off, it would likely be too late to save Betty.

  Opias.

  I went downstairs, walked over to the shelf, and took the reverend’s journal. I carefully ripped a page out, not caring if I would be caught and whipped.

  My hand shook as I wrote on the paper, and then sneaked outside again. Opias was waiting on the wall, as if he’d known I needed him, and I gently tied the note to his leg. “Find Martha Wilds in Gloucester. Do not rest until she has this letter.”

  Opias cocked his head and pecked at the string. “Find Martha Wilds! Go!”

  Opias flapped his wings and took off. I stared back at the house, praying he could find her and that she had the answer.

  Praying that I could save Betty.

  I knew Opias could fly swiftly, but how long would it take for him to get to Gloucester? How could he find Martha Wilds if I did not even know what she looked like?

  And what would become of Betty?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Before I knew it, the sky had started to brighten. The house was quiet, and I was shocked I had actually found any sleep at all.

  What if Betty had died in her sleep?

  I sat up to go to her, but the room fell away.

  Standing in front of me was an old woman with gray hair sticking out from beneath her dirty cap.

  “What devilment is this?” she asked aloud, eyeing Opias. “Did someone send you?”

  I nodded, and Opias bowed his head up and down.

  Show her the note!

  He cawed and bent down, picking at the twine with his beak. She cocked her head. “Is this for me?”

  He cawed again, and she slowly reached out to him. “No pecking now.”

  She untied the note, and I watched her unfold the paper. Her eyes scanned the paper. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I am an uneducated woman—these scratch marks mean nothing to me.”

  My heart sank.

  “Can you speak?” she asked Opias.

  “Tammy Younger,” I whispered, and Opias repeated her name in a guttural, garbled caw.

  My heart soared as Martha drew back, her eyes wide. “Oh, my, my, my. This is unexpected. Are you Tammy Younger’s familiar?”

  “No,” I said, and a guttural no came from Opias’s throat.

  “The book cannot be destroyed,” he cawed.

  Martha brought her hands to her chest. “Are you . . . the brown-skinned girl who was here?”

  “Yes!” I said as tears sprang to my eyes. “People are dying. A girl’s life is at stake.”

  “Oh, my, my, my.” Martha nodded, her watery red eyes filled with concern. She nibbled her lower lip. “You are right; once a book is signed in blood, it cannot be destroyed by burning or even by throwing it into the ocean.

  “You need to write a new story in your book, but all must agree to it. All must sign their names, and all must spill their blood again.”

  Opias bowed his head.

  How could I get Tammy to agree to writing a new story? She would never give up our coven willingly.

  Martha grimaced. “I feared Tammy might use the book for ill purposes. I hesitated to even tell her how to cast the spell, but she said she wished merely to become a folk woman like myself. She said she wished to help you. I assumed she would use the magic to help you get to Maine to be with your parents.”

  My heart stopped.

  My parents are in Maine?

  Martha looked Opias in the eye. “Tammy didn’t tell you, did she?”

  I shook my head no, and Opias did the same.

  I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. All this time Tammy knew where my parents were. She pretended to be my friend, but she only used me to get her powers . . . to romance Thomas . . . to watch families be torn apart without a care.

  “Be careful,” Martha whispered. “Tammy bears deep scars on her soul, and I don’t imagine she would willingly rewrite her story now that she has a taste of power. What did she choose as her familiar?”

  Opias cawed, “Rattlesnake.”

  Martha Wilds drew back with a grimace. “Rattler? This is worse than I could have imagined, but I can’t say it takes me by complete surprise. I’ve never met a
girl so bursting with anger. And so full of potential. Such a shame. Such a shame. Be careful.” She shook her head. “No, be crafty. Tammy is a cunning one, and you will have to be craftier than she if you are to destroy your book.”

  She spit in her hands and rubbed them together before raising them, palms up to the sky. She breathed deeply. “I will pray the universe hears you. Folk women are healers, not killers, so I hope the power of good outshines that of the bad.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  Opias bowed to Martha Wilds and then took to the air. For a few short seconds I felt the cool air on his feathers, and then I was seeing through my own eyes once again.

  “Mistress Parris!” Abigail shrieked. “Betty is burning with fever.”

  I flew from my room and up the stairs. Abigail was shaking at the foot of the bed she shared with Betty, her eyes the size of saucers, while Thomas stood frozen at her side.

  I raced to Betty, but Mistress Parris pushed me away. “Stay back until we know what is wrong!” She leaned over Betty and put a hand to her forehead. “She’s burning up. Violet, get some water from the well!”

  I stared at Betty, who moaned softly.

  “Go!” Mistress yelled to me. “Abigail, go downstairs. I will tend to Betty.” She looked up at the reverend. “We heard the bird last night—the crow. What does this mean for our girl?”

  Abigail cried. “You heard a crow in the night?” She flapped her hands in front of her chest. “Is Betty going to die like Sheriff Corwin? Am I? And look—she is breaking out in spots! It must be the pox.” She looked frantic. “Will I catch it, too?”

  The reverend bowed his head. “Of course not, and it is but a coincidence we heard that bird, I am sure of it,” he said, though when he looked back up, his eyes were haunted. “Go downstairs and take up a Bible and pray for your cousin.”

  Abigail backed away, nodding. “I will pray for her. I will pray for all of us.”

  I reached out and clasped her hand. “Betty will be fine; it is just a fever,” I said.

  Though I knew this was a lie, I also knew I would do anything I could to save her.

  Abigail squeezed my hand, and tears sprung in my eyes. It had been a long time since I held Abigail’s hand; it felt familiar and foreign all at the same time. We made our way, hand and hand, down the stairs.