winds of salem: a witches of east end novel1.droppdf.com/files/wgqv5/winds-of-salem-a-witches... ·...
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PRAISEFORTHE
WitchesofEastEndseries
“Move over, zombies,vampires, and werewolves,and make way for witches.MelissadelaCruz,authorofthe bestselling Blue Bloodsseries, ably sets the stage for
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a juicy new franchise withWitchesofEastEnd…De laCruz balances thesupernatural high-jinkserywithunpredictable twists anda conclusion that nicely setsupbook2.”
—EntertainmentWeekly
“Centuries after the practiceof magic was forbidden,Freya, Ingrid, and theirmomstruggle to restrain theirwitchy ways as chaos builds
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in their Long Island town.Abubblingcauldronofmysteryandromance,thenovelsharesthe fanciful plotting of BlueBloods, the author’s teenvampire series… [B]reezyfun.”
—People
“A magical and romanticpage-turner…WitchesofEastEnd is certain to attract newadultreaders…Thepacingismasterful, and while the
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witchcraft isentertaining, it’sultimatelyalovetrianglethatmakes the story compelling.De la Cruz has created afamily of empathetic womenwhoarebothmagicallygiftedandhumanlyflawed.”
—WashingtonPost
“For anyone who wasfrustratedwatchingSamanthasuppress her magic onBewitched, Ms. de la Cruzbrings some satisfaction. In
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her first novel for adults, theauthor… lets her repressedsorceressesrip.”
—NewYorkTimes
“What happens when afamilyofLongIslandwitchesis forbidden to practicemagic?This tale of powerfulwomen, from the author ofthe addictive Blue Bloodsseries,mixesmystery,abattleof good versus evil and adashofNorsemythologyinto
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a page-turning parable ofinnerstrength.”
—Self
“Witches ofEastEnd has allthe ingredients you’d expectfrom one of Melissa’sbestselling YA novels—intrigue, mystery and plentyof romance. But with thenovelfallingunderthe‘adult’categorization,Melissa’sabletomakeherlovescenesevenmore…magical.”
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—MTV.com
“De la Cruz has, withWitches,onceagainmanagedtoenlivenandembellishuponhistoryandmythologywithaclever interweaving of pastand present, both real andimagined…[It]castsaspell.”
—LosAngelesTimes
“De la Cruz is a formidablestoryteller with a narrativevoicestrongenoughtohandle
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the fruits of her imagination.Even readers who generallyavoid witches and whatnotstand to be won over by thetime the cliffhanger-with-a-twist-endinghits.”
—PublishersWeekly
“Fantasy for well-readadults.”
—Kirkus
“A sexy,magical romp, suretobringdelaCruzalegionof
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newfans.”—KelleyArmstrong,New
YorkTimesbestsellingauthoroftheOtherworldseries
“Fans will be delighted withthe next entry in her newadult series. A compellingtale of powerful magic,romance, betrayal andsuspense.”
—LibraryJournal
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ForMikeandMattie
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Contents
CoverTitlePagePraise for The Witches ofEastEndseriesDedicationEpigraph
Once upon a time in NorthHampton…
Salem:Spring1692ChapterOne:AVioletWar
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Chapter Two: Of Plums andPieChapterThree:SecretsChapterFour:InBloomChapterFive:Mr.BrooksandMissBeauchampChapterSix:TheProposal
North Hampton: ThePresent:NewYear’sEveChapterSeven:WhatDreamsMayComeChapterEight:BrotherTimeChapter Nine: The
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NewlywedsChapter Ten: The MostImportantGirlinHisLifeChapterEleven:OfGodsandMenChapter Twelve: The SalondesRefusésChapter Thirteen: DetectiveNobleChapter Fourteen: Cavern intheWoodsChapterFifteen:FightingFirewithFireChapter Sixteen: The Perfect
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FamilyChapter Seventeen: From theMouthsofBabesChapterEighteen:GoneBabyGone
Salem:May1692Chapter Nineteen: MiracleWorkerChapter Twenty: Raise theRoofChapter Twenty-One: ThankHeavenforLittleGirls?Chapter Twenty-Two:Whish
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WitchChapter Twenty-Three:LooseLipsChapter Twenty-Four: LoveandMarriageChapter Twenty-Five: TheImmortals
North Hampton: ThePresentValentine’sDayChapter Twenty-six: TheHammerStrikesChapter Twenty-seven: TheFamilyThree
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Chapter Twenty-eight: TheMannyDiariesChapter Twenty-nine: MyBoyfriend’sBackChapter Thirty: The Price ofAdmissionChapter Thirty-One: TequilaSunsetChapter Thirty-Two: ShowerthePeopleChapter Thirty-Three: ThePriceofAdmission,PartTwoChapter Thirty-Four: WhereThingsComeBack
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Chapter Thirty-Five: Put aRingOnItChapterThirty-Six:ThePriceofAdmission,PartThreeChapter Thirty-Seven: TheMonster at the End of theWorldChapterThirty-Eight:SlidingDatesChapter Thirty-Nine:Trickster’sSonChapter Forty: MotherGoddess
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Time in a Bottle: Salem,North Hampton: Past,PresentChapterForty-One:FriendoftheFamilyChapter Forty-Two: BlackWidowChapter Forty-Three: Fork intheRoadChapterForty-Four:CrucibleChapterForty-Five:TheManinWhiteChapter Forty-Six:Down theRabbitHole
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Chapter Forty-Seven:AppointmentwithDeathChapter Forty-Eight: AlphaGirlsChapterForty-Nine:NemesisChapterFifty:Freya’sDiaryChapter Fifty-One: In theLandoftheBlind…theOne-EyedManIsKingChapter Fifty-Two: GooseChasingChapter Fifty-Three: TheDeathofSpringChapterFifty-Four:TheLove
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ofaLifetime
North Hampton: ThePresent:EasterChapter Fifty-Five: LeftBehindChapter Fifty-Six: OneWeddingamongtheFuneralsChapter Fifty-Seven: TheLongest JourneysBeginwithaSingleStepChapter Fifty-Eight: TheLovesofHerLife
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The Nine Worlds of theKnownUniverseTheGodsofMidgardAcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorAlsobyMelissaDeLaCruzCopyright
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Jealousyisalwaysbornwithlove,butdoesnotalwaysdiewithit.
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—François,DucdelaRochefoucauld,Maxims
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OnceuponatimeinNorthHampton…
In a rambling colonial houseinalittleelusivetownbytheseaonLongIsland’snorthernand easternmost tip, a silver-haired witch named JoannaBeauchamp lived with hertwo daughters, Ingrid andFreya. Blond and brainy,
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thirty-something Ingrid wasthe local librarian, whilebarely-out-of-her-teens Freyawas the wildest bartenderwhohadevermixeddrinksatthe North Inn’s bar. Thewomen lived quiet, solitarylives, suppressing theirnaturaltalentsinadherencetothe Restriction of MagicalPowers.The lawwashandeddownfromtheWhiteCouncilafter the Salem witch trialseffectivelyended thepractice
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of magic in mid-world afterFreyaandIngridwerehangedin1692.Immortals, the girls
returnedtolife,scarredbytheexperience and wary of themortalworld,andsmall-townlife continued apace forcenturies until the day Freyawon the heart of the veryhandsome and very wealthyphilanthropist BranGardiner,whosefamilyowned theFairHaven estate on eponymous
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Gardiners Island. Helplessagainst the force of herdesire, Freya celebrated herengagement by having atorrid affair with Bran’syounger brother, Killian, heof thedark, smolderinggoodlooks and devil-may-careattitude.Following Freya’s lead of
throwingcautiontothewind,the witches soon unleashedtheir full powers—Joanna,whosespecialtywasrecovery
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andrenewal,broughtthedeadto life. Ingrid, a healer whocould tap into people’slifelines and see the future,began to dole out her spellsand charms to any patronwith a trying domesticproblem, and even gave themayor’s wife a powerfulfidelity knot. Freya, whospecialized in matters of theheart, served up headypotions, and every night attheNorthInnbecameawild,
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hedonistic romp. It was all abit of harmless, innocent,enchanted fun until a girlwent missing, severalresidentsbegantosufferfroma rash of inexplicableillnesses, and a dark menacewas found growing in thewaters off the Atlantic,poisoning thewildlife.Whenthemayorturnedupdead,thefinger-pointingbegan,andfora moment it felt like theSalem witch trials all over
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again.Butthesewerenoordinary
witches, and FairHavenwasno ordinary mansion.Rushing to untangle themystery, Ingrid discoveredarchaic Norse symbols in ablueprint of Fair Havenmanor, but just as she wasclose to cracking the code,the document disappeared.Freya discovered she wascaughtinacenturies-oldlovetrianglewithBranandKillian
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that harked back to the daysof Asgard itself, when shewaspursuedbyhertruelove,Balder, the god of joy, andhis brother, Loki, the god ofmischief.Soon,NormanBeauchamp,
Joanna’s long-lost ex-husband, was back in thepicture, and everyone wastrying to save not just theirlittle town, but all the nineknownworldsoftheuniversefromRagnarok, the doom of
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thegods.Because once upon a time
in Asgard, the Bofrir bridgeconnectedthekingdomofthedivinetoMidgard,themortalworld. One fateful day, thebridgewasdestroyed,andthemighty strength of all thegods’ powers along with it.The culprits of this heinousactweresaidtobeFryroftheVanir and his friend Loki ofthe Aesir, two daring younggods whose childish prank
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wrought terribleconsequences. Accused oftrying to take the bridge’spower for themselves, Lokiwas banished to the frozendepths for five thousandyears,while Fryr, the god ofsun and harvests, wasconsigned to Limbo for anindefiniteperiod,ashiscrimehad been the greater one. Itwas Fryr’s trident that hadsentthebridgetotheabyss.With the bridge destroyed,
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thegodswere separated.TheVanir(orastheywereknowntoday,theBeauchampfamily,godsandgoddessesofhearthand earth) were trapped inMidgard, sentenced to livetheir lives in mid-world aswitches and warlocks, whiletheAesir(thewarriorgodsofsky and light, mighty Odinandhiswife,Frigg)remainedin Asgard, but both of theirsons were lost to them forthousands of years. Their
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sons were Balder and Loki,Branford and KillianGardiner. It appeared Lokihad poisoned Yggdrasil, theTree of Life, and unleashedthe doom of the gods, soFreya banished him fromtheirworld.Fryr was Freddie
Beauchamp, Joanna’s long-lost son and Freya’s twin,who suddenly appeared toFreya in the alley behind theNorth Inn one evening with
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unsettling news. He hadescaped from Limbo, andrevealed that he had beenframed for the destruction ofthe Bofrir and knew theidentityoftherealculprit.No, it wasn’t Loki. Not
Bran Gardiner at all, butKillian Gardiner, the godBalder, who was responsiblefor its destruction andFreddie’simprisonment.Determined to prove her
lover’s innocence, Freya
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turned Killian’s boat, theDragon, upside down tofollow her brother’s wishes.She didn’t find the missingtrident, but one night, shefound something else: themark of the trident on hisback, which proved Killiandid indeed have the weaponinhispossession.Meanwhile, Ingrid was
falling in love for the firsttime in centuries withMatthew Noble, a sweet
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policedetective.Butromancebetweenavirginwitchandamortal was complicated, notto mention a rowdy band oflost pixies caused furtherhavoc by robbing treasuresfrom the great homes in thearea. Ingrid was forced tochoose her loyalties—to themortal who loved her, or tothe magical creatures whoonlyneededherhelp.Back fromLimbo,Freddie
spenthistimeshaggingcoeds
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andplayingvideogamesuntilhis attentions were focusedon the lovely Hilly, thegoddess Brünnhilde. Onlyone thing stood in his way:her father, who manipulatedFreddie into signing adocument that bound him tomarry his daughter Gertinstead.Joannahadproblemsofher
own, as a charmingwidowerandherex-husbandcompetedfor her attentions, while a
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troubled spirit made contactwith her, to warn her that apowerful evil was bent ondestroyingtheBeauchamps—anevil thathadbegunall theway back in Fairstone in theseventeenth century, withLion Gardiner, Loki in yetanotherincarnation.The pixies confessed to
stealing the trident andplacing it on the Dragon toincriminate the innocentKillian,but itwas too lateas
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Hilly’s sorority sisters, theValkyries, had alreadywhisked him away forpunishment.Freyawasstillinshock at his suddendisappearancewhen she, too,was snatched away fromNorth Hampton, a nooseappearingaroundherneck…Which meant that she had
been taken back to Salem,and unless her family couldfigureoutawaytorescueherfrom the darkness of their
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past…Freyawas cursed to relive
the witch trials all overagain… The girls will notstop. They babble and flingtheir arms, or become deafand dumb. When anyoneapproaches, they hide incornersorunderthefurniture.Physicians, ministers, andmen of Salem Town havecome,andtheyadvisefastingand prayer from thecommunity. Fasting and
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prayer.But their fits grow worse
still. Yesterday they madeanimalnoises,Abbycrawlingon the floor likeapig,whileBettymewedlikeacat.Theycarryoninsuchafashionitisimpossible for them to goabouttheirusualemploymentthat delivers them from thetemptation of idleness.Ordinarily,theyareknowntobe exceedingly pious andgood,docilelittlegirls.
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Finally, at a loss, Griggswascalled,andasfastingandprayershadprovedfutile, thedoctor declared the girls“under an evil hand.” Thevillagers could only come toone conclusion: the girls hadbeen—bewitched.
—FreyaBeauchamp,May1692
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salem
spring1692
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chapterone
AVioletWar
LateMarch inSalemVillageand the early spring flowers
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were in full bloom—theyellow, purple, and whitecrocuses of the meadow, thelily of the valley in thewoodlands, brilliant clustersof grape hyacinth anddaffodils the color of babychicks.Violets proliferatedalongthepondsandriversallthe way to the town harbor,and everything was peacefulin the vale as fat hogs lolledin their pens and cattle andsheep grazed in green
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pastures.Inside the small wooden
housesof thevillage, servantgirlsgropedfortheirclothingin the pitch-black, risingbefore the cocks crowed torevive the dying coals in thehearths with a quick blast ofthe bellows. The womenfolkdonned layers of petticoatsand shifts, lacing up theirbodices and putting on theirwhite caps, while the menand boys pulled on their
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breeches and boots to set towork.In one particular
household, a farm on asubstantial property on thevillage outskirts,encompassing part of theGreat River and IndianBridge, the maids did theirbest to keep their master’stemper temperate, or at leastnot blustering theirway.Thefarm belonged to one Mr.Thomas Putnam, the eldest
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sibling and leader of thePutnamclan,ahandsomebutaustere man, with a near-perpetual somber cast to hisbrow.Thomaswasoneofthewealthiest and mostinfluential men in SalemVillage, although to hisdismay and chagrin, not themost prosperous. That titlebelongedtoland-richfamilieslike the Porters and his halfbrother, Joseph Putnam,whoalso had a finger in the
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mercantile business of theportofSalemTown.But such taxonomies were
neither here nor there at themoment. Mr. and Mrs.Putnam and their childrenslept tranquilly as the houseservantsandfarmhandsbegantheirdailywork.Onthisfinemorning, two young maids,Mercy Lewis and FreyaBeauchamp, filled largebaskets with dirty linens andcookware to wash in the
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nearby river. Mercy, asixteen-year-old orphan, hadseen her entire familyslaughtered by Indians in theEastward two years earlier.Freya, a year younger, hadalsoendedupinserviceaftershe had arrived at thefamily’s doorstep one day,fainting dead into Mercy’sarms.Freya knew her name but
had no recollection of herpast or her people. Perhaps
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she had survived thesmallpox and lost hermemory to the fever. Ormaybe, like Mercy, she hadseen her family killed, andthehorrorofithadcausedherto forget. When Freyastrainedtolookback,shesawnothing. She did not knowwhere she came from. Sheknewthedullacheshefeltinher heart was the absence offamily,andsheknewthatshemissed them, but for all she
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tried,shecouldnotrememberher mother or father or asinglesibling.Itwasasifherpast had been erased—taken—lostasleavesspiritedawaybythewind.All Freya knew was that
Mercywas a friend from thestart, and for that she wasgratefultohavefoundaplaceinthePutnamhome.Withthelargefarmandseveralyoungchildrenunderfoot,thefamilyhadgladly takenher inasan
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extrahand.The laundry and dishes
assembled, the girls steppedoutofthehouseandontothedirtpath,basketsbalancedontheir hips. Freya’s red hair,startling as a sunset, glowedlikeahalointheearlyraysoflight.Ofthetwo,shewasthemore striking one, with herrosebudlipsandcreamyskin.She had a lightness to herstep and a quick, beguilingsmile. While Mercy was
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pretty, with pale blue eyesand a high forehead, it wasnot her scarred cheek orhands that made her less so,but a tightness to her personthat showed in her pinchedlipsandwaryexpression.Theolder girl tucked a waywardstrand of blond hair that hadfallen out from beneath hercap as she stopped by a bedof flowers, settingher basketon the ground. “Go ahead,pickone,”sheurgedFreyaas
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shekneltontheground,“picka violet, and let us have avioletwar!”“No, dear, we mustn’t
tarry.PoorAnnieisallonherown!” Freya said, meaningthe oldest Putnam daughter.“We can’t leave her to tendthelittleonesbyherselfwhileMistress is bedridden.” Thelady of the house often tookto her room to recover fromthemanytragediesofherlife.Like her husband, Ann
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Putnamhadbeendisinheritedby her rich father, with hiswife and sons seizingpermanent control of hiswealth. Her failed battle incourt against them had lefther bruised and embittered.Worse, soon after her threebeautiful nieces died from amysterious illness, one rightaftertheother,andhersister,thegirls’motherandheronlyclose friend, died as well,most likely from a broken
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heart.TheirlosshadleftMrs.AnnPutnamfrailofbodyandspirit.FreyaremindedMercythat
there was no time for idlepastimes such as pickingflowers. There was much todostill: the roomssweptandscrubbed, the butter churned,the ale checked, the kindlinggathered, supper cooked.“Not to mention we mustmake more soap and thosegolden candles Reverend
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Parris bid for his altar. Weneed—”Mercy laughed and put a
finger over Freya’smouth toshush her and pulled herdowntojoinheronthegrass.She was tired of hearingabouttheirendlesschores.Freya laughed aswell, but
coveredhermouthwithafist,worried that someone mighthear them. Her bright greeneyesglintedatMercy.“Whaton God’s green earth is a
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violet war anyway?” sheasked as she placed herbasketnexttoherfriend’s.Mercy smiled. “Choose
your violet, and I’ll showyou,cunninggirl!”Freya blushed. Mercy
knewallaboutFreyaandhertalent with herbs—it wastheir closely guarded secret.But then the mistress knew,too,andshehadn’tsentFreyaaway. When Freya had firstarrived, she had heard Mrs.
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Putnam complain ofheadaches, so she had goneinto the woods and pickedpeppermint, lavender, androsemary to make a potentbrew that instantly eased herdiscomfort.The mistress was grateful,
but she warned Freya thatThomasmustn’tknowofhergift. Mr. Putnam was adevoutly pious man, and hemight mistake Freya’s talentfor making physics as the
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devil working through thegirl. Not that it had stoppedAnn from asking for anotherandanother. “Imissmydeardepartedsisterandthosepoordead children,” she wouldsay. “Girl, could you makesomething for the pain?”Freyaalwaysobliged.Ann also frequently asked
Freyaifshecouldseeintoherand Thomas’s future. Wouldthere be more land, moremoney?
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Freya had heard fromMercy that their master andmistress had both beencheatedoutofsharesof theirinheritances from theirfathers.Annwanted to knowif anything would change inthis regard. Freya tried hardto please her, but she couldnot glimpse into the future,justas shecouldnotglimpseintoherownpast.As Mercy watched, Freya
chose a perfect violet with
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dark, rich purple petals,plucking it at the base of itsstem. Mercy did the samewithherfire-scarredfingers.“Hold up your violet and
make a wish,” Mercyinstructed. “Perhapswe shallwishfortwoothergirlstodoour work,” she said with anaughtysmile.Freya chuckled as she
closed her eyes,contemplating a wish. Trulyshe did not mind having so
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much to do. It was folly towish their lives otherwise.Work was important to thecommunity and to theirhousehold. No, there wassomething else. Somethingelse thatsheknewwouldnoteasily be wished away, andshe was not entirelyconvinced she would desireitsremovaleither.The other day, Freya had
discovered she could makeobjects move without
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touchingthem.Shehadmadethebutterchurn itself justbythinkingthatshehadtodoso.When she saw the handleturningonitsown,shealmostscreamed. Later thatafternoon the same thinghappened with the broom,sweeping the room as ifpossessed by a spirit. Freyatried to stop it but could nothelp but feel thrilled at thesight.Whatwaswrongwithher?
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Coulditbethatthedevilhadpossessed her like theRevered Parris warned fromthe pulpit? She was a goodgirl, devout, like all the girlsin the Putnam household.Why had she suddenly beeninvested with such power?Thisgift?Didsheevenwanttowishitaway?
“Silly girl, have you madeyourwishyet?”askedMercy,
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staring curiously at Freya,whohadopenedhereyes.Shehadn’tmadeawishat
all, but now she did: shewished that she and Mercywouldbelikethisalways,thebest of friends, and thatnothing would ever comebetweenthem.“I’mready.”Mercy instructed her to
wrap the stem of the violet,where it curled beneath thepetals like a bent neck,around the part of her own
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stem that curled the same.The girls interlocked theirflowers.“Now pull,” said Mercy,
“and whoever lops off theother’s head—the flower—willhaveherwish.”The girls pulled at the
stems of their interlockedviolets, moving the flowersthis way and that. It wasFreya’s violet’s head thatwentflyingoff.Mercyraisedhervictorious
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violet with her scarred hand.“Igotmywish!”shecried.Freya was glad for her
friendbutfeltwistfuljustthesame. “Come on now, let’sgo.”Mercyrolledontoherside,
staring dreamily up at Freya,as shepressedherviolet intothe cleavage of her bodice.“All right. But first, I musttellyouasecret.”“A secret!” said Freya. “I
doloveoursecrets.”
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Mercygrinned.“Thereisanew young man in town. Isaw him training with themilitia in the field byIngersoll’sInnonThursday.”Freya batted her pale red
lashesatherfriend.“And?”“A dashing youth with
dark hair and green eyes,”Mercy added. “I can’t waitforyoutoseehim!ForaughtI know, he is alreadypromisedtoanothermaid,butyou must see how very
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handsomeheis.”Freya thrilled at the
description.“Doyouthinkhewill visit the Putnams?” sheasked.“Maybe, but wewill most
likelyseehiminchurch.”Withthatpleasantthought,
they both rose and followedthepathtotheriver.
Later that evening, afterdinner and prayers, after the
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bread had beenmade for themorning and placed in theoven door by the hearth forthe night, and the littlechildrenputtosleep,thegirlsloweredtheirropebedsinthehall, their work finally donefor the day. The beds hungabout a foot apart. Theyshook out their blankets andlay in the flickering light ofthefire.Mercy reached out her
hand, and Freya interlocked
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her fingerswith her friend’s.They should know better.Whatifthemasterawokeandsaw themholding hands?Hewould not approve of such adisplayofaffection.Hemightmisinterpret it. But theyinterlaced fingersnevertheless, the way theyhad hooked their violetstogetherearlier,untilslumberseized them, and their handsfellapart.
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chaptertwo
OfPlumsandPie
Early the next morning,
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Thomas Putnam drove thegirls to the meetinghouse inSalemTown,travelingagoodway across hillocks, rivers,inlets, and rocky terrain.Legal proceedings involvingvillagers still had to takeplace in Salem Town, as thevillage was not yet fullyindependent, to hiscontinuingannoyance.FreyaandMercyhadbeen
summoned as witnesses in acase between two quarreling
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goodwives. The whole affairhad been the talk of thevillageforanentireyearnow.Thegirlswouldbeprovidingevidence against GoodyBrown, the defendant, wholived near the Putnam farm.Mercy had once been inGoody Brown’s employ,whileFreyaoftenwenttotheBrown household to buy ortrade baked goods for thePutnam house. It wasMercywho had volunteered their
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services to Mr. Putnam, asshe surmised that he waswearyof thebothersometalkbetween the women andeagertobringitalltoanend.Hehad seen to it thatMercyandFreyawouldbecalledasdeponents. Mercy wasthrilled; the clever girl knewthe trip would mean sometime off from work and theopportunity tovisit the town,which Freya had not yet hadoccasion to see. Freya felt
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rather guilty about Mercy’smachinations, although sheknewthegirlmeantwell.They sat meekly next to
their master on top of thecarriage as it wobbled alongthepebblyroad.Thomaswastall, good-looking, and broadshouldered, with acommanding,boomingvoice.HeruledSalemVillageasheruled his household, but hedisliked going into SalemTown for it was somewhat
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outside his jurisdiction. Thenewfamilieswhohadlandbythe port were becomingincreasinglymoreprosperousthan older farmers likehimself, and they had beenabandoning the old Puritanways, tohisdisapproval.Thevery thought of SalemTownalone filled him withbitterness. It was there thathis father had lived with hissecondwife,MaryVeren,thewealthy widow of a ship
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captain, marrying her whilehis own mother’s dead bodyhadbarelygrowncold.Marysoon gave birth to hisloathsome half brother,Joseph, who eventuallyreapedmuchtoomuchoftheproperty that was rightfullyThomas’s.Hecomfortedhimselfwith
the thought that at least hehad secured the appointmentof the reverend. Mr. SamuelParris was finally ordained,
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whichmeantthevillagecouldat last have its own churchwith a minister who couldgive communion and preachtocovenantedmembersratherthanjustacongregation.Withtheir very own church in themeetinghouse, the villagersno longerhad to travel twicea week—a good three-hourwalk—to the port town toworship, as missing churchwasapunishableoffense.He drove wordlessly, a
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dour expression on his face,the girls beside him, theircaps and blouses recentlylaunderedandscrubbedintheriver and left out in thebleaching sun to look theirbrightest. They dared notutter a word unless Thomasaddressed them.Therewas abreeze,butthesunwassweetagainst the girls’ cheeks asthe wheels rolled andsqueaked over stones in theroad. They crossed a creaky
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bridge over a river, planksgroaningunder thewheelsastheyreachedtheirdestination.The meetinghouse was
packed with plaintiffs anddefendants, although thereweremanywhocamejustforthe entertainment, squeezedintothepewsandgalleriesorstanding in the back. A yearago, Goodwife DiffidenceBrownhadboughttenpoundsof plums from GoodwifeFaith Perkins. Goody Brown
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madepieswiththeplumsandsold the pies at the market.The following week, GoodyBrownclaimedhercustomersreturned to her stall tocomplain that the plum pieshad been inedible, tasting as“putridasrottenfish.”Brownalleged that every customerwho had bought a plum pieclamored fora refund,whichshe promptly gave. Theallegedly bad plums hadcaused Goody Brown
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“tremendous grief andfinancialloss.”When Goody Brown
complainedtoGoodyPerkinsabout it, Goody Perkinsrefusedtomakerestitutiononsuchhearsay.“Igaveyoufat,juicy, sweet ones. There isnothing wrong with myplums and, as everyone inSalemVillageknows,youarea lying hag, Goody Brown.”She didn’t believe GoodyBrown’s story one bit. Most
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likelyGoodyBrownwashardup and trying tomake a fewextra pence. It was notbeneath her. A scuffle andsomepullingofhairensued.Goody Perkins then
claimed that when GoodyBrown left her doorstep,Goody Brown “fell tomuttering and scoldingextremely,” and GoodyPerkins heard Goody Brownclearly say, “I will give yousomething, you fat-looking
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hog!”GoodyPerkinsclaimedGoodyBrownhadcursedher,andthatshewasawenchanda witch. For almostimmediately after, GoodyPerkins’s baby stoppednursing and fell ill, and shealmost lost the infant. Thenone of her sows “was takenwith strange fits, jumping upand down and knocking herhead against the fence, andappearedblindanddeaf,”anddiedina“strangeandunusual
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manner.”Thisspringthetreesin her plum orchard had notbloomed, and she feared shewould have no plums toharvest.The magistrate, a spice
merchant whose loud sighsmade it clear he had betterthingstodo,harrumphedandquieted both plaintiff anddefendant, who had begunbickeringateachotheragain.“Order in the court! Yougoodwives are giving me a
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headache.”Thepeople in themeetinghouse tittered.“Order!”hecalledagain,thenrequested the bailiff usher inthe first deponent: MercyLewis.Themagistrate glanced up
atMercyandinaboredvoicesaid, “What saith thedeponent?”“I do not know what I
saith,SirMagistrate. Is therea question?” asked Mercy.More laughter from the
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galleries. Mercy glanced atFreya, who smiledencouraginglybackather.“Well,” said the spice
merchant, flashing his goldtooth. “Has the deponentwitnessed the defendant,Goodwife Brown, doanything unusual?Maleficium?Did sheeverdoany harm to you while youworked for her? Is she acunning woman?” Hefrownedinawaythatlooked
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as if he were trying not tolaugh. Then his face wentsolemn, and he glaredquestioninglyatMercy.“Maleficium?”sheasked.“Latin for mischief,
wrongdoing,witchcraft!”“Goody Brown—she does
possess unusual strength,”said Mercy. “She can carrymanysacksofflouratonce.”The gentlefolk in the
meetinghouselaughedagain.The magistrate sneered.
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“Anythingelse?”“Once, with the other
servant of the Putnamhousehold—where I nowwork—Freya, we visitedGoodyBrown,andsheliedtous.Shetriedtocheatuswhenwe bartered for flour, addingstones for weight, she did.She can be greedy. I sawmuchofthisfirsthandwhenIworked—”“Next witness!” yelled the
magistrate, cuttingMercyoff
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ashelookedbackdownathispapers.Mercy was ushered away,
Freya brought forth. UnlikeMercy,Freyadidnotwanttomake any accusations. Therewere enough cantankerousrelations in the village as itwere, and she certainly didnot want to get herself intotrouble or cause bad bloodbetween herself and othervillagers. Yes, it was heropinion that Goody Brown
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was lying about the plums.But Freya also knew forcertain that Goody Brownwas no witch, a very graveand dangerous accusation—the penalty being the noose.If anyone herewere awitch,itwasFreyaherself, and thismade her cheeks burn as shewas sworn in, rememberingwhat had happened with thebutter churn and then thebroom.“What hath this deponent
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to provide as evidence?”askedthemagistrate.Freyashrugged,hercheeks
now a similar tint to herstrawberrycurlsthatfellfrombeneath her cap. The sunshone through the windowsnow and Freya feltoverheated. Themeetinghouse, crammed as itwas,hadgrownpungent,rankwith odor. She felt as if shecouldn’tbreathe.“Anything that couldpoint
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to Goody Brown employingwitchcraft? Have you seenher collude with the devil,perhaps?” asked themagistrate.“I have seen no such
thing,”shesaid.Thomas lowered his head
in the front row, feelingembarrassed by his servants.Bringing themherehadbeena waste of everyone’s time.Clearly his girls were notmuch help in moving this
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casealong.The magistrate, a
pragmatic and forward-thinking man, was notentirely disengaged from theproceedings and did derive acertain amount of pleasurefrom debunking thephantasmagorical imaginingsofcountryfolk.“Iwouldliketo call forth my ownwitness,” he declared asFreya was accompanied toher seat. “Mr. Nathaniel
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Brooks, please rise and stepforward.”A din rose in the
meetinghouse as a tall youthcameforward.Hestrodewithease and confidence to thefront,hatinhand,standing ina relaxed and guilelessmannerbeforethemagistrate.Hisebonyhairfelljustabovehisshoulders,andhisemeraldeyescaughtthelight.“Pleasetellthecourtwhere
you live,” said the spice
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merchant.“Presently, I live in Salem
Village with my uncle, awidower, who needs a handon his farm,” said the youth.“Ihaven’tbeeninthevillageverylong.”Hesmiled,takinghis time,glancingaround themeetinghouse. For a fleetingmoment, the youth caughtFreya’s eyes. She felt a joltfrom his stare. But just asquickly,theladlookedtothemagistrate.
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“Now, Mr. Brooks, wherewereyouon theafternoonofWednesday the twenty-sixthof June, 1691. Do youremember?”“Why, yes, I do. I was at
the market, purchasing aplumpie.”The spectators took in a
collectivegasp.“Iverymuchlikeplumpie
and wanted one for dinner,”continuedtheyouth.The people in the
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meetinghouselaughed.“And does thewitness see
the maid from whom hepurchased said plum pie inthe meetinghouse? Is shepresent?”“Sheis,”saidtheyouth.He
pointed to Goody Brown.“Theresheis.ItwasherplumpieIbought.”The spectators leaned
forward, whispering,anxiously awaiting whatmight come next. The
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magistrate waited, relishingcreatingsuspense.Finally,hespoke. “And did you, Mr.Brooks,eatsaidplumpie?”“Yes,” said theyouthwith
a smile. “Yes, sir, I had thepie for dessert that veryevening.”The spectators leaned
fartherforward.“And how would you,
Nathaniel Brooks, describethisplumpie?”Nathaniellookedoutatthe
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people in the pews andgalleries, takinghistime.Hisgaze met Freya’s and theireyeslockedagain.Hesmiled.She smiled and her cheeksflushed.The magistrate cleared his
throat. “Nathaniel Brooks?Will you please answer thequestion carefully? How didyoufindthisplumpie?”HoldingFreya’sgaze,asif
the remark were directed ather, Mr. Brooks replied,
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“Quite sublime, SirMagistrate! In fact, GoodyBrown mentioned that thepiesweremadewith thebestplumsofSalemVillage.”Again came a loud
collectivegasp,andafterwardeveryonebegantochatter.“Order!” called the
magistrate. The roomsilenced.Goodwife Faith Perkins
was smiling, feelingsomewhat vindicated. Goody
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Brown was indeed a liar butperhaps that didn’t exactlymake her a witch, either.After all, she herself hadexaggerated a bit about herbabyandthesow.The magistrate gave his
verdict, chastising bothwomen. The only crimeshere, he summarized, werelackofneighborliness,greed,and wasting his time. Thecase was dismissed, and hewas done for the day. The
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meetinghouseadjourned.
AsFreyafollowed thecrowdoutside to the fresh,brinyairof the harbor, her heart beathard in her chest as sherecalled young Mr. Brooksdaringly making eye contactwith her. She had beeninstantly struck—smitten, asif every sense in her bodycamealiveathisglance.Shespotted Mr. Putnam by the
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carriage, speaking to Mr.Brooks and another youngman. Something flashed inher memory and for amoment she sawMr.Brooksin his bright linen shirt,openedat theneck, revealinga tanned swath of skin—andhis hands were wrappedabout her waist, pulling hertoward him—then it wasgone.“There you are!” said
Mercy.
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“Yes,” Freya said in adaze.Theystood in theshadeof
a building. Mercy followedFreya’s gaze to Thomas andthe two youths across theway.“Goodness! There he is!”
saidMercy.“Who?”askedFreya.“Myhandsomeyouth.The
one I told you of, with darkhairandgreeneyes.”Freya looked at her friend
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in a panic. “The witness?”she asked. “NathanielBrooks?”Mercy laughed. “No, no,
the other one, his friend.James Brewster. Isn’t helovely?”Freyasmiled,relieved.JamesBrewster lookedup,
caughthereye,andwinked.Whatcheek!Even from this distance
Freya could see that JamesBrewsterdidhavegreeneyes
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but a yellow green, like aninquisitivecat’s.James’shairwas dark as well, as Mercyhad described it, but a sandybrown with light streaks,whereas Nathaniel’s was aravenblack.“Did you see that?” Freya
asked.“Seewhat?”“Nothing.” Freya shook
herhead,suppressingasmile.Life had certainly becomemuch more interesting now
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that they had glimpsed thetwoyoungmen.Mercy offered Freya her
arm.“Shallwe?”Freya nodded and the two
girlscrossedthestreet.
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chapterthree
Secrets
“Donotdespair,mybrothersand sisters, for there are alsotrue saints in the church,”Reverend Parris proclaimed
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fromhispulpit.HerehegaveThomasPutnamasubtlenod.Itwaslectureday,noononaThursday, and the reverendwas giving one of hisinterminable,unrelenting,andpunishing sermons. Thepsalmshadalreadybeensungin a most monotonous andtunelessmanner,parishionersechoing back the deacon,prayers recited. And nowParriswasgoingonaboutthedevil trying to infiltrate the
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church and how one had toalign oneself with GodAlmighty. Parris alwaysfound reason to chastise hisparishioners. “The churchconsistsofgoodandbad,asagardenthathasweedsaswellasflowers…”Parris’s long dark hair
flailed around his shoulderswhen he railed on about thedevil. He had large brownalmond-shaped eyes and along, slim aquiline nose. A
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good-looking man whosebitternessmade him ugly, ashe was full of envy,especially for the merchantswho had succeeded inbusiness where he himselfhadfailedinBarbadosbeforecoming to New England.ThomasPutnamhadfoundanally in the reverend—theyboth harbored an intensedislike for the people ofSalem Town. Parris’s wordsreached a fever pitch as his
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tithing man strode up anddown the aisles with a stick,prodding those who noddedofforusingthefeatherendtotickle fidgeting womenbeneaththechin.“Here are goodmen to be
found, yea”—again a glanceat Thomas, Captain Walcott,then Mr. Ingersoll, who ranthe inn, all in the front row—“theverybest;andherearebadmentobefound,yea,theveryworst.”Helookedupto
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theceilinghere,notselectingany particular culprit for thebad ones, knowing theythemselveswould knowwhotheywere.Freya and Mercy stood in
oneof thegalleriesalong thewall, with the Putnamchildrenlinedupbesidethem,firstAnnJunior,thentherest,tallest to shortest. Annsurreptitiously reached forFreya’shand.Freyasqueezedittightlytoreassurethegirl.
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Nathaniel Brooks and hisfriend James Brewster stoodacrossthewayintheoppositegallery, hats in hands, headsbowed, aswas Freya’s.Nowand then, Freya’s eyes lifted,meetingNate’s.Washereallystaring back at her? She feltMercyelbowheronceasiftonote he was indeed. Freya’sbody grew tingly. Nate’sblack bangs fell over his lefteye. He was ravishinglyhandsome. When Thomas
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had driven the four youngpeople back to the villagefromtheircourtdayinSalemTown,NatehadhelpedFreyaout of the back of thecarriage, chivalrouslyreachingoutahand.Hisgripwasfirm,strongyetgentle.Asurge of energy passedbetween them as their handsand eyes met. Freya thrilledat thememory as she lookedback to the reverend, a smileplayingonherlips.
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Freyanoticedthatthegoodreverend was preachingagainst covetousness whenjustyesterdaysheandMercyhad brought him the goldcandles he had requested forhisaltar.SheglancedatNate,who rolled his eyes.Was hehaving similar thoughts? SheglancedatParrisforfeartheymight get caught sendingeach other these silentmissives. Confident that thereverendhadnotcottonedon
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to her glances, she lookedback at the boys’ pew. Thistime,itwasn’tNatewhowasstaringbackatherbutJames.
Later that afternoon, Freyadonned a cape, slipped thehood over her head, grabbedher basket, andwanderedoffintothewoods.Onceaweek,the servants in the Putnamhousehold were afforded anhour for solitary prayer. She
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wended through the pines,oaks, and beeches down apath, kneeling to pluck anherborflowernowandthen.Few dared to venture out sofar, knowing the nativesettlementswerenear,andthekidnapping of villagers wasnot uncommon. Freya wasnot afraid of the natives,however violent the storiesshe heard. Some called themsavages, heathens, or devils.But she had also heard that
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their white captives oftenrefused to return to their oldlivesafter theywererescued.They preferred the nativeculture of all things—thefreedom from all the rulesand codes one had to followin Puritan society. She had afeeling she would like thatfreedomaswell.The villagers’ fear granted
herprivacyandFreya lethermind roam however shewanted. In these woods she
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wasfree.Shecouldbreathe.She heard branches
cracklingandquicklypivotedaround. A deer leapedbetweenthetrees.Shesmiledat the doe and continuedalong the light-dappled pathuntil she came upon aclearing.Ontheborderofthemeadow, she found a hugeoutcropping of stone, whereshesatforabit.Shenoticedanearbydogrosebush.Shegotup and strode over to it. The
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roses were still just littlebuds.TheywouldblossominJune,delicatepetalsthewhitepink of a maiden’s cheek.Once the petals fell theywouldturnintorosehipslaterinthesummer—whichwouldmake for a good marmaladeand a potent cough syrup.Freya reached out,whisperingawordshedidn’tquite understand, and thelittlebudcameoffitsstemasif plucked by an invisible
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hand, dropping into heroutstretched palm. She felt athrill, then caught herself.There was someone behindher.Shestoodstock-still.Hadwhoeveritwasseenwhatshehad just done?Had she beencaught?“Rosa canina,” came a
low, softvoice. “That’swhattheyarecalled.”She turned, pricking a
finger on a thorn, droppingthe small bud. James
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Brewster stood in theclearing,smiling.“Youprickedyourself!”he
said, and took her hand towipethebloodtricklingdownherwrist.“Oh!” she said, taking her
hand back and biting on thepuncture,squeezingoutalastdropofblood from it. “Whatare you doing here?” sheasked,lookingupathim.James spoke hurriedly.
“I’msorry,MissBeauchamp,
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I didn’t mean to startle you.Forgive me, I saw youwander off into the woodswhile Brooks and I werehelpingMr. Putnamwith thenew barn. I had to go to therivertogatherstones.WhenIgot there, I saw Miss Lewiswith the eldest Putnam girl.The little one fell into theriver and hurt herself. Shecalled for you. ‘Only Freyacan fix it,’ she said.So I ranuntil I found you. They fear
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they will be in trouble fromMr. Putnam as the girl issupposedtobehome,tendingtothechildren.”“Goodness!” said Freya.
She gathered her basket, andthey quickly made their wayacrosstheclearing.As they walked together,
JamesaskedheraboutherselfandFreyatoldhimabouthowsheappearedat thePutnams’doorsteponeday.“You don’t have family?”
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heasked.“NotthatIremember.Mrs.
Putnam thinks I must havesuffered from thepox,whichiswhyIlostmymemory.”“That is grievous indeed.
Toloseourmemoryistoloseouridentity.”“I am a fortunate girl,”
Freya said. She said it sooften she almost believed it.“ThePutnamstookmeinandI have a homehere.Howdoyou find Salem, Mr.
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Brewster?”“Please,callmeJames.”“James,”Freyasaidwitha
smile.“It is… interesting,” he
said. “Before we came toSalem,Brooks and I lived inEurope. We are naturalistsand are often in the forest,where we study flora andfauna, the multifacetedaspects of nature. In aword:science.”“Ohdear,”Freyasaid,eyes
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sparkling. “I don’t think thereverend would like to hearthat.”“Which is why I can trust
you with our secret?” Jamessmiled.“Ofcourse.”Freyanodded.
That he had revealedsomething so dangerous toher brought a huge sense ofrelief.DespitehavingMercy,she realized how very aloneshe had been until thismoment. As close as they
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were,shedidnotthinkMercywould understand about thetruenatureofhergifts.James smiled at her and
shesmiledback,thinkingthathewasindeedveryhandsome—andperhapsifshehadseenhimfirst inthemeetinghouseinstead of Nate, perhaps heraffectionswouldliewithhim—butasitwas,herheartwasalready full of a certain Mr.Brooks.But shewasgratefulforhiskindnessandhiswise
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words that hinted of a worldbeyond Salem. The sunpierced through the cloudsand beat down on her hood.She pulled it back and fixedhercap,stillsmilingatJames.“Theresheis!”hesaid.
Annie sat in thegrass by theriver, her back proppedagainstaboulder.Mercywascrouchedatherheels,holdingthe girl’s ankle, one foot
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raised upon her thigh. Annieworenothingbuthershiftandskirts. Her wavy brown hairfell loose and dampover herchest, clinging to the shift.Mercy had washed the mudoff the girl’s woolen bodiceand linen cap, then placedthemonabush in the sun todry.Shehadstrungtheyounggirl’s boots up in a tree, andnow they dripped anddangledinthebreeze.“Freya, my Freya!” Annie
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cried as she and James camerunning.James turned his back to
thegirlsoasnottoembarrassher.“Don’tworry,James,”said
Mercy. “Annie’saweegirl.”Mercy wanted to be able togaze at the object of heraffectionandnotathisback,albeitattractiveaswell.“Areyousure?”heasked.“Turn, will you!” she
ordered, so the lad had no
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choice.Freya had kneeled beside
MercyandAnnie.“You lookafright!”shesaidtothegirl.Annie began to whimper.
“I’m so very sorry, Freya. Ipromise not to fall again. Ipromise!”“You are always falling,
aren’t ye?Wemight have togive you a cane,”reprimandedMercy.“No!”yelpedAnnie.Freya studied the girl.
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Annie was a difficult child.She often shrugged off herduties caring for her motherand siblings to spend timewiththeservantgirls.Perhapsshewasresentfulofbeingtheeldest and burdenedwith theresponsibilities—but thatwasthe way things were, andAnnieshouldknowitwasherduty, Freya thought. No onewas exactly happy with herlot,buttheyallmadethebestofit.
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Annie was invariablyhurting herself or getting introuble with her father, andtheywouldthenbeobligedtodefend her, sometimes evenhavingtotellasinfullietodoso.Anniewould thank them,telling them how much shefeared but loved and reveredherfather.Freyalikedherbutalso pitied her. There weretimes she caught Anniegazing at her in such an oddfashion it made her nervous.
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But perhaps Annie was justyoung, and her life certainlywasn’t easy with a motherwho was always ill andhaving such an austere manforafather.Theyhadplenty,all that they needed, butsomehow it never seemedenough. There was nowarmthinthathouse.“Let’s see what we have
here.” Freya lifted Annie’sskirtandobservedherredandswollen ankle. “Ah, it’s
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nothing!” she said. She hadJameshandher thebasket inwhichshehadgatheredherbsduring her walk, and askedhim to pick some of thelamb’s ears that grew alongtheriver.Whenhecamebackshe rubbed the leaves hehandedherwithsomearnica,then she held the crumpledbits around Annie’s ankle,whispering a shortincantation.Annie sighed with relief.
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“Yourhandsaresosoothing.”JamesandMercywatched,
andwhenFreyaremovedherhands the swelling had gonedown and Annie could walkagain.“A cunning girl!” said
James, looking admiringly atFreya.Mercy placed a finger at
hermouth, thenwarned him,“Notawordofanyofthis!”He promised he wouldn’t
sayathing,thengatheredhis
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rocks and returned to thebarn, leaving the youngwomen,whodidtheirbesttomake Annie presentable inherdampclothes.
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chapterfour
InBloom
“Itisallsoheavenly!”Mercyremarked as she strodethrough the stable, liftingher
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skirts, then filled the horse’strough with water from abucket.Allmorningthemaidhad been going about herwork with a smile on herface.Freya laughed at such a
comment as they stood amidhorsedung.Withasmile,sheinquired, “Heavenly! Howso?”They were inside the
Putnamstables,takingcareofThomas’s prized
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Thoroughbred. The masterwanted to ride the animallater that day. A stable boyand a few of the farmhandswereresponsible forcleaningthe stalls, picking the mudand stones from the horses’hooves, shoeing, washing,feeding, and riding thehorses,butThomaswantedtomake certain his stallionwasespecially well groomed—that the leather of his saddleand bridle gleamed as
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brilliantly as his coat—andhadassignedhismaidservantstothetask.Freya brushed the
Thoroughbred’s forelock, apalm at the warm muscle ofhis neck, peering inquiringlyat Mercy. She ran her otherhand down the whitediamond along his nose, lethis velvety lips nibble at herpalm. The horses stirred intheirstalls,flickingtheirtails,dropping their hooves,
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exhalingnoisily.Mercy placed two hands
over her heart, sighingaudibly.“Iammadlyinlove,Freya!”She had suspected Mercy
was going to say this.“James?”sheasked.“Yes, James, James,
James!” Mercy twirledaroundwiththewaterbucket,lettingthenameringout.Freyawasgenuinelyhappy
for her friend, for she knew
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howsuch feelingswere,howone wanted to cry them outlikethis.“Thatiswonderful!”“Iknow it is crazedofme
to think—for I am of lowerstation—but I do believe heloves me, too,” Mercycontinued. “You know… thewayhelooksatme.Haveyounoticed the way he looks atme,Freya?”Freya hadn’t. She had,
however, noticed the timesJames had smiled at her, the
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teasingglintinhiseyes.Thiswas disconcerting whereMercy was concerned. Itwould seem James was ashameless flirt. Freya wasn’tabout to hurt her friend bytelling her this. She was nogood at telling a lie, norshould she sin soimprovidently. “I will paymoreattentionfromnowon!”she promised, not knowingwhatelsetosay.Carefulnottosoilthehems
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of their skirts, the maidsclosed the door to theThoroughbred’s stall andwent to treat the leather ofThomas’s tack with ragssoaked in mink oil. Mercytook charge of the saddlebalanced on a beam, whileFreya retrieved Thomas’sriding bridle from a woodenpeg,thenbroughtitovertoabale of hay where she satdown.As Freya ran the cloth
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along the leather reins, shewhispered, “I have aconfession,too.”Sheblushedwith happiness, making averyprettypictureasarayofsun slanted through theopeneddoorsuponherapron,mauve skirt, and whitepetticoats peeking throughaboveherleatherboots.“A confession?” said
Mercy. “That soundsserious.”Freya smiled, biting her
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lip. “I, too, am in love!” shesaid.Mercy ran over and
crouched beside her friend,gatheringherskirts,grabbingFreya’shands.“Youmusttellme everything! Who is thelucky lad? I had no idea!”LovehadgivenMercy’slargeblue eyes a sparkle, softenedhermouth, and reddened hercheeks. She was almostbeautiful.“Why, Mr. Brooks, of
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course! You knew, did younot?” Freya asked in askepticaltone.Mercy laughed as if this
were the most hilarious yetagreeable thing she had everheard.“Ididn’t.Iswear!Youhideitwell, Imustsay.”ShetuckedacurlintoFreya’scapand ran a hand along herfriend’s cheek, but Freyalowered her head, suddenlydistraught. “What’s wrong?”Mercyasked.
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“It’s what you saidearlier…” Freya sought tofind the words. “I, like you,am enamored of someonemuch beyondmy station.Hecomesfromawealthyfamilyand has traveled to Europeandback.”Mercy tapped her on the
knee. “Oh, stop that, youwench! You are consideredthe fairest maid in all ofSalem Village and SalemTown! Many speak of your
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beauty. I will hear none ofthat from you! Anyhow, itmatters little nowadays.Menof high rank marry poorlasseslikeushereintheNewWorld.Don’truinthisforus.I am so very happy we areboth in love! Tell me! Tellmeeverything!”Freya wanted to tell
everything to her friend—whowassolikeasistertoher—and felt a great wave ofaffection for Mercy at that
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moment. But she held back,and the cresting sentimentscrashed painfully within her.Itwasn’t caution ormistrust,but something whispered tohertokeephertruefeelingsasecret, and she felt guilty forit,butstill,shelistenedtothatvoice. So she told Mercynearly everything—abouteach little glance she andNate had exchanged atchurch. Mercy listenedvoraciously, nodding her
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head at all the details. Butthere was one thing Freyakeptfromherfriend.That very same morning
when she had woken in herrope bed, she had found asmall, coarse-grained cardtucked between the blanketand her chest, with theswirling letters NB, asideways 8 beneath them.There was no note, but thesealtoldFreyaeverythingshehadtoknow.
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NB for Nathaniel Brooks!He had been inside thePutnam house! Perhaps hehad been there late at nightforbusinesswithThomas,upin the paterfamilias’s studywhileeveryone slept.Hehadstood over her while sheslumbered! Had he run hisfingers along her browmaybe? Just the idea of itcausedhertoshiver.Hehadwantedhertoknow
he had been there, and was
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thinkingofher.Shetrembledwith excitement even as shewasloathtoshareanyofthiswithherbelovedMercy.
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chapterfive
Mr.BrooksandMissBeauchamp
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After supper at noon, Freyafinished her chores andhelped Annie with thechildren, reading theBible tothembeforetheynapped.Shetold Mercy she would takethe wash to the river byherself. Her friend needed togive her scarred, chafedfingers a break. With herbasket of laundry and potsandpans,shetookashortcut,plodding along toward theriver.Whenshegotthere,she
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workedquickly,cleaningandscrubbing, then returned theroundabout way through themeadow, where James hadcaughtherunawaresthatday.Asshewalkedshelostherselfin the splendor of hersurroundings: the windrustlingthroughthetrees, theverdant grass springingbeneath her boots, thefragranceofwildroses.James had mentioned he
andNateoftencame to these
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woods, and while she hadhoped, she truly did notexpect to see her love, sowhen Nathaniel Brookssteppedontothepath,hetookherbysurprise.He was a sight to behold:
elegant, tall, slim, self-assured as he walked towardher, an amused smiletwitchingonhislips.Heworeabluelinenshirt,openatthecollar, black breeches tuckedinto heavy boots, his hat
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anglingoveraneye.Hisfacewas clean-shaven, and hisdark hair shone brilliantly inthesunasheremovedhishattogreether.“Mistress Beauchamp!” he
called to her as theyapproached. “We are wellmet!Fancyseeingyouhere!”“Mistress!” she echoed,
laughing. “Miss is more likeit for Iamnotgoodyyet.Orjust Freya, if you will.” Herwords appeared to come
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easily enough, but her heartwasinherthroat.Mostlikely,she thought, there was toomuchcolorinhercheek.Nate stopped a few feet
away. They both froze. Hismouth opened as if to speak,but he refrained. Theylaughed at theirawkwardness, and Freyarelaxed a bit, her shouldersdropping. She studied theswell of his lips, the rich,deepgreenofhiseyes.
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“Ireceivedyourcard,”shesaid.“What card?” he asked,
with a naughty glint in hiseyes.“How did you know I
could read?” She wasn’tbeing coy—she genuinelywanted to know. Perhaps hecould tell her somethingaboutherself.Perhapshehadrecognized her from the lifeshe’dforgotten.He pursed his lips then
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smiled. “I did not know ofyour literacy, but if I did, Iwould say it is your haughtyand refined manner thatwouldhavegivenitaway.”“Really!” She let out a
laugh.“Haughty?Refined?”“Yes,likealady,awoman
ofhighstanding,aprincessoraqueen.”Hegrinned.“Why thank you very
much,Mr. Brooks,” she saidfacetiously.He took another step
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forward. “ ’Tis nothing!AndyoumustcallmeNate!”“Isthatallyouwishtotell
me?Thatmycomportmentishaughty?ThatIbehaveasifIamabovemystation?Amereservant like myself…” Shelowered her eyes. She knewshe should behave morehumbly,butat thesametimeshe believed his palpableattraction allowed her somelatitude. Although she wastaking a risk by being
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impudent.“No,”hesaid.“Notatall.”
Hemovedclosersothat theystoodinchesapart.“ButIamgladyouarehere.EversincewefirstmetIhaveharboredadeepdesiretobewithyou,toknowyou…Ididn’tmean—”He had embarrassed himself,Freya knew, for to “know” awoman was to know herintimately.She looked into his eyes.
“Whatdidn’tyoumean?”She
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attemptednottolaugh.Itwasfuntomakehimsquirmabit.He tookadeepbreath and
lowered his head. “I didn’tmeananyimproprietytoyourperson.”She would like to think
Nate’s interest in her wasmore than just the licentiousfeelings of a young man ofprivilege for a pretty servantgirl. “You are forgiven,Nate.” She smiled, swayingas she clasped her hands. “I
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should take your leave, as Imust return to the farm soonor else someonemight comelookingforme.”“MayIwalkwithyou?”She nodded. “Let me get
mybasket.”He rushed toward it.
“Allowme!”
Freya and Nate walkedsilently in tandem, crossingthemeadow.Theyenteredthe
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path in thewoods.Heheldabramble up for her and sheducked through. They hadgrown shy, as if there wasnothing more to say or theycould think of nothing.Neither could find the rightwords.ThenthesightofNatecarrying a woman’s basketmadeFreyagiggle.He stopped in the path,
turningtoherwithawoundedlook. “Why are youlaughing?”
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She laughed more. Shecouldn’t stop, her bosomquaking above her bodice.“It’s just funny,”shesaid,“ahandsome, tall lad likeyourself carrying a maid’sbasket!”He gave her a stern,
squintinglook, theninahuffdroppedthebasketathisfeet,the pots and pans making aterribleclatter.“The basket!” she said,
looking down. What was
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wrong with him? She wasabout to kneel to retrieve it,but he reached over andclampedheratthewaistwithtwostronghands,holdingherfixedinplace,justasshehadforeseen when she first sawhim.They stared at each other.
Freya’s heart reboundedinside her chest. Shewondered whether she hadmade a terrible mistakeletting this young fellow
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accompanyheralonethroughthewoods.Then his shoulders began
toshakeandhewaslaughing,andsherealizedithadbeenajoke,aplayatseriousness,atannoyance, and she laughed,too, incredibly relieved. Helet her go. They smiled ateachother.Hesteppedaside,closer, and grabbed hermaiden’scap,holdingitaloftwith a mischievous grin.Whenshemadealeaptograb
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it,heboundedaway,tauntingherwiththecap,wavingitintheair.“Stop!” she said, but he
onlylaughed.She made another attempt
to nab it, but he caught hershoulder with his free hand,and swunghis handwith thecap around her waist. Theystood still. She inhaled him.He smelled of work, mud,and the woods. He felt assolid as the pines around
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them. Nate whispered in herear,thewordsrushing.“Howbeautiful you are with yourred hair along your cheek.”He pushed a curl out of herface as he said this, seeinghow the sun lit it up, thenplaced her cap back on herhead. “Miss Beauchamp, IfearIhave…”“Freya,mynameisFreya.”“Freya then,” he said
softly.Freya wanted him to hold
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her longer and to hear whathe had to say, but regardlessof her dislike of Salem, shestill had to live within itsrules, and she broke theembraceregretfullybeforehecould finish what he wasgoingtosay.“I feel the same way…
yet…” She shook her headand lookedaround theemptyforest.He nodded, releasing her
from his embrace. He
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understood the rules as wellasshe.
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chaptersix
TheProposal
Freya ascended the flight ofcreakingwoodensteps to thestudy,holdingthecandlestick
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aloft to find her way. Mr.Putnam wanted her to meethim there once she wasfinished with her work. AsmuchasMercytoldhernottoworry,Freyafretted.Shehadneverbeencalledtohisstudybefore.Surely,shemusthavedonesomethingwrong.Nowthatshethoughtabout
it, she had performed amultitude of crimes. Perhapssomeone had seen her andNate together in the woods
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theotherweekandreporteditto her master. She wouldsurelygetthelash—thatis,ifMr. Putnam wanted to takecareofhermisdeedshimself.What if he suspected her ofwitchcraft? Had the mistressof the house mentioned herefficacious physics? Whatwouldhappenifshehad?She stood at the door,
spying the flickeringcandlelight in a crack in thewood. Thomas was in there,
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waiting for her. With atrembling hand, she tuggedherskirt,rightedhercap,thenheldherheadupandknockedquietly soasnot towake thehousehold.She heard him cough.
“Comein!”“Mr. Putnam,” she said
oncethedoorwasclosed.Shecurtsied, even though hewasn’tlookingherway.Thomas sat at his desk,
writing in a ledger, briefly
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glancing up as he dipped hispen in the inkwell, thencontinued to write. “Freya,”hesaid.“Givemeamoment.”Heblewon the ink.His facewas expressionless, givingnothingaway.Freya kept one arm at her
side while she held thecandlestick. He flicked hiseyesupather.“Youmayputthecandlestickdown.”Shewalkedtoasmalltable
toset it thereandreturned to
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her spot in themiddle of theroom, clasping her hands atherapron.“You may look me in the
eye,”hesaid.She lifted her chin but not
too proudly so as to provokemore severe a punishment.Her eyes met Thomas’spiercing ones. They were anicyblue.He clapped his hands. “I
have propitious news!” heexclaimed.
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“Propitious?” she echoed,surprised. Thiswas notwhatshe had expected. She hadbeenawaitingherdoom.Norwould she ever haveanticipated the man’sapparentlyfavorablemoodortobemadeprivy toanykindof news, propitious orotherwise.Thomas shrugged. “I was
surprised myself!” His eyesroamed her body, sizing herup. She felt a bit like cattle.
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He smiled. That was a first.“Well, to get straight to theheart of the matter, so tospeak”—herehesmiledagain—”Mr.NathanielBrookshasasked for your hand inmarriage.”Freya started. She stood
dumbfoundedforawhilebutsought to hide all theemotions stirring within her.She wanted to run down thestairsandwakeMercy to tellher the tremendous news
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immediately. She attemptedto suppress a smile, and hermouth curled into a frown.“Why…why…”shefumbledas Thomas studied her. “Idon’tknowwhat—”“You don’t have to say
anything,” he interrupted.“This is most excellent andprovidential for you as wellasme.Thoughitmightseemdispleasing to you at themoment—you are but a girl,andayoungone—thismeans
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youwill be a rich little wifesoon.Iamhappyforyou!”She had obviously
concealed her feelings well.This news was anything butdispleasingtoher.Shehadn’tbeen able to stop thinkingaboutNatesinceshehadfirstglimpsed him, and she heldontothememoryofhisarmsaroundherwaist.What reliefto know there would be nomore reason to conceal theiraffections now that he had
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askedforherhand!“You are fortunate. They
are a prosperous family,”Thomas continued. “Theyown much land, seafarers aswell as farmers and involvedincommerce.Asmuchasthelatter ires me, I cannot denythattheyareinfluentialintheport.Thiswouldbeahelpfulalliance, one that might giveme more sway in SalemTown.And it would also, ofcourse, be a tremendous step
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upward for you.” He shookhishead,laughingtohimself.“To think just a little whileago you were an orphan onourdoorstep!”Dazed, Freya didn’t know
what more to say. Thomashad dipped his pen in theinkwell once more. Shecurtsied, about to take herleave,andwenttoretrievethecandlestick.“I am not finished,” he
said.
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“Oh!”Sheturned.“Not a word about any of
this. You know how thevillagers chatter, but I dowantyou toget toknowMr.Brooks of course. However,don’t let him know I haveinformed you of hisintentions. Ihavesimply toldhim I will consider the offerand dowry.” He wriggled abit in his seat. “The utmostdiscretion must be applied,Freya. Mr. Brooks has seen
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you in themeetinghouse andis very fond. You are piousandchaste,andI trustyoutoremain so. Not a word toMercyeither.Iknowyoutwoare intimate,but she isproneto wagging her tongue, thatone.Fornow,thisisbetweenyou and me until toldotherwise.Agreed?”Freya nodded. “Yes, sir!”
she said, breathless, and lefttheroom.
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The next morning, Freyawoke to a drumbeat in herchest. Mercy snored softly,herblondhairfallingoverherface, her scarred handdangling off her rope bed.There was just the faintesthintoflightbeyondthesmall,darklytintedwindows.Freya rose, lit a candle,
dressed, retrieved the breadfrom the oven, and put herbedaway.Shetookamomentby the hearth and said her
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prayers. She prayed that thePutnam household be keptsafe and continue to prosper.Then she asked that she seeNate most expediently, thatsame day if possible. Shefinished her prayers with arushed“Amen.”Outside in the moist
darkness her senses wereassaulted by the scent ofbloomingwisteria.The vineswith their grapelike flowerstwined up the awning on the
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side of the wooden housealong which she groped forherwayinthedark.Eversinceherdiscoveryin
thelean-towhenshehadfirstchurned the butter just bythinking it, she had begun torise early before anyone elseon the farm. She needed thistime alone each day tocontinuetopracticeherskills.Today she wanted an evenearlier start so she mighteventually steal away to the
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woods and perhaps happenupon Nate once more. Shebelievedhewouldaccepthertalents. He was kind andlearned;hewouldnotcastherout for being what she was.His friend James had notjudged her when her touchhad healed Annie’s ankle bytheriver.Besides, when she
practiced her skills, she feltalmost dizzy with an intensejoyatthepowerofhertalent.
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Perhaps what she was doingwas witchcraft, the occult,magic—all consideredodious, wicked, abominable,the insidious design of thedevil. That was whateveryone believed. But didthat make it true? Freyadidn’t think so. It felt goodand pure and wholesome.What she was doing wouldbrand her as awitch and getherhanged,butitwasbeyondher control. It came so
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naturally, and she couldn’thelpherself.Sheneededtodoitmoreandmore.Sherushedtothecowshed.
Shecouldbarelyseethepathin the grass. Inside, shemovedquicklyaboutbecauseshe had learned to feel herway around by now. Shewended through the large,shifting bovine bodies.Withoutherhavingtouseherhands, the cows began tosplashsteamystreamsofmilk
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inside the buckets she hadplacedbeneaththeirteats.Eggs lifted from the hay
inside the chicken coop,flying into her basket as thehens let out surprised clucks.Next,sheroundedthefarmtothe lean-to structure, whereshe would check on thefermenting hops, bottle someale for supper and dinner,then churn the butter, usingwitchcraft to get it all donequickly. She was full of
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energy, her incantationsleaping from her lips inwindingwhispers.Shehadnoidea where the words camefrom—she just knew them.They made her light-headed,intoxicated. Perhaps loveenhancedhermagic.Onherway to the lean-to,
sheheardhername ina loudwhisper.“Freya!”Nate!Hewashere!She turned and walked
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toward the voice. It camefrom a copse of leafy trees.She heard a branch crackleunderfoot, and JamesBrewster stepped out fromthe shadows, his clothesrumpled.Hetookher inwithadeepbreath.“Oh,James!”Instantly,she
was embarrassed by thedisappointment in her tone.Shewas,ofcourse,delightedtoseeJames.“Freya!”saidJamesagain.
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She remembered heragreement with Mr. Putnamto exercise utmost discretionregarding her and Nate. Shewasn’t about to betray herbenefactor. Mr. Putnam wassokind,andshemustremainloyal and not say a wordaboutherengagement.“What are you doing
here?”sheasked.“Iwasonnightdutyatthe
watch house, so I amreturning to the Brooks farm
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to get some sleep.” Heyawned, covering his mouth,and stretched his arms. Hiscottonshirtlifted,revealingasmooth swath of skin. Freyablushed.Hebeamed,hiseyesglinting.HewasashandsomeasNate,tobesure.“Isee!Youweretheoneto
keepussafeinourbeds.”“Indeed,” he said. “Safe
from the savages!” Hewidened his eyes. “I don’tquite see them that way
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though. I rather like thosesavages.” He put an indexfinger to his lips andmade ashushing sound, and winkedather.Freya made a face. “If
peopleheardyou,James,theymight accuse you of idolatryor even devil worship!” sheteased.Shewasonetospeak.Ifonlypeoplehadseenwhatshehadjustbeenupto.“Smart you are!” he said.
“Verymodern!”
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“Modern?” The word wasfamiliar to her, but shecouldn’t remember what itmeant. She knew she hadheard it a long time ago,somewhereinherfoggypast.“Ahead of the times,”
Jamesexplained.“Like you,” she said
keenly.“Perhaps,”heallowedwith
asmallsmile.She was going to ask him
more but heard noises from
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the house. The familywouldwake soon andMercywouldbeouthereaswell.Shefeltastrong affection for Jamessuddenly. Nate’s dear friendand Mercy’s love. Perhapsone day the four of themwould be as close friends asshe and Mercy were. Freyawouldlikethat.Without thinking, she
pulled him close and kissedhimonthecheek.“Well!”hesaid,shocked.
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Laughing, Freya spunaway and ran back to thefarm.
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northhampton
thepresentnewyear’seve
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chapterseven
WhatDreamsMayCome
“Hey, what’s going on?”
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camealowrumbleattheendoftheline.The sudden sound of
MatthewNoble’svoicemadeIngrid Beauchamp’s pulsequicken, even after all thistime. “Hey, Matt,” she said.“It’s going.” In thebackground, she heard thesoundsoftheNorthHamptonPolice Department: papersshuffling,phonesringing,thekind of laughter that wentalong with work horseplay,
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static crackling from awalkie-talkie, and a guywhining about his stolen car.Detective Noble was still attheprecinctandIngridhadn’tleftwork either.After all thelibrarians had gone home—including Hudson Rafferty,the world’s oldest intern andher dearest friend in theworld, the hugely pregnantTabithaRobinson, and a fewnew clerks—Ingrid hadlockedthefrontdoors,turned
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offthelights,andretreatedtoher archivist’s office at theback.“You haven’t answered
any of my calls. I’ve beentrying to reach you forhours,”hesaid.“I’m so sorry.” She
glanced at her cell and sawthat he had tried earlier andalsoleftatext.Shemusthaveforgottentoturntheringeronher phone back on afterclosingupshop.
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“Hmm,” reflected Matt,“why do I keep hearing thatfromyoulately,Ingrid?”They usually checked in
with each other as soon aslibrary hours ended, if notbefore, but ever sinceDecember when Freya hadbeen whisked back to Salemthrough thepassagesof time,their relationship had beenplaced on a permanent hold.Itbarelyevenhadachancetobegin. It was January, a few
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days after New Year’s Eve,which had been a grimcelebrationatbest,andIngridcould not afford anydistractions. There was toomuch at stake—who knewwhatwashappeningtoFreyaback there? Ingrid wasconsumed with books onseventeenth-century SalemVillage politics, before,during, and after the witch-hunt fervor. There was notime to return calls or texts,
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muchlessforarelationship.Ingrid couldn’t help but
revisit Freya’s last momentbefore she was taken, thatawful night at Mother’shouse. Her sister had beenstandingbythefireplace,stillin disbelief over howKillianhadbeen tornaway fromherjust as she had found himagain after centuries ofpining.Freddie,theirbrother,had reassured his twin thatthey would do everything to
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find Killian and bring himback. But Freya had notanswered; instead she hadturned silent, her eyes fillingwith shock. She appeared tobe staring at something thatterrifiedher.Herbrightgreeneyes had clouded over,becoming dull, as her faceblanched. She gasped andchoked. It all happenedwithin seconds. Ingrid hadrisen to her feet, movingforward to help. But there
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wasnothinganyonecoulddo.As Freya brought her handsto tug at her neckline, Ingridsawtheinvisibleropecuttinginto her throat, squeezing itandleavingaredmark.Then she was gone. Her
sisterwasgone.Ingrid knew what had
happened theminute shehadseen the rope burn at hersister’s neck. Gallows Hill,1692.When the twoof themhad hanged for witchcraft. It
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washappeningalloveragain.Somehow, someone wantedFreya back there. Back toSalem Village and all itshorrors.Ingrid pulled the rubber
bandoutofherhairtolessenthepinchather temples.Sheanxiously scratched at herscalp. “I keep saying sorry,Matt,becauseImean it.Youknow I wish I could bespending my time with youinstead, but I can’t, not until
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wefindher.Butdon’tworry,IthinkI’mgettingcloser.”“Thedreams?”“Yeah,Ihadanotherone,”
shesaid,andshuddered.“Ingrid?Youokay?”asked
Matt.No, she wasn’t. She had
driftedoffagainwhiletalkingto him. “You know, I don’tthink it’s fair to you to bewith me when I’m sodistracted.”Mattletoutabreath.Ingrid
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wished she could feel thewarmthof it against her faceand neck. She felt herselfalmostgiveinandtellhimtopick her up so they couldspend the night together.Instead a silence hungbetween them, fraught withtension.Her love forMatt had not
waned.Ifanything,shelovedhimmore than ever—for hispatience and always beingthere when she needed a
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shouldertoleanon,solidasapillar. He encouraged herwhenshelosthopeoffindingFreya,andwasashelpfulasamortal could be in thissituation. He didn’tunderstand everything aboutherbackgroundorherfamily,but he had accepted her forwhatshewas.Awitch.“Whydon’tyougivemea
call when you’re wrappingthings up?” Matt said. “I’llpick you up and drive you
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home.”She stared at the books
piledonherdesk,alldifferentsizes, stacked in towers, thentheoneopenunder thecircleoflightcastbythedesklamp.“Idon’tknow…I’mnotsurewhen I’ll be finished. Iwouldn’twanttoholdyouuporwakeyouifyou’vegonetobed.”He laughed. “Come on, I
justwanttoseeyou.Anyway,I’mstillat theprecinctdoing
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paperwork.We just wrappedupacase.”“While I didn’t even ask
how you’re doing… I’m sosorry.”“There you go again. I’m
fine.”“I really miss you,” she
said, but even as she did,she’dgrowndistractedbythepileofbooksinfrontofher.Mattwassilent.“Let’stalk
later,”hesaid.“I promise this will get
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better, and we can spendmoretimetogether.”“Sure.”Heremainedonthe
linebutwassilent.She waited a little longer
but that was it, so she saidgood-bye, and they hung upwithout saying their usual “Iloveyou”s. Ingrid felt emptyand awful from the way theconversation had ended.Their relationship wasconstantly being stalled bysomething or other. She
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lowered her head and begantoread,thenrealizedshehadread an entire page and notretained a word. BecausewhatifMattgrewusedtoherabsence and stoppedmissingheraltogether?Thepoorguycouldn’t wait forever, couldhe?He couldn’twait foreverfor her to… well, to sleepwith him, for one. Theyweren’t teenagers. Shewanted him as much as hewanted her. She wanted him
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more than anything. He wastheoneforher.Except, therewasjustonething.Hewasmortal.Hewouldonlygethurt,or
she would, there was nogetting around that. Shewould only pretend to age,buthewoulddie,leavingheralone forever. While Mattseemed to accept herdifferences easily, it was arevelation to Ingrid to findshewas theonewithdoubts,
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perhaps because she knewexactly what theirrelationship would mean forher in the end. So she hadpushed him away, usingFreya’s disappearance as anexcuse.She thought about the
dreams. In the first, Freyastood alone in a field ofwheat.Shesawthevillageinthe distance and recognizedit.Salem,withitsdarksquarehomes, beneath gigantic
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cloudsmovingfast throughablinding blue sky. Thesleevesofhersister’ssaffron-yellow blouse beneath herdark mauve bodice rumpledinthewind.Hercapflutteredagainst her sun- and wind-kissed cheeks, as she held itinplace,herpalmagainsthercrown. Her sister looked soyoung, she couldn’t be olderthansixteen.Therewaspanicinhereyes.Thedreamendedthere.
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In the second installment,Freyastoodinthefieldagain.She was whisperingsomething. Something Ingridcouldn’thear.In the third dream, Freya
was screaming as the wheatfield went up in a greatwhoosh of orange flame,black smoke licking at thegreatblueofthesky.Thefireconsumed the field, movingquickly behind her sister.Freya came running, closer
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and closer, larger and larger,until she passed Ingrid, buttheydidn’ttouch.Ingridhadwokeninahot-
coldsweat.That had been the last
dream.Freya was trapped in
Salem Village. Freya was indangerandtherewasnothingIngridcoulddoaboutit.Her eyes ached. She
squeezed them shut. InSalem, witches had been
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hanged,neverburned.Infact,no witch had ever beenburned in the Americas.However, the flames meantsomething.Thefireexpressedurgency. Time was runningout. Little progress had beenmade.The Beauchamps’ magic
had grown feeble, Ingridknew; it was a candle at theend of its wick. Her mother,Joanna, could notmuster thestrength to reopen the
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passages of time howevermuch she tried. Freya wastrapped in seventeenth-century Salem while Ingridand her family were trappedhere, unable to return to thepastandrescueher.Ingrid began reading her
bookagain.TheSalemwitchhunt in 1692 had been ananomaly in its intensity,concentration, scale, anddeath toll. It lasted one yearandendedalmostasabruptly
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as it began. Nineteen hadbeen hanged. One man waspressed to death by stones.Fourperishedinjailawaitingtrial.More than one hundredpeople in Salem and itssurrounding communities(mostly women, but therewere men and children aswell) had been accused andforcedtolanguishformonthsin prison under horrificconditions in dark, wet,cramped, stinking, rat-
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infested cells. They werehungry,thirsty,dirty,shaved,manacled to walls, prickedand prodded for “witches’teats”—nipples or birthmarksormoleswhereone’sfamiliarsupposedly suckled, proofonewasindeedawitch.How could she help her
sister? Was there a way toprevent the crisis that spreadlike wildfire from happeningagain? What had caused it?What was the spark? It had
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all begun in the home ofReverend Samuel Parris,when his daughter Betty andyoung ward, niece Abigail,began having strange fits.That was the beginning.Ingridwouldstartthere.For reasons Ingrid didn’t
understand, she couldn’t findher own or Freya’s namerecorded in any of thedocuments or history books.There was nothing about theBeauchamp girls who had
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beenhangedonGallowsHill.Thefactthattheywerenotinany recordswaspuzzlingyetheartening. Maybe it meantthatthepasthadalreadybeenaltered somehow? And thatFreyawassafe?Theburningfieldofwheat
andhersisterinthemiddleofit…Ingrid grabbed another
bookandread,pushingpastawave of weariness. Therewere three facts about the
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historyofSalemthatwereofgreat interest to Ingrid. One,that the Reverend Parris wasinstrumental to the Salemwitchhunt,spurringitonandfanning the flames; two, thatThomas Putnam and his clanfiled the most accusationsagainst witches with thecourt; and three, that JosephPutnam, Thomas’s youngerbrother, was one of the fewSalem residents to speak outagainst the witch hunts. The
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brothers had been fightingover their inheritance, Ingridknew,withThomasfeelingasifhehadbeencheatedoutofhis. Ingrid always suspectedSalem had been about morethanjustwitchcraft.The phone rang again,
startlingIngrid.Shepicked itup.“Hey,” said Matt, “just
callingtosaygoodnight.I’mheading to bed unless youwantmetopickyouup.”
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Ingriddidn’tanswer.“That’s what I thought.”
Mattyawned.“I’msorry.”“Don’tbe,”hesaid.Shewanted to tellhimshe
loved him, but somehow hissilence made saying thosewordstoodaunting.“Night,Ingrid.”“Night,” she said, then
hung up. She stared at thephoneforamoment,feelingapang, then plunged her nose
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inyetanotherbook.
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chaptereight
BrotherTime
Sunlightpierced thecurtains,fallingovertheCofJoanna’sbody beneath the duvet,
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illuminating the strand ofsilver hair that fell over herlips. She woke with a startand blew at the lock of hairand pressed her eyelids shutagain. She did not want towakeup,notyet.Thiswasn’tthe way to greet the day, sofullofanxietyanddread.Joanna had gotten her
beloved son back, only tohave her youngest daughterrippedawayfromher,tuggedback through the passages of
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time, a noose at her neck.Freya… beautiful, free-spirited Freya, back in thedark ages. Puritans. Therewas a word for those peoplebut Joanna would not use it.She was comforted byFreddie’s assurance that hebelievedFreyawasaliveandwell for now—hewould feelit if his twin were dead, hehadtoldher.Still,shewasamess.Herbodyachedfromusing
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her magic to break thepassages open but it was nouse. The passages of timewere sealed.Baking couldn’tevenhelpheroutofherfunk:herpiescameoutsunkenandburned. She had so littlemagic left in her fingertipsshe couldn’t even restorethem to their rightfulplumpness. During the day,Joanna could barely eat, andin the evenings, she’d takento ordering from Hung Sung
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Lo’s for the family, themediocre North HamptonChinesetake-outplace.At least she wasn’t alone.
She snaked a hand betweenthe sheets, reaching forreassurance, warmth,comfort,topullhisbodyintothecurlofhersandmakethefeelings go away. But thespot beside her was empty,cold.“Good morning,
gorgeous!”boomedavoiceat
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thebedroomdoor.Joanna sighed with relief.
She sat up and saw herhusband in the doorway,alreadydressedinjeansandabright cotton plaid shirt. Hewas clean-shaven, his silver-and-black hair standing a tadawry. “Hello, darling!” shecried.Norman was holding a
breakfast tray, beaming ather. She saw a small vaseholdinga rosebud, a stackof
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croissantsandmuffins,butter,jam, orange juice, and a cupof coffee, the steamhighlighted by the morninglight. The creases in hisforehead and cheeks hadturned into grooves. Theywere both aging as theirpowers diminished and theyworried about Freya.Despiteitall,Normankeptupagoodfront. He made a valianteffort to cheer up Joannawhen needed. She couldn’t
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help but beam back at herman, feeling a teenage crushall over again, a surge ofblushingbliss.Hewalkedtowardher.“Don’tyoulookhandsome
thismorning.”Shesmiled.Hedismissed thecomment
with a scoff. That was alsowhat she found so attractiveabout him—he had no cluejust how handsome he was,even if he was rumpled andwornout, likeanolder,more
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weatheredJamesBond.He sat on the edge of the
bed,handingherthetray.Thecurve of his neck caught hereye. She could take a bite ofhim right there instead ofeatingthisdivinebreakfasthehad brought her. She wasgratefulthattheyhaddecidedtogivethisanothergo.Theyweretrying.Actually,
theyweren’t.That was the thrill of it—
theydidn’thavetotry.There
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was nothing to fix; it waseasyandtender.Thiskindoflove, the love-of-one’s-lifekind of love, was the onlycushion for pain during acrisissuchasthisone.Joannapropped the tray on her legs,still smiling admiringly atNorman. If it weren’t forFreya gone, she would havethought,Magic be damned. Iamhappytoliveasamortal,withmyhusband.“Youareonetospeak,old
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girl! In this morning light,you look as stunning as theday we first met on thatbeach,eventhoughyouclaimtofeel…”“Like crap?” finished
Joanna.“Yeah, I didn’t want to
ruin the moment.” Hefrowned, then reached andsqueezed her hand, and theykissed.“What a lovely breakfast,
fit for a queen!” she said,
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when they pulled away. Shelooked at the offerings.“Wheredidyougetallthis?”Norman cleared his throat.
“Anideastruckmelastnight,andIdidn’tgetmuchsleep.Iwas down in your officeworking, and I went to thebakerywhenitopened.”Joannagrabbedablueberry
muffin and sniffed it. It wasstillwarm,freshlybaked,andto her surprise, its scentjump-startedherappetite.She
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bit into the warm, buttery,crumblymoistness.“Mmm.”“I thought that might give
you a lift since you haven’thadtimetobake.”“So thoughtful!” She
couldn’t get enough of themuffin.Norman told her of his
plan. His brother Arthur hadpopped into his head in themiddle of the night. ArthurBeauchamp worked with theWolves of Memory, the
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historical keepers of thepassagesoftime.“HowisdearoldArt?”“I don’t know. I haven’t
heardfromhiminages.ButIdidfindhimonline.”Hetoldher Arthur was still teachingatCaseWesterninOhio.Yetwhen Norman had triedcalling his line thismorning,the phone rang and rang.Novoicemail. Then he couldn’tget through to anyone at theuniversity, and for nearly an
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hourhadstruggledtofindhisway out of an endlesslabyrinthine loop of voice-activatedoptions.Finally, he found a cell
number and called that—itwentstraighttovoicemail,sohe left a message, but hewasn’tevensureifitwashisbrother’s cell phone becausethe message just repeatedback the number he haddialed. Then when he triedthat same number again, a
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messagesaidthenumberwasno longer in service.Something or someoneappeared to be preventinghimfromreachingArthur.There was only one
solution. They needed to hitthe road and head toClevelandtofindhim.“We’re driving there?”
askedJoanna.“Whynot?Wecanbreakit
up. Drive five hours, find amotel, drive another five.
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Howaboutit,Jo?”“A road trip!” She
removed the tray from herlap. One muffin and a fewsips of coffee, and shesuddenlyfeltinvigorated.Sheand Norman were takingaction, not simply despairingandsittingback.Inspired,shebegan to make preparationsfor their journey. Yankeepractical, she thought:thermoses with coffee,crackers, cheddar and brie,
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fruit, nuts. Joanna lovedthinking about projects intermsoffood.Arthur—ofcourse!Theold
timekeeperhadtopossessthekey to the passages shecouldn’tunlockherself.“You’reagenius,mydear!
But I do hope Arthur’s allright. I hope nothing hashappenedtohim.”
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chapternine
TheNewlyweds
Freddieheardtheshowerturnoff, followed by Gert’s loudsigh. The little New Haven
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off-campus apartment hadwalls that were soinsubstantial that whateveranyone did in another roomcouldbeheardasifyouwerestanding side by side. Hecould tell that she wasannoyedbecausehehadusedall the bath towels againwithoutputtingoutnewones.He had made a mental note,ofcourse,todosomelaundryand throw some in there, butithadslippedhismindwhen
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he put on Warhammer andjust had to get to the nextlevel.“Freddie!”calledGert.Gullinbursti, Freddie’s
piglet familiar, snortedagainst his foot as if to tellhim to getmoving. “I know,Buster,” said Freddie,throwingtheremotedownonthe little black couch, amongpopcorn kernels, crumbs,magazines, and fast-foodwrappers. “I know I know I
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know!”Married life. You had to
get your wife immediatelyout of a jam if she were inone. That was how oneshowedeverlastinglove.“Dammit!” he muttered to
himself.All the towels were dirty.
Hehadn’tdonethewash.Hesmelled one and decided shewouldn’t notice. He wassupposed to keep the houserunning while Gert was
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studyingforfinals,buthehadstuff on his mind and hadbeen busy, too. He wasworried about Freya. It hadbeen so long since she’ddisappeared and the familyseemed to be gettingnowhere. If anything, hisanxiety over his twin haddrivenhimtoplayevenmorevideogames.There was also his
volunteer work as afirefighter. The local
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firehousehadgivenhimatonof shifts because—as Fryr,the sun god, which theydidn’t know about, of course—he had a knack withflames. Fighting fires,observing RECEO (Rescue,Exposures, Confinement,Extinguishment, andOverhaul), was hard work,exhausting, and by the timehegothome,hewas just tootired to throwa load into thewashing machine. Of course
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therehadbeenacleanoneforhis shower after a day at thestation with the boys andtrompingaround in flames inthat heavy bunker gear. Hefeltjustatadguiltyatthat.“Freddie!”Gertscreamed.“Uh-oh,”Freddieremarked
to Buster. “Here goesnothing.”Best to playdumb.In a couple of leaps(everything was within acouple of leaps in thisapartment), hemade it to the
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bathroom, opened the door,and spied his beautiful wifehiding behind the showercurtain, dripping wet andlookingangry.Hesmiled.“Hereyougo!”
he said in the lightest, mostcheerful tone as he handedhertheusedtowel.Gert took a sniff and
grittedherteeth.“Thisstinks!God,Freddie! I askedyou towash thewhites—I leftPost-its,Itexted…”Sheshookher
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head.“Go!Closethedoor.”Dejected,Freddiewentand
sat on the couch and turnedoff the TV. He should cleanup the place. That wouldmake Gert happy. He rose,ambled to the kitchen, got agarbage bag, and beganthrowing out everything thatappeared superfluous: oldmagazines,newspapers, take-outbags,emptyChinesefoodcontainers,andsoon.Lately, things had just
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gotten too tense in thiscramped apartment. He andGert argued incessantly overthe most mundane things.Who cared if the bathroomsink and mirror werespattered with toothpaste?Who cared if Freddiecouldn’t find a video gameafter Gert had done thestraightening up? They hadboth gotten so petty lately.They fought about the tightquarters, but they were
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together,andwasn’tthatwhatwas most important?Sometimes the brawls endedinmad,hungrysex,butlatelyit was just pointlessarguments with no make-upsexafterward.Howlamewasthat? He and Gert had beenmarried for less than twomonths, and their marriagewasalreadyinthedumps.He had to do something
aboutit.“All right!” he said. “I’m
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vacuuming.”Freddiegotthevacuumout
of the narrow cabinet in thekitchen and plugged it in. Inthe living room, themachinesounded as loud as aHarley.Nowondertheyneverusedit.Busterranforhislifeintothebedroom,wherehehidunderthe bed on which Gert wasnow studying, bookssprawledallaroundher.Inthelivingroom,Freddie
had begun to use the bare
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metaltubetosuckthecrumbsout of the couch. That feltsatisfying. Then Gert wasuponhim,handsonherhips.“Whatareyoudoing?”she
boomedoverthemachine.“Um… what does it look
like?”Gert flicked the button on
thevacuumcleaneroff.Theystood in a silent face-off.Freddie admired his wife,thinking she lookedincredibly hot standing there
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withherwarriorface,asmallglimpse of her true nature asthejötunngoddessGerðr.Hewanted to do her right thereandthen.Hewassohardup,andsortofgettinghardatthethought.Butthenshespoke.“Can’t you see I’m
studying?Whatareyoudoing—tryingtosabotageme?”“What? No!” he said. “I
just thought you wouldappreciate some cleanlinessandorderaroundhere.”
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“What I would appreciateis a clean towel after ashower when I don’t havetimetowashany!”Therewasnowinning.But
Freddie was the bigger man.Hewasn’tgoingtogetintoitand explain that he haddecided to turn a new pageandthatdoinglaundryhad,infact, been on his agenda.First, he had decided to fixthepigstyaspectof theplace(Buster had nothing to do
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with it… but he didn’t wanttothinkabouttheirotherlittleproblem—or more likeproblems, plural—at themoment,whichwasprobablyoneof themain reasonsGertwas so tense). He would gether what she wanted. Hewould be a model husband.Hedecidedtogivehisspousesome space for now, take awalk and pick up somegroceries. He would fix thismarriage even if Gert had
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givenup.
He put on a cap, a coat, andgloves and walked outside,striding quickly down thesidewalk, the sun inhis face.Itwasabeautifulwinterday,and he cut across the park,admiring the silhouettes ofthe empty tree branches, andFreya surfaced in histhoughts.Whatwasshedoingnow? He could almost sense
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her. It was a reassuringfeeling, like a second heartbeatinginhischest.At the store, he bought
laundry detergent, papertowels, sponges, and threedifferent cleaning products—onethatwaspurpleandhadawhimsical Spanish name,Fabuloso. The pretty cashierbatted her thick blackeyelashes at Freddie. As hebagged his items, he winkedather. In turn,she lickedher
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lips. Even ifGert thought hewaslame,itwasnicetoknowhestillhaditgoingon.Hestoppedbywhatlooked
like a little hole-in-the-wall.The window read FOODSHOP.Theplacewasrunbya chef who made deliciousdishes he knew Gert loved.Freddie chose eggplantParmesan, beet and goatcheese salad, quinoa withlentils, and green beans inoliveoilandgarlic.Theyhad
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been eating so much junkfood lately—maybe that wasthecauseoftheirfoulmoods.Too many French fries andmilkshakes. Too many friedmozzarella sticks.Hadn’t hismother always said thateating well meant feelingwell?Last on his list of errands,
he purchased a smallchocolate cake, a bottle ofCabernet, and a bouquet oflilies. The flowers reminded
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him of Gert on better days.Suddenly, he felt terrific. Hefelt Fabuloso. The eveningwas going to be A-OK. Hewas going to winGert back.It was ridiculous that theirrelationship had come to thissoquickly.Theirvowsmighthave been exchanged atgunpoint, after he had blownhis chance to be with herstepsister Hilly (Brünnhilde,whom Fryr had loved sincetime immortal but could
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never have), but he did loveGert. He was evenmonogamous for a change.Hehad just thrownaway thereceipt with the cashier’snumberonit.When he returned to the
apartment, it appeared hiswifehadthesameideatogetthem back on track.A betteridea,even.“I’m so sorry, Freddie, I
havebeensuchabitchlately.Afteryouleft,Icleanedup.I
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feel like an asshole,” Gertsaidasshegreetedhimatthedoor in a satiny whitepeignoir.“I’ve been the asshole,”
saidFreddie.“Webothhavebeen…It’s
just having the pix—” shebegan, but Freddie didn’twant to be reminded of that,so he pressed a finger to herlips.He showed herwhat hehad bought, thinking theycouldhaveanindoorpicnic.
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“Oh, Freddie!” Gertgasped, and she pulled himintoakiss,pressingherbodyagainsthis.Freddie became instantly
hard again, aching to beinside his sexy, bitchy wife,forthehot,sweetsensationoftheir lovemaking. The forceof their kisses sent themtoppling onto the couch,groping, pulling, pushing ateachother,pantingheavily.Gert’s peignoir had fallen
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to the floor at thispoint, andtheycouldn’tgetFreddieoutof his clothes fast enough.She tore off his T-shirt.Freddie bent over to pull offhis shoes, as she grippedimpatientlyathis leatherbeltto get the big brass hipsterbuckleundone.One of Freddie’s Chuck
Taylors hit a wall, while theother flew into the air overthebackofthecouch.“Got it!” came a hoarse
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voice, and the clap of asneakercaughtinmidair.“Erggggggh!”saidFreddie,
half undressed, grabbing thepeignoiroff thefloortohandtoGert.“They’re here?” she said,
sitting up, donning the robe.“Ithoughtyousaidtheywentskiing!”“They were supposed to,”
saidFreddie,glaringatSven,who was holding up thesneaker, as the other pixies
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bustled into the apartment,carrying skis, snowboards,snowshoes, and what lookedlike the handles of asnowmobile. Freddie shookhishead.Sven,whosehairwasnow
turquoise, looked as scruffyas he usually did, cigarettestuckedinthesleeveofhisT-shirt,whichfeaturedthegrimreaper holding a scythestanding among cute puppiesandapenguinwithabowtie.
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Val sported a spiky crimsonMohawk, a blush in hischeeks from carrying fivepairs of skis up the threeflights. Irdick, the round-faced one with the paleplatinum hair, cried out,“Hey, Mom, Dad, we’rehome!”The girls—fair-haired
Kelda in Lolita heart-shapedsunglasses and dark, olive-skinned Nyph in star-shapedsunglasses—giggled. “Yeah,
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um,hi!”theysaidinunison.“Oops! I think we
interrupted something?”Keldapeeredaboveherheart-shaped lenses at Gert, whowastyingthebeltofhershortrobe. Then she looked atFreddie,stillshirtless,hishairmussed.Gertshookherheadbutthe
pixieswerenothavingit.“We totally did!” Nyph
snickered. The pixies wereagelessandimmortal,buthad
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achildlikeair,likeagroupofloudpreteens.“Gross!”saidSven.“Sorry!” Kelda said,
gigglingevenmore.“What are you doing
here?” asked Freddie,disgruntled. “You promisedtogoon a ski trip!What thehell?”Gert was incensed. “I lent
youmy car, for God’s sake!Can’t Freddie and I have theplacetoourselvesforonce?”
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“Yeah, about the car…”saidIrdick.“No!” said Freddie,
knowing what was coming.“Youdidn’t!”“Yeah,wedid,”saidSven.“T-t-t-totaled,”saidVal.Gert screamed, a scream
that lasted forever, ending inasinglesharpnotethatmadeeveryonecovertheirears.The pixies, who had been
Ingrid’swards,hadsomehowbecome Freddie’s
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responsibility.Hewasn’tsurehow that had happened.Something to do with Ingridhaving to concentrate on herresearch, and soon theywerejust underfoot. Ever sincethey had moved in a fewweeks ago, his marriage haddeteriorated.The pixiesweresupposedtohavestayedawaythe entire weekend, finallygivingthemalittlepeace.Butheretheywereagain.Itwasatotalnightmare.
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Talented thieves who hadgotten Killian in trouble inthe first place, they were incharge of stealing back thetrident from whoever hadtaken it (they swore theycouldn’t remember who hadassigned them the task ofstealing it from Freddieoriginally), but after a fewdays on the yellow brickroad, they claimed to have“lost the scent.” They werewaiting to pick it up again.
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No one knew when thatwouldbe.Theywereuseless,totalmooches,nottomentionthe messes they made andthat theyneverliftedafingerto clean.All theywanted, asSven put it, was to have“somegoddamnedfun.”And now they had totaled
Gert’s antique Jag, the onlything Mr. Liman had evergivenhisadoptivedaughter.Freddie sighed as he
picked up the phone to call
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theinsurancecompany.
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chapterten
TheMostImportantGirlinHisLife
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Thatmorninganotehadbeenleft on the kitchen table forIngrid. “Gone to find UncleArt inOhio.Love,MomandDad.” It was Saturday night,aboutsixintheevening.When Ingrid had called
Joanna’s cell earlier, hermother had sounded harried.What could have been sourgent while they were stillon theroad?Those twowerebehaving like delinquentteenstakingoffonajoyride.
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Ingrid wished they had toldher what it was about—butshe decided to stopworryingfor now. Her parents couldtake care of themselves. Shehad something far morepressingonhermind.Mattwasonhisway.They
had made special plans fortonight and she hoped itwould go smoothly—noawkwardness, discomfort, orfumbling. It was her way ofmaking it up to him for not
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beingavailablelately.Ever since Ingrid had
returned to the elusive littleseaside town to be closer toher family after years oflivingabroadandworking inAmerican universities, shehad remained in the roomupstairsnexttoFreya’sinhermother’s old colonial. Shespent so many hours at thelibrary that she hadn’t thetimetolookforanapartment.Plus, she had been
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comfortable here, with hermother and sister forcompany, and for a while ithad been a treat to have theentire family together again,with Freddie back and eventheir father, Norman,welcomed into their oldhomestead.Butasthemaximwent, good things neverlasted.Tonight, though, it was
really quite perfect that shehadthehousetoherself,logs
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burning in the fireplace,scented candles lit. She hadprepared dinner and set thetable in the dining room.Perhapssheshouldflickmorelights on? Would that bebetter? She decided to turntheonesinthediningareaon,dimmed, in addition to thecandlelight,sotheycouldseeeachotherwhiletheyate.Sheheaded upstairs, passing hergriffin,Oscar,inthehallway,his lion’s tail looping around
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herankle.“Oh,no,thiswon’tdo,my
dear, you have to be out ofsight this evening. You arejust too scary even thoughyou’re a pussycat.” Shegrabbed him by his featheryscruffandbroughthimtothepixies’ old haunt up in theattic. “Sorry,” she said sadly,locking the door. “Nottonight. Another time,perhaps.” She returned downthe stairs. Yes, witches do
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possess familiars, but theycertainly do not suckle them.Good gods! thought Ingrid.Howgross.Theyreallygotsomany things wrong back inSalem.She went inside her
bathroom. “Yikes,” she said,glimpsing herself in themirror.Shehadwornherhairdown, asMatt liked it, but itlooked a fright—witchy,really. She ran a brushthrough it, then sprayed it
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with some serum Freya hadrecommended so that itlooked glossy and smooth.Ingrid smiled at herreflection. There was a pinkflushinhercheeks,hergray-blue eyes shone, but her lipslooked pale. She found aberry-red lipstick, but whenshe put it on, it looked tooscarlet.She dabbed her lips, then
finishedthemoffwithatouchofgloss. “There!” She didn’t
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look half bad, she thought—not too pale or bookish orbland.The doorbell rang and she
started, losing hold of theperfume bottle, which fell tothe sink. She placed it backon the counter, decidingagainstit.Toooverbearing.Everything had to be
perfecttonight.Tonightwasthenight!Downstairs in the front
foyer,shetookadeepbreath.
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She steeled herself andopenedthedoor.Matt Noble stood in the
doorway with a shy grin.“Heythere!”Ingrid tingled all over at
thesightofhim.Thenshe turned to thegirl
beside him. “Maggie! Howareyou?It’ssogreattomeetyou—I’ve heard so muchaboutyoufromyourdad!”Tonight was the night
Ingrid was finally going to
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meet the most important girlinMatt’slife.Hisdaughter.“Likewise,” said Maggie,
givingIngridan impressivelyfirm handshake for a twelve-year-old. Maggie lookedunabashedlyatIngrid,herbigbrown eyes aglitter. And shewas so pretty. Beautiful wasmore like it, but more olivetonedandexoticlookingthanfreckly, Irish Matt. “What apretty dress!” Maggie said.“Is it vintage?Andyouhave
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suchgreathair!”“Well,Icouldsaythesame
to you.” The child wasdelightful.“IalwayswishedIcould be brunette.” Ingridnodded.“The proverbial grass is
always greener,” saidMaggie.“Exactly!”“Um, I’m here,” piped
Matt.“Oh, right!” remarked
Ingrid.
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“Butplease,Idon’twanttointerrupt the lovefest.” Hegrinned.Maggiegiggled.“Comein,”saidIngrid,and
once Maggie strode throughthe door into the house, sheand Matt took a moment toexchangeakiss.His cheek came around to
hers,tenderlynuzzlingit,andshefelthisbreathonherear,which made her melt.“You’ve got this one!” he
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whispered.“I hope so, I’m nervous,”
she said, then softly, “I’vemissedyou!”“Tell me about it!” he
boomed.
Maggiewasaquiet,watchfulchild but, at the same time,engaged and inquisitive. Shewaspolitebutalsoconfident.Over dinner, she askedadultlike questions,
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sometimes encouraging theconversation if there was alull. Matt’s daughter soughtto put people at ease, andIngridfeltgratefulfor it.Shefelt insecure about hercooking—she was no Freyain thekitchen.Hadsheover-grilled the scallops?Was thereduction of blackberryvinegartootartortoosweet?Did Maggie even likescallops?“Asamatteroffact, I’ma
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pescatarian. I don’t eat redmeat,”Maggie reassuredher.“It’s perfect. Really! Thesearesomoistandyummy.”Ingridlaughed,sippingher
wine.“So is it an ideologicalor health choice to be apescatarian?”“Ideological to a degree
but also a texture thing. Thetexture of meat makes methink of the poor animal. Iworry about lobsters, but Ijust love the way they taste.
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Have you ever read DavidFosterWallace’sessay?”“ ‘Consider the Lobster’?”
askedIngrid.Maggienodded,battingher
eyelashes. Matt winkedencouragingly at Ingrid. Shehad scored points. “It doesmakeyouthink.Sosadabouttheauthor’ssuicide.Dadsayshewasageniusbuthehatedall of his footnotes.” Shelaughed. She was indeed aprecocious child, thought
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Ingrid. “So Dad says you’redoing some research onSalem? The witch hunts andtrials?”Ingrid was a little taken
abackand looked toMatt forreassurance. She wasn’t surehow much the young girlknewaboutherbackground.“Maggie’s always been
fascinated by the macabre,haven’t you, kid? I thoughtI’dtellhera littleaboutyourwork… as an archivist and
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history scholar.” Mattcoughed.“I’vebeendiggingintoita
little—trying to see if I canfigureoutwhatwasthespark—whatstartedit…”“It was the girls, wasn’t
it?”askedMaggie.“Girlsmyage.”Ingrid nodded. “You’re
familiarwiththestory?”“A little. I know it started
withgirlshavingweirdfits.”“Yes,BettyandAbigail.It
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was in the parsonage, thehouse of Reverend SamuelParris, Betty’s father andAbigail’s uncle, where theystarted having those strangeconvulsions. When theywouldn’t stop, rumors begancirculatingthat thegirlswerebewitched.Thingstookabadturn when one of theirneighbors, Mary Sibley,decided to take matters intoher own hands, askingParris’s Caribbean Indian
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slaves, Tituba and herhusband,JohnIndian,tobakeawitch’scake.”“What’s that?” asked
Maggie, her eyes full ofwonder. She had pushed herplate aside to lean forwardtowardIngrid.Ingrid looked toMatt. She
smiled uncomfortably. “Idon’tknow if I should…It’snotparticularlyappetizing.”“Go ahead, she can take
it.”
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A witch’s cake, Ingridexplained,wastobeusedforcountermagic. It was to bebaked with some of Betty’sandAbby’surine,thenfedtoParris’s dog. If the dogbecame seized with fits, itwould prove that darkmagicwas at play. Or the animalmight also run to the witchresponsible for thegirls’ fits,thereby pointing out theculprit.“So what happened?”
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asked Maggie, breathless.“Didthedogloseit?”Ingrid shook her head.
“Mr.Parrisfoundthecakeasit was cooling, before it wasactually fed to the dog. HebeatTitubatoapulponcehefound out what it was andchastisedpoorMarySibleyinchurch before all theparishioners,statingthatwithMary’s actions, ‘the devilhathbeenraisedamongus.’”“Sheesh!” commented
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Maggie, andMatt laughed attheexpression.“Parris’s position in the
village was tenuous, and hewasn’t a well-liked man. Ithink he might have beenafraid that his girls wouldsoon be accused of beingwitches themselves. If thathappened, he could lose hisjob,hishome,everything.Sohedidwhathecould to shiftthe focus off his girls, offhimself. But with his words
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tohisparishioners,inasense,thedevilhad been raised.Atthat point, other girls in thevillagebeganhavingfits,too.Hysteria spread like acontagion. But now Parrisneeded a culprit, someone totake the blame. He badgeredBetty and Abby to tell himwho exactly had bewitchedthem.”“Anddidtheysay?”Ingrid looked down at her
hands.Shehad lived through
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the history shewas retelling,she knew how it ended.“Sadly, yes. Many peoplewere imprisoned andhanged.”Maggie shivered. “Do you
think any of it was real? Doyouthinkthegirlsmighthavebeen…cursedsomehow?”Before Ingrid could
answer, Matt cleared histhroat. “Speaking of witch’scake, I’m having a terriblehankering for dessert. You
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makeusanything,Ingrid?”Ingrid smiled at Matt’s
littleinsidejoke.“But, Dad, Ingrid hasn’t
answered my question,”Maggieadmonished.
Ingridsuggested theygo intothe kitchen for ice cream,strawberries, and whippedcream first before sheansweredMaggie.Shepassedaround the bowls and took a
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bite before addressing theissue. “Do I think the girls’fitswere real?No, of coursenot. They were faking it. Inmy opinion, it probablystartedoutasaprankthatgotout of hand and the girlscouldn’t recant theirstatements without beingpunished themselves. By thetime they did take back theirwords, it was too late. Somany of the victims hadalready perished. The
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remaining accused wereeventually released but stillhadtopaythejailer’sfees…”“Ugh! That’s awful!”
Maggie scooped up themelted ice cream at thebottom of her bowl, mullingit all over. She attempted tohideayawn.“Iwonderwhatgavethemtheideatoevendosuchathing.”Ingridhadbeenwondering
that herself and had recentlycome across a document that
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had proven to be veryrevealing: a pamphletpublished in 1689 by anobscureBoston clergyman, aminister who went by thename of Continence Hooker.An Essay on Remarkable,Illustrious, and InvisibleOccurrences Relating toBewitchments andPossessions. But they wouldbe here all night if she gotintothat,andsheknewatthispoint that Maggie wouldn’t
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be adverse to the idea. Shecouldn’tdothattopoorMatt.“It’s hard to believe girls
couldcause somuch trouble,huh?”Maggieasked.“Not too hard.” Matt
smirked.Ingrid nodded. Girls had
done this. Young girls,prepubescents, adolescents,innocentof the consequencesoftheiractions.Itwashardtobelieve they had desired tocausesomuchpain,somuch
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evil. Could they have beenmanipulated somehow?Used?Shewondered…“Well,it’slate,anditlooks
likewe’realltired,”shesaid.“Igaveyouanearful!Maybeanother time we can talkaboutitmore?”Maggienoddedasshetook
alastscoopfromherbowl.Matttiltedhishead.“Well,
I better get this one home tobed.”Maggie looked at her
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father, scrunching herforehead.“I’mnottired!”Matt laughed. “Sure you
aren’t,Pidge.”“Pidge?”askedIngrid.“Pigeon? There’s a kid’s
bookaboutnotwantingtogotosleep,”Maggieexplained.“Itusedtobeherfavorite.”“Dad still thinks I’m three
years old,” Maggie said,rolling her eyes. “Fine, let’sgo. Ingrid, where’s thebathroom?”sheasked.
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Ingrid told her, and whenshe turned toMatt she had anewappreciationforhim.Hewas a good father, devoted,loving. She had the urge tolean over the table and kissthe freckles on his nose. Itappeared he had the sameidea, as he put his hands onher face and kissed hergently.Afterhepulledaway, they
stared into eachother’s eyes,elbows on the kitchen table.
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“Did I do okay?” Ingridasked.“Better. She’s crazy about
you! Like I told you shewouldbe.”Ingrid smiled. She’d
always wanted a daughter,andshehadtoremindherselfthat Maggie already had amother.
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chaptereleven
OfGodsandMen
By Sunday, Joanna and
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Normanhadmade itmostofthe way across Pennsylvaniabutnotquite to theborderofOhioandhadstoppedfor thenight at the Happy HuntingLodge, a bed-and-breakfastoffI-80,smackinthemiddleof the snowy woods. Thetwo-storycenturies-oldbrick-and-wood saltbox appearedrun-down from the outside,buttheinteriorwascleanandcozy.Thewallsoftheroom—the
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“Gleeful Newlyweds Suite”of all things—were lemon,decorated with small oval-and square-framed sepiaphotographs of stocky-lookingmenandwomenwithsquinty eyes. There was aheavy, antique wooden bedmade up with crisp whitecotton sheets. In thebathroom, squeezed into atriangular wedge beneath thesloping roof, the brassfixtures gleamed, as did the
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glossy white claw-foot tub.Joanna found it heavenly tosink inside, washing off thedust from the road. After along soak, she threw on oneof the complimentary plushterryrobes.In the bedroom, she stood
over the dresser, her wetsilver hair a twist over ashoulder, as she lined upNorman’s evening meds,extracting a pill from eachcontainer—high blood
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pressure, cholesterol, and soon. Altogether, he had fourdifferent pills to take. Beingimmortals didn’t make themimpervioustotheailmentsofage, and these days theyfound themselves especiallyvulnerable with their magicebbing.Shelookedoutthewindow
into the darkness of thewoods, where a thin streamthreaded through the trees.An owl hooted. Norman lay
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onthebedwithanabstractedexpression,hishandsclaspedbehindhishead.“Remember the first time
we walked to the Bofrir?”Joannaaskedasshesatonthesideofthebed,offeringhimaglassofwaterandthepillsinherpalm.Everythingthatwashappening now had startedback then, in Asgard, whenthe bridgewas still standing.They were Nord and Skadi,gods of the sea and earth,
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back when the universe hadbegun, when everything inthenineworldswasnew,andeventheirlovewasanascentdiscovery, flutteringeyelashes against cheeks, avery first kiss, delectable,sweet, untainted. They hadwalked the Bofrir, thatrainbow path wrought ofdragon bone, the vessel thatentwined the powers of allgods within, connectingAsgardtoMidgard.
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“Remember?” sherepeated.Normansatupandtookthe
pills silently. He placed theglass on the bedside tablenext to his phone. “Mybodymight have weakened, mymagic waned, but I am notsenile yet, Jo.” Lying backdown,he took inabreath.“Iremember, we stared acrossthat great abyss, wonderingwhat itwas likeon theotherside.”
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“And now we’re stuckhere, unable to return,” shesaid.“Well, would you? Go
back?” asked Norman. “Imean now, having lived inMidgard?Wouldyouwant itanyotherway?”The lastwasachallenging
question. The bridge’sdestruction had imperiledtheir lives—the lives of godsas well as mortals. Asparadoxical as it was, she
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wouldn’ttradeherexperiencein Midgard for anything. “Iloveithere,”sheconcluded.“Yes,”saidNorman.“This
ishomenow.”“But why did it happen?
And what exactly happenedthat day? We still don’tknow.” Joanna sighed,frustrated. The bridge hadbeen destroyed and nowKillian Gardiner—the godBalder—hadbeenaccusedasthe culprit and seized by the
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Valkyries. But if anyonebelieved Killian was trulybehindit,Joannahadabridgetosellthem.“Well,” he said, “we do
know thatFreddiewas there,sincehistridentdestroyedthebridge and was found in itsruins, and that Killian was abystander. Killian attemptedtoshift the time line tobringthe bridge back, but hecouldn’t. He also tried tokeepLokithere,butofcourse
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hegotaway.NeitherFreddienor Killian saw what reallyhappened though. Or theydon’t remember. Or theirmemories were tamperedwith.”“It’sLoki,it’salwaysbeen
Loki,” Joanna said.From thebeginning her suspicionsalways ran toward BranGardiner, better known asLoki.Freyahadseentoitthathe had been banished fromNorth Hampton, but where
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washenow?Thedarkgodofmischief had a vendettaagainstFreyaandher family.Loki had been sent to thefrozen depths for his part inthe bridge’s demise, andJoanna was sure he wasbehindFreya’sdisappearanceas well. She looked atNorman, her blue eyesshininginthedimlylitroom.Her husband nodded. “It
does appear that Loki’spowers prevailed and he can
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travelthroughthepassagesoftimeashewishes.Butnooneactually saw him destroy thebridge,sonooneknowswhatreallyhappened.”“ButithadtobeLoki.His
powers increased, he canmove betweenworlds; it hadtobehim.”“Not necessarily,” replied
Normanwithafrown.“You have an alternate
theory?”“Imight.”
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“Caretoshareit?”“Not yet,” Norman said,
and it was clear he wasthinking of that long agotime, when they had beenyoung and in love. Oh, thesuitors she had had. Joannasmiled to herself. She couldhave had the most powerfulgod in the universe, but shehadwantedNorm.They fell silent. The owl
outside their window hadquieted, too, and the only
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sounds were of the windthroughtheforestandtheoldBandBcreakingonitsstonefoundation. Norman’s cellrang,andtheybothjumped.Norm glimpsed at the
callerID.“It’sArt!”“Oh, thank thegods,” said
Joanna.It was strange to hear his
brother’s voice, whichsoundedsotiredandgravelly.“Art! How are you? Yousoundasifyou’vebeenliving
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inacave!”JoannacouldhearArthur’s
muffled response, but shecouldn’tmakeout thewords.She stared inquisitively atNorman, egging him on totellhersomething.“Huh!” Norm turned to
Joanna. “Well, what do youknow?…He’shidingoutinacaveinOhio.”HesignaledtoJoannatograbpenandpaperfrom the suite’s desk, andwhenshebrought themover,
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he scribbled down thedirections his brother gavehim.
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chaptertwelve
TheSalondesRefusés
Gert and Freddie’s living
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roomwasfilledwithcigarettesmoke that coiled upward tothe ceiling. Someone hadbrought a small vintagerecord player that scratchedout John Coltrane’s BlueTrain in the background, abluesy, moody, slipping,slidingtempo.Gert’s friends from school
had dubbed these smoky,candlelit get-togethers theirSalon des Refusés. TheFrench term was usually
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meantforagallerydisplayingart rejected by themainstream,butinthiscaseitwas these kids who sawthemselvesas theunacceptedmasterpieces. They weresplayed about the apartment,eating olives, crackers, andcheese, drinking red wine,languidly smoking cigarettes.They all came from wealthyfamilies, but they liked toaffect an impoverished air.Discussing Sartre, Camus,
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Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, andHeidegger, they thoughtthemselves incredibly soignéandsophisticated.Sam,with a thinmustache
and soul patch, lay sidewayson a beanbag, peering outfrom behind Ray-BanWayfarers.Besidehim,cross-legged, sat Gert’s sisterCassandra, a.k.a. Swanwhite:long, pallid, anorexic thin.She had become part of thecrew since she began dating
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Sam, whom she’d met at acampus party Gert hadinvited her to last semester.She didn’t say much butlooked the part. There wasanother couple, a youngmanwith a scraggly beard and awomanwithboyish-shorthairand bright red lips, whosenames Freddie couldn’tremember.Freddie thought the
pretentious bunch mostlyharmless, although the worst
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among them was Judith—aphilosophy major whosported a slanting jet-blackbob with uneven featherybangs high above her wideforehead. The voice thatissued from her crimson lipswas icy and mocking,especially when directed atFreddie.Judithtookadragfromher
cigarette and exhaled slowly.“So tell us, Fred, when wetalk of existence preceding
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essence, what meaningexactlydoyoufindinbeingafireman?”Shehadatouchofan unidentifiable accent,which Freddie chalked up tocoming from Fakeland.“Does it help quell thedoldrums? Bring somesignificance to an otherwisesenseless and absurdexistence?Orisitsimplythatyou are fulfilling a littleboyhoodfantasy?”The kids in the room
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laughed.Freddiewasveryannoyed.
Normally her barbs amusedhim, but this time he wasn’tgoingtotakeit.“Well,Judy,”he said, taking liberty withhernameasshedidwithhis,“you pride yourself on beingsuch a feminist and yet yousay ‘fireman’ instead of themore up-to-date and genderunspecificfirefighter?”“Ooh!” said the room,
impressed.
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“Touché!” said Judith.“But you still haven’tansweredmyquestion.”Although she was just
tryingtoimpresseveryoneinthe room, Freddie found herquestion stupid. It didn’treallydeserveananswer,butifshewasgoingtopresshimhe was going to answer.“Being a firefighter isprobably as meaningful as itgets,Judy.Isavelives.”“Aha!” said Judith. “Lives
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that perhaps don’t need orwanttobesaved!”Freddie couldn’t quite
believe what he was hearingnow.“That’s what it all comes
back to,” piped in Sam. “Intheoverwhelmingfaceoftheabsurd, there is only onemajor question we must askourselves—”“Whether to live or die,”
finished Cassandra. Samleanedoverandkissedher—
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hisgoodlittlestudent.Gert, who was sitting on
the couch, coughed. “Youguysaregettingmorbid.”Finally, thought Freddie,
his wife had decided she’dhadenoughoftheirnonsense.“Yeah, that’s totally idiotic,”he added. “If you’re in ahouse that’s going up inflames, all you want is tomakeitoutalive.Theurgetoliveprecedeseverything.”Helaughed. “These are all just
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emptyintellectualconcepts—theoretical, speculative. Theyhave nothing to do with reallife. Firefighting is life.”There.Hehadsaidsomethingintelligent and meaningful.He could keep upwith thesecollege kids, even thoughthey acted as if he werebeneath them. He looked toGert for approval, but sherolledhereyes.“My friends are not
morons,”shereprimanded.
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Hehadn’tsaidthat,andhecouldn’t believe Gert wasn’ttakinghisside.“No, we’re not,” said
Judith,smirkinginawaythatmeant she was about to hitthem with her SAT scoresagain—or brandish the nameof their university like acudgel, as if Freddie gave arat’sass.“Andwhy…”“Why what?” What did
Gertseeinthesepeople?Justthen he spotted Kelda and
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Nyphpeekingtheirheadsoutof their bedroom. Gert hadasked themtostayoutof theway for the evening. Theymouthed something toFreddie,buthecouldn’tmakeit out. “Excuseme,” he said,andlefttheroom.“He still hasn’t gotten rid
of his little friends?” Judithasked Gert as Freddie strodetoward the pixies’ room. Hecould hear her continuing topoison his wife’s mind,
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loudly whispering somethingabout a grown man hangingout with teens and how thatwas weird and how she wasworriedforGert.Val was strumming an
electric guitar that wasn’tpluggedin.Whoknewwherehehadgotten it.Sven layonthetopofabunkbed,readingRaymond Chandler’sFarewell, My Lovely, whileIrdickwastakinganapinthelowerbunk.
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“What?” Freddie askedKelda and Nyph, who weregrabbingathisT-shirt.“We hate Judith. We hate
her!”Nyphsaid.“Yeah,”saidKelda.“She’s
awful. She deserves acomeuppance.”“She’sGert’s friend,” said
Freddie. “I’m warning youguys,leaveheralone.”“Butwhyisshesomeanto
you?” asked Nyph. “You’rethebest.”
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“She wants him,” saidIrdick,rollingover.“Obvious!”addedSven.“Who doesn’t want
Freddie?” threw in Val,gliding his fingers down theneckofhisguitar.Freddieshrugged,suddenly
exhausted. He decided to golie down in his room. Hehadn’tgottenmuchsleeplastnight. There had been aparticular nasty fire: a housein the suburbs had burned
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down,andtheyhadrescuedababy and three-year-old girl.Theparentswerenowhere tobe found. The policesuspectedfoulplay.Helayonhisbed,listening
to the vapid chatter in theliving room and quickly fellasleep. Hewokewith a startfromadreaminwhichhehadbeen engulfed by flames thatwouldn’t obey him as theyusuallydid.Gert hung over him,
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shakinghimbytheshoulders.“Where’sJudith?”sheasked.Freddieblinkedhiseyes.It
tookawhiletoorienthimself.“I don’t know. With you? Ijustcameinheretonap.”“Everyone’s leaving now
but Judith’s disappeared. Ithought she went to thebathroom.”Freddie reached a hand to
Gert’s peachy cheek andcaressedit.“Sheprobablyleftwithouttellingyou.”
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Gertturnedaway,rebukinghiscaress.“I’mwalkingthemout.”Freddiewatchedhergo.He
listened to his wife see herfriends off, then return to dohertoiletriesinthebathroom.Not a peep from the pixies.Theymusthavegonetosleepor left for their nocturnaladventures.Maybe therewashope forhimandGert togetluckytonight.Gert returned to the
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bedroom. Freddie sat up towatchherundress.Shepulledoffherjeans,thenherstripednavy tee, her blond haircascading down across hershoulders. Standing in onlyher underwear, her backwaslong and muscular. She hadlittle depressions at the baseof her spine, dimples aboveeachbuttock,whichhefoundvery sexy. She threw on anoldT-shirt,climbedintobed,and turned away from him.
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Freddie sighed. They hadturned into an old, silent,apatheticcouple.A loud thump came from
farther inside the apartment,thenmorethumping.Gert turned to him.
“What’sthat?”“Beats me,” said Freddie.
It sounded as if it had comefromtheterrace.Herose,andGertfollowedhim.Whenhepulledthecurtain
away from the sliding glass
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doors to the terrace, Gertright behind him, they bothstared. There was Judith,gaggedwithoneofFreddie’sbandannas,strappedtoachairthat was now tipped againsttheglassso thathershoulderandforeheadslumpedagainstit. She was staring at them,eyeswide and frantic. It hadprobablytakenhersometimetoinchthechairtotheslidingglass doors so she couldheave herself against them
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andmakethenoise.Herhair,which was usually neatlystyled, looked wild. Sheshimmied, letting out amuffledgrunt,urgingthemtocomeoutside.Gert swung thedooropen.
“Oh, my God! Judith! Whathappened?”She removed thegag and saw that Judith hadbeen strapped to the chairwith several of Freddie’sbelts.“Those friends of yours!”
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Judith muttered. “The littleones!”“Youputthemuptothis!”
Gert accused as she swungaroundonhim.“Freddie,howcouldyou!”shesaid, lookingutterly betrayed as sheunsnapped the belts andreleased her friend. “It’sfreezing out here! She couldhavedied!”But did she want to live?
Freddie wanted to ask butrefrained. “It wasn’t me, I
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swear!” He called for Nyphand Kelda but they weregone.Freddie knew the pixies
werejusttryingtohelp,butatthis rate they were going tohelpgethimadivorce.
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chapterthirteen
DetectiveNoble
Matt had called Ingrid toinviteheroverforaSaturday-night movie. He was all by
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himself, he told her, missedher something crazy, andthought he could tempt heraway from her books bywatching Hitchcock’s ToCatchaThief.“I’ll come right over,” she
said, and could hear himgrinning on the other end oftheline.Shewasdown in Joanna’s
study, wading through morebooks for the answers, butshe needed to unwind. She
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missedMattsomethingcrazy,too.Mother and Father wereout there looking for UncleArt—surely she could take abreak.Save formeetingwithMatt and Maggie lastweekend,shehadbeengoingnonstop, and they hadn’tspent any timealone inwhatseemed eons. What kind ofrelationship was that? Not arelationship at all—which hehad been frequentlyremindingherlately.
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NowMattsatonhissideofthe king-size bed, whileIngrid sat on the other, hershoeskickedoff,armsloopedaround her knees, a bowl ofpopcornbetweenthem.Itwaslike having to start fromscratchalloveragaintobreakthrough thebarrierofmutualshyness.Mattpointed the remoteat
theflatscreenacrossfromthebed. A swell of music rose,and “VistaVision Motion
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Picture High-Fidelity” cameon the screen superimposedover a snowy peak.Technicolor.Exteriorday:theshop window of a travelagencyfestoonedwithpostersofFrance, behind the glass acruise ship model, then amock Eiffel Tower fartherinside. Cars rolling pastreflected in thewindow.Thecamera zoomed in on aposter:IFYOULOVELIFE,YOU’LL LOVE FRANCE.
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Cut:awomanscreamsat thediscovery of her missingjewels.Matt turned to Ingrid and
putahandonherthigh.“Youhad quite a captive audiencethe other night,” he told her.“Maggie can’t stop talkingabout those Puritan girls andwhattheydid.”Ingrid smiled. “I’ve been
obsessingaboutthem,too.”“Sohow’stheworkgoing?
Findanythinguseful?”
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“A little. I think I’vefigured out how the girls gottheidea.”Ingridunfoldedherknees,reachedfortheremote,and turned off the television.Matt grabbed the bowl ofpopcorn between them andmovedittohisbedsidetable,then he rolled over, closer toher, lying on his side, headproppeduponhispillows,hishandstillonherbody.Ingrid was very conscious
ofthefeelofhishandonher
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thigh, its weight and thetingling sensation that sent aflush to her cheeks. Theslightest touch from him andherentirebodygrewweak.Itfeltlikeithadbeenagessincethey had last made out. Shecarefullyplacedahandonhisas she told him about thatdocument she had found inthe archives. ContinenceHooker’sessay.“Reverend Hooker?” Matt
chuckled. He scooted up to
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her to rest the back of hisheadonherlap.Ingrid laughed nervously.
For a moment, she wasn’tsure where to place herhands. Matt had closed hiseyes. She stared down at hishead, his wide, creasedforehead, the frecklessplashed across his nose, thefetching cleft in his chin.Hewas really so handsome.“Yep, that was really hisname,” she said, running her
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fingers through his soft redhair.There.That felt natural.Why was she being so self-conscious?Couldhe tell?Helooked like a sleepy, verycontented cat. “ContinenceHooker,canyouimagine!”“Better than Incontinent
Hooker,Isuppose,thatwouldbe a real problem,” he said,opening his eyes to look atherwhileshetoldhimalittlemoreabouttheatmosphereofthetimes.
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Apparently, in lateseventeenth-century NewEngland, individuals whowere struck by strange fitsentailing severe physicalcontortions and nonsensicalbabblingwerenotcompletelyout of the ordinary.Sensational cases ofbewitchment weredocumented by leadingBoston clergymen, and theseessays were published aspamphlets that became
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widelypopular. Ingridrattledon excitedly, “You know,theywerekindoflikecheapiebestsellers, like today’s self-published e-books about theafterlife or alien abductionsorparanormalactivity.”Matt whistled the theme
songfromTheX-Files.Ingrid giggled, then went
on. “The thing you need toknow about these essays isthat they were written for apurpose, which was to
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encourage a belief in thesupernatural. Read, thedevil.” She went on toexplainwhatshemeantmorespecifically.Around this time, in the
last decades of theseventeenth century,figureheads of colonialsociety—both in the churchand political office, the twogoing hand in hand—hadgrown to fear the effects ofcommercialism, scientific
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thought,andindividualismonthe old Puritan ideals. Theybelieved that these insidiousnewwaysweredeleterioustomorality. Ingrid concluded,“These pamphlets weredesignedtoshowwhatwouldhappen ifone let thedevilofmodernism through one’sdoor.”Matt’s eyes were closed
again, and she suddenlyfeared that all her dryacademictalkmighthaveput
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him to sleep. But then hiseyespoppedopen,brightandalert.“Soyou’resayingthesethingsweredesigned tokeepthemassesinline?”Ingrid laughed. “I’ve
certainly hooked a smartone!”Matt smiled and brought
up a hand to play with herhair.Ingrid wasn’t finished.
Someone like ReverendParris, she explained, would
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have subscribed to such abelief system and purchasedthese kinds of pamphlets inBoston,keepingthemaswellas a Bible in his upstairsstudy. “Here’s the thing thatgavemethechillswhenIputit all together. Hooker’sdescriptions of one youngwoman’s fits in a householdon the outskirts of Bostonwere nearly identical to theones recorded by variouswitnessesofAbbyandBetty.
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Not just nearly identical, butword for word, action foraction,almostthesamething.The girls used the samewords, same combinations,phrases, even sentences, todescribe the tortures theyendured and the specters andfamiliars they saw, as inHooker’saccount.”“Could it be a
coincidence?”askedMatt.Ingrid shook her head. “If
anything, these girls were
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lackinginoriginality.”“So what you’re saying
is…”“They got the idea from a
book.Thispamphlet.”“Okay.” Matt nodded. He
sat up. “But remember theseareruralgirls inseventeenth-centurySalem…”Ingrid nodded, impressed
thatMattsawtheproblemsoquickly.“Iknow.Howcouldthey get the idea from abook? They couldn’t read.
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Theycouldn’tevensigntheirnames on their testimonies.They used X’s instead. Sotheregoesthattheory…”“Hold on, don’t give up
yet…”Ingridstaredathim.“The girls couldn’t read…
so someone read it to them.Someone who wanted themtoknowaboutit,orsomeonewho didn’t know what theywoulddo…”saidMatt.She felt her skin tingle in
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excitement. “Matt, I couldkiss you—of course!Someone read Hooker’spamphlettothem!Butwho?”Matt smiled. “We’ll figure
thatoutlater,”hesaid.“Nowaboutthatkiss…”
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chapterfourteen
CavernintheWoods
By early afternoon, Joanna
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and Norman had arrived atthecave.Upapaththroughacraggy cliff, there was awooden door set into themouth of the entrance. Theyfound it unlocked and itcreakedopenas theyset footinside.Thiswasnoordinarycave.
The walls were indeedmadeof the same craggy blackstoneasthecliff,butitwasn’twhat Joanna had envisionedhearing thewordcave.There
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were linoleum floors, akitchen in the back, and acouch and bookshelves infront. To their dismay theplacewas ransacked—papersscattered everywhere, acomputer lying on the floor,pillows sliced open, gutted,eiderdown stuffingeverywhere. The fridge aswellasthestovehadbeenleftopen. It was a mess. Theyexchanged a troubled look.“What happened?” Joanna
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asked. They began to searchthe place, calling Arthur’sname.“He’s not here,” Norman
yelledfromthekitchen.“Not here either,” she
reported from the bathroom,whosetubwascarvedintotherock.Norm came around a
counter,andtheybothtookaseatinthediningarea.“Now what?” said Joanna
in tears, her emotionshaving
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gottenthebestofher.Arthurhadseemedliketheirbestbetat getting to Freya, and nowhewasgone.Norman reached out for
her hands. His brother hadeither been taken or he hadmoved to his next hidingspot.And someone had beenhere looking for something.Whatever it was, their hopesof Art leading them throughthe passages of time weredashed. Perhaps it had
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something to do with theyoung wolves Arthur wasalways talking about, someoldfavorthathehadtodofora friend. In any event, thatwasanotherstory.Joanna looked up at him,
and he wiped her tears.“Don’tdespairyet, Jo.Thereisonelastresort.”She knew what he was
going to say but hoped hewouldn’t.“TheOracle.”
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She shook her head. TheOraclewasbestleftalone.Norman insisted. “Itmight
be the only way to save ourdaughter.”
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chapterfifteen
FightingFirewithFire
Snow was melting on the
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sidewalksofNewHaven.Thelittle cul-de-sac was full ofthe scent of wet leaves andgrass, along with a darker,acridsmell.Thehouseontheendof the streetwason fire.Flames licked the upstairswindows. A girl on thesidewalk was screaming thatone of her roommates wastrapped inside. “I knowSadie’s in there. She wasasleep when we left for theparty.Gether!Please!”
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Red,white,andbluelightsflashed over the houses.Neighbors in pajamas hadcome outside to watch. Aclusterof fratboys in flannelshirts, hoodies, and jeanscommented on the action.“Youthinkchuckingthatkegofbeeratitwouldhelp?”onesaid.“Why would you do that,
dude?”Another giggled. “The
flames are awesome, man!
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God,I’mhigh.”“Me,too.Youmeanthisis
real?”Thegirl, raccooneyedand
looking rumpled in a puffyjacket over a short dress,explained to the firstrespondersthatwhenshehadreturnedhomefromthepartytwo fire trucks, anambulance, and three policecars were already on thescene.Thetruckladderswereextended and several
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firefighters had climbed ontothe roof and were hackingaway. One of the firemensoughttocalmthegirldown,instructing her to sit on thecurb out of the way. TheEMTs came over and gaveher a blanket. “My otherroommates are still at theparty, but Sadie—she stayedhome.She’sinthere,”thegirlsobbed to a pair of policeofficerstakingnotes.Inside the house, Freddie
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wasmaking hisway throughthe smoke-filled corridorupstairs. Somewhere behindhimwashisteam—BigDave,Hunter, and Jennie, the lonefirewoman on the team. Thetrapped girl had been callingouttothemforhelpfromoneof therooms in theback,butnowshe’dgonequiet.The hallway seemed to go
on forever, the rooms on theway empty, filling withsmokeandflames.Itwasasif
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someone had splashed theentire place with anaccelerant.Andtherewasnotone fire sprinkler in thiscampushouse.Hugepossiblelawsuit, Freddie thought.Underneathhismaskwiththeself-contained breathingapparatus, he could hear hisbreathinggettinglouder.Freddiereachedoutahand,
pushing at the flames alongone wall, redirecting them:they moved down the wall
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but unexpectedly billowedback.UsuallytheyrespondedtoFreddie’s everycommand,the way a musician in theorchestra pit follows aconductor’s baton and handgestures: rising, lowering,fading, stopping. Tonight theflames had a mind of theirown.If he didn’t find the girl
soon, they were screwed.First came self-preservation,thenrescue.Butheknewshe
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was close, and he needed toget toher.At thispoint, theywould have to exit via theroof. The fire had followedthem up the stairs. Heremembered a recent dreamin which he’d beensurrounded, engulfed byflames, and realized thenightmare was presentlyunfoldingbeforehim.Hehadnopowerovertheflame—hehad become an ordinaryfirefighter in themidst of an
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out-of-controlfire,ahouseonthe verge of collapse. Sweatpoured off his forehead,trickled down his neck. Heheard the axes against theroof.He moved farther inside a
room. He sensed her. Hecould hear her heartpounding, or was that his?The carpet burned in spots.The crackling grew louderaround him. He pointed hisflashlightand sawanopened
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door, the bathroom, the girlon the tile floor, curled in aball. Something hit hardagainst his helmet, fallingbehind him, grazing hisbunker jacket—flamingdebris. He quickly movedtoward the girl in thebathroom. Flames leaped outat him from the side. Hemadeahandgestureandtheyrippled away, but thendetached and spread,crackling and flickering,
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barring hisway.He couldn’tstop them. The fire paid noattentiontohim.Dammit! He knew his
magichadbeen losingvigor,but he hadn’t been aware ithad become this feeble. Heneeded to save the girl andget out. He moved forward,but theflamesmoved towardhim. He lunged to the side.The flames lunged, flingingFreddie onto the floor like awrestler, clasping a hand of
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fireathisneck.Hismaskfelloff, and Freddie gasped inscaldingflames.This is it,hethought.Imagesflashed throughhis
mind. He remembered thefirst time he had really seenGert—thatdayonthecampuswhen Hilly had broken upwithhim.Hesawherdancingalong the lamppost-lit path,her blond hair swaying,reflecting the light, the wayshe smiled as she turned to
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him.Fire burned at his neck as
the flames squeezed the airoutofhislungs.Hehadneverexperienced death before,unlike the other gods, whowoulddieandcomeback;hehad been trapped for almostall of his long life inLimbo.Hewondered ifhe shouldbeafraid. They always cameback, of course, but itwouldmeansayinggood-byetothislife. Good-bye to Gert for
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now, and who knew if hewould be able to find heragain? Then someone waspushinghim,rollinghisbody,calling his name, sprayinghim with foam. The firevanished, its hot weightdissipated. Jennie kneeledbeside him. “Big Dave’s gotthisone,”shesaid.“It’sokay,Freddie. You’re okay.We’regettingyououtofhere.”
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Freddiewoke to faintnoises:beeping,whispers,squeaking,breathing. He blinked hiseyes open and found himselfstaring up at a pale pinkceiling.Hisvisionwasblurry,the fluorescent lights tooglaring. He felt his body’sdeadweight, so heavy on thehospital bed. He turned hishead to the side, and therewasGert,staringathimwithsomuch tenderness.Shewashere.
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“You’re awake,” shewhispered, rising from herchair. She came over andtouched his forehead, leanedoverandkissedhimgently.His throat was dry and
sore, andhe couldbarelygeta word out. “Gert,” hemanaged. “The girl… is sheokay?”“She’sfine.Yousavedher.
They wouldn’t have knownshewasthereifithadn’tbeenfor you.” Gert smiled
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lovinglyathimandbroughtaglass of water up to hisparched lips, helping himholdhisheadup sohecoulddrink.“Iwas so scaredwhenIheardwhathappened!Theytoldmeabeamfellontopofyou,pinningyoudown!Whathappened—is it because wecan’tdoanythinganymore?”Freddie nodded. His body
ached, and there was astinging sensation along hisneck. All out of magic. Gert
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couldfeelit,too.Theydidn’ttalkaboutitmuch,butitwasthere—a slow transition tomortality.Whatdiditmean?“I’m sorry about Judith,”
he said. “She didn’t deservethat.”“It’s not your fault. The
pixies confessed.” A smallsmile played on her lips.“And anyway, it was sort offunny…”Shelaughed.He laughed. “I love you,”
hesaid.
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“Iloveyousomuch!”Gertblinked,and tearspushedoutfrombeneathherthicklashes,rolling down her cheeks. “IthoughtIhadlostyou!”“Never!”saidFreddie.
When they returned to theapartment they discoveredthey had the place tothemselves for once, thepixiesoutofsight.Freddielayonthebedand
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Gert lay on top of him, herthickhaircascadingoverhimas she gently kissed at hiswounds, her lips a healingbalm. He reached for theclasp at the back of her braandtookitoffone-handed.“You’re such a pro,” Gert
teased.He grinned as theymoved
together, Gert on top,grinding. Freddie felt alive,so alive, and life was goodagain—Gertwasback.
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chaptersixteen
ThePerfectFamily
Matt had Maggie for theweekend.EventhoughIngrid
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had made a point of tellinghim she would be busy, sheharboreda small, secretwishthat he might call, surpriseher, ask her to do somethingimpromptu with them. Thetruth was Ingrid was lonely.Her research was at astandstill: while she hadzeroed in on the probablesource of the hysteria, therewerestill somany thingsshedidn’t know.Why?Why didthegirlsdo it?Whydid they
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suddenly begin to pointfingers and call their variousacquaintances and friendswitches?In the meantime, Joanna
and Norman had gone MIA,andshehadcalledFreddietosee if he andGertwanted tospend the weekend on LongIsland, at home, bring thepixies even—but they wereall busy, too. Ingrid hadvisited the other week afterFreddie’s accident, and she
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was relieved to findher littlebrother doing well. Shemissed him, but as sheunderstood it, he and Gertwere having some kind ofsecondhoneymoon.She called her best friend,
Hudson, but he was in thecitywithhisboyfriend,Scott.That was odd—hadn’tHudsonmentioned onFridayastheyhadclosedthelibrarythat he would be in NorthHampton“allweekendlong,”
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hard at work on thatdissertation for his doctoratein Romance languages atHarvard? Ingrid had helpedhim pick out a few salientbooks for his research. Howmany years was it now thathe had been working on hisPhD?Was itgoingoneight?No wonder, thought Ingrid,shaking her head at herfriend, if he was running offto the city to go shoppingwhen he promised to buckle
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down.Her pride kept her from
calling Matt and admittingshehadfreetime.ItwasnoononaSaturday.
A long, solitary weekendstretched ahead. Who elsemight she call? Tabitha?Butshe remembered Tab andChad were off on theirbabymoon to some resort intheBahamas.Dejected, Ingrid walked
into the kitchen to make a
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sandwich. But because herrebellious teen of a motherhad vanished on a joy ride,the fridge was nearly empty.An expired yogurt. Limpcarrots. Old Chinese food into-go containers from HungSung Lo’s. Ugh! Part ofFreya’sgeniuswasscaringupamealwhentherewasbarelya thing left in the fridge andcupboards. Ingrid longed tohear her sister’s laughter,wished Freya was in the
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kitchen making one of thosemagical meals, the two ofthem talking about anythingthatcametomind.She needed to get out of
thisgloomy,quiethouse.Shewould grab a panini at thelocalcafé,bringanewspaper,catch up on current events.She had become such a borewith her head stuck in theseventeenth century and hadnoideaaboutwhatwasgoingon in the world lately.
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Tabitha had been appalledwhenIngridhadadmittedshehadn’t known the actor whoplayedayounghipster in theshowWilliamsburg had diedin a plane crash last week,one of those little four-seaterjets.Ingrid had never even
heardofthatshow.
A scattering of clouds hunglow on the horizon, but
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overhead,theskywasaclearrobin’s egg blue. Itwas coldbut thebreeze smelledof thesea,andtherewereanumberofwinter tourists about,wholiked the cheaper rates andhad been lucky enough tofind their way to thecharming little town. WhenIngrid arrived at Geppetto’s,the café at the end of thepark,theoutdoortablesinthecovered and heated patiowere all taken. The hostess
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cameover,askinghowmanywerejoiningher.Ashamed of being alone,
Ingrid glanced down. “Justme,”shemuttered.The girl smiled as if she
pitied her. “Great!” she saidon a high note, then gaveIngridtheonce-over.“I’llseewhat I can do.” She pivotedonherheel.Ingrid stood in line, her
pursedanglingoffashoulder,her newspaper in hand. She
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liftedher sunglassesonto thecrown of her head andscanned the tables. Someonewas waving. Matt. Shestarted. He was sitting withMaggie and a gorgeous-looking brunette in big darksunglasses. Who was thiswoman who was leaningtoward Matt, whisperingsomething inhisear, lookinga little too intimate forIngrid’s taste.Maggie lookedupandsawIngrid,andbegan
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flailingherarms.“Overhere!”theyounggirl
greeted.Ingrid had no other choice
thantomakeherwaytowardthem.“Hey!” said Matt. “What
areyoudoinghere?Ithoughtyouwerebusyallweekend.”“Iam.I,uh…justneededa
breakandsomethingtoeat.Idohavetogetbacktowork,”she lied. She patted her bun,makingsureitwasinplace.
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The woman removed hersunglasses and staredexpectantlyatIngrid,smiling.Somethingabouther recalledan elegant Italianmovie star,like a Sophia Loren orClaudia Cardinale. She wastheopposite of Ingrid: busty,hourglass shaped, dark,sensual looking. Matt hadcompared Ingrid to GraceKelly, but next to thisbombshell she felt pale, thin,andgangly.
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Maggie stared at Ingridwith her big, watchful eyes.“Thestuffedclamsare todiefor.Come,sitwithus!”Ingridfeltatalossandthe
womanelbowedMatt,givinghim a look. “Matthew!” shechastised. There seemed anease and familiarity betweenthem.It felt as if the ground,
whichhadalreadybeenshakywhen she saw them,completely dropped from
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beneath Ingrid. Her pulsesped.Matt looked a little
uncomfortableashemadetheintroductions. “Ingrid, this isMariza Valdez, Maggie’smom.MarizathisisIngrid!”“Yes, of course.” Mariza
smiled. “Margarita talks somuchaboutyou.”Oh right, of course, Ingrid
thought. She had completelyforgotten that there was amom in the picture. Ingrid
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couldn’t help but note thatMarizacalledMattbyhisfullname (“Matthew,” whichsounded so sexy somehow)and Maggie “Margarita”—hadshebeenwrongincallingherMaggie?ButMatt calledher Maggie. The womanreached out a hand, andIngridshookit.“Delighted!” Ingrid said
with a smile that hurt hercheeks.The hostess had come
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around with a couple to seatthem at the table that hadclearedbesidethem.“Mari!” cooed the woman
being seated as she lookedtheirway.“Rowena!”Marizacried.Rowena and Mariza
fawnedovereachother,eachsaying how great the otherlooked. Ingrid glanced atMatt,whorolledhiseyes.Hemotionedforhertositbesidehim. Maggie continued to
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smileather imploringly.Thewhole situation was growingmoreawkwardbythesecond.RowenaThomas.She had been one of
Ingrid’s clients back in thedays when she provided heronce-popular counselingservices at the back of thelibrary. She hadn’t seenRowena in a while. Shortlyafter Freya’s disappearance,Ingrid had abandoned the“witching hour,” as Hudson
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facetiously called it, foreverthe skeptic about Ingrid’s“witching abilities.” Shedidn’t love Hudson any lessfordoubtingher,butinawayher mortal friend was right.Her magic had grownineffective, and she hadbegun to feel like a sham.Now her office remainedlocked at lunch hour, a noteon the door explaining thatcounseling services wouldresume at a later date. Ingrid
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hadmadeRowenaatalismanfor her mother’s kidneyproblemsandalsoaloveknotor two or three.Rowena hadbeendesperatetofallinlove.And now, horror of
horrors, Ingrid spiedRowena’sdate:BlakeAland,the smarmydeveloperwhoseefforts at destroying thelibrary Ingrid hadsuccessfully squelched, thesameonewhoseadvancesshehad spurned. This was proof
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that Ingrid’smagic had goneutterly awry or was plain allout. All those love knotshadn’t done Rowena anyfavors. She and Blakeexchangedcoldnods.“Ingrid!” Rowena cried
out.“Oh,myGod,Mari,youneed to see Ingrid! She’samaaaazing! She totallyhelped me. I found Blake!Maybe she can make aspecialsomethingsoyouandMatt finally tie the knot.”
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Laughing, she turned toIngrid, explaining, “We allwent toNoHaHigh together.These twohave been in lovefor-ev-er! They just won’tadmitit.”IngridlookedfromMattto
Mariza, who both loweredtheirheads.Mattwasshakinghis. She felt as if she hadcaughtthemred-handed.“Iwish theywould finally
just get hitched!” Rowenacontinued. “Maybe one of
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those hair knots of yourswould do the trick?What doyouthink,Ingrid?”“Sure,” she said, smiling
wanly.Hair knot. How uglythatsounded!Likesomethingyou found clogging up thedrain of the bathtub. She feltherself blanch. She wasn’tfeeling well at all. PerhapsMariza and Matt should getmarried. Mariza, Matthew,Margarita—their names allbeganwithanM.Marizawas
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beautiful and exotic—evenaffable andwarm, it seemed.Theywere a family. A childshould be with her realmotherandfather—shouldn’tshe?Rowenafinallyleft,joining
Blake, who had beenwatchingwithascowl.Matt grabbed Ingrid’s
hand. “Come sit next to me.Mari was just showing mesome school photos ofMaggieonherphone.Havea
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seat!”“We haven’t even ordered
yet,”addedMaggie.Ingridwassoflusteredshe
could barely make out whatthey were saying. There wasno place for her here, sherealized.Maggie already hada mother. Matt shouldprobably be with his ex-girlfriend. They lookedbeautiful together, theymadea beautiful family. One thatshould be left in peace. She
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looked atMatt, rememberinghisfacefromtheothernight,lying in his bed, their bodiespressed against each other’swith only a thin layer ofclothing separating them, hishalf-lidded eyes, looking ather with such hunger anddesire…No. She should bow out,
leave them alone, let themfind their way back to eachother. It was so terriblyobvious that she was a third
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wheel—actually,muchworsethan that—a fourth wheel.Ingrid was many things—awitch, a goddess, a sister, afriend—but she was not ahome wrecker. She excusedherself quickly, saying shehad a lot ofwork to do, andleftthethreeofthemalone.
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chapterseventeen
FromtheMouthsofBabes
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The yellow cab let them outin Tribeca on a narrowcobblestone street in front ofan old warehouse. Theylookedupatthewhitefacade.Thewarehousehadbeenbuiltin the mid-1800s in theItalianate style, fancier inappearance than what itsoriginal purpose suggested—to provide large spaces tostoregoodscomingintoNewYork City’s ports. Fivestories tall, with enormous
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arched windows set apart byornate pilasters, the buildingwas crowned with deepcornices now painted a grayblue.Joannaplacedherhandson
her hips. Under her camelovercoat she wore a red knitdress that Norm had helpedher pick out—his favoritecolor on her with her silverhair. “Frankly, I picturedsomething more run-down,lessostentatious,”shesaid.
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“You know how he is,”saidNorman.Thedoor,acopperfortress
of a door oxidized with agreen patina, would notbudge when Joanna grabbedat the handle.Norman foundthe buzzer to the right andpressed the single blackbutton.“Scan,” came a female
voicefromtheintercom.“Excuse me?” said
Norman.
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An impatient exhalecrackledbackatthem.Joanna moved behind
Norm and spoke to thewall.“We’re here to see theOracle?”“Iknow,”thesnootyvoice
returned. “You still have toscan.Useyourgodpasses!”“We’ve been traveling all
day. We’re tired,” Joannasaid. She was sick of thejadedattitudesinthiscity.“We have no idea what
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you’re talking about,” Normsaidimpatiently.More crackling from the
intercom. “The little blueglass rectangle above theintercom. You see it?” shesaid slowly as if they werechildren. They saw it.Someone had graffitied thetagDOGEARSonitinsilvermarker. “Put your nose rightupbeneathit.Scanyoureyes.That’syourgodpass.Then,ifyou truly are who you say,
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thedoorswillopen.”They did as instructed
without protest, and oncetheir retinas had beenscanned, the largebrass doorclicked loudly and swungopen.“Take the elevator up to
the top floor,” the voiceenunciated in a bored tonebehindthem.
The elevator doors opened
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onto a large, high-ceilingedwhite room interspersedwiththick columns. It was earlyevening and the light slantedthrough the arched windowsfrom the direction of theHudson River. At the centerof the roomwasa longglasstable that doubled as anaquarium. Inside it, electric-blue and tiger-striped fishdarted about in bubblinggreen water amongundulating seaplants. Joanna
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glimpsedaspottedmorayeelslithering out frombeneath arock. On the table lay iPadsdisplaying covers ofmagazines. White orbs thatlooked like marshmallowsfunctioned as seats. Thewalls’ enormous flat screensfeatured video art, largeabstractsofmoving,swirling,saturatedcolor.At the very end of the
room before the windows,they saw the receptionist
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station. A clear cube with asilver laptop and amarshmallow orb. A tallyoung woman in a blackblazer and skirt came towardthem,herblackpatentleatherheels clipping along theshining cement floor. Shewore a headset, and herglossy black hair was pulledinto a big knot on top of herhead.“Cappuccino or bottled
water?” she asked with a
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mechanicalsmile.“We just want to see the
Oracle,” saidNormanwith ahuff.“Cappuccino or bottled
water?”sherepeated.“We’ll take water,” said
Norman.“Have a seat.” She
extended an arm like anairline hostess toward theaquarium table. “Browse aniPad. He’ll be with youshortly.”Sheswiveledaround
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and clipped away toward adoor, pressed a button, andthedoorslidopen.Norman took a seat.
“Squishy!”heremarked.Joannasatdown,foundher
cell phone, andglancedat it.“Remind me to call Ingridwhenthisisover.”The receptionist was
already returning, carrying atray with two tall blue glasscylinders. She mumbled intoher headset as she strode
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toward them. “Come withme, please.” They followedher to a steel door. Shepressedabuttonandthedoorslid open. “Make yourselvescomfortable,”sheinstructed.The door slid closed
behindthem.“Where’stheOracle?”said
Joanna.The room was equally as
large as the previous one.There was the same kind ofcolorful swirling art on the
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walls’ flat screens, butnothingelsebesidesthelargeclear cube at the center.Resting on top of it was anopen laptop. Normanmotionedwithhisheadat thecube.Theywalked toward it.Norman touched the trackpad. A call was coming in.NormanclickedAnswer.Thevideo feed showed an emptybed with Star Wars sheetsand pillows. Loud heavy-metalmusicblasted from the
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speakers.TheOraclejumpedintothe
frame, leaning against themound of pillows, chompingon a burrito in a silver foilwrapper. His head wasshaved with a faint blackstubble, but he was still tooyoung to need to shave hischin, being about fifteen orsixteen.Hehadatattooonhisneck and wore a plain whiteT-shirtandjeans.“Jo, Norm! What up,
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homes?”hesaid.“Can you turn the music
down? We can barely hearyou,”saidJoanna.“Oh, sure.” He took
another bite of the burrito,then searched for somethingon the bed, found a remote,and clicked it. The musicwentoff.“Thanks,” said Norm with
afrown.Joanna pushed in beside
Normandspokeatthelaptop.
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She noted how tired shelookedonthescreen.“Idon’tknow if you’ve heard butFreya is stuck in theseventeenth century, and weneed to get her back. Webelieve she’s in SalemVillage at a very dangeroustime. Last time, well, youknowwhathappened—”“Iknow,Iknow,”said the
Oracle. “She’s not the onlyone who’s trapped in thepassages. It’s all messed up.
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There are damn sinkholeseverywhere. Magic’s all outofwhack, there’snotenoughhere, but it looks like there’sa huge concentration of it inother parts of the time line.Salem in the seventeenthcentury is lit up likeChristmas. A ton of magicalenergythereforsomereason.But for now”—he tookanother large bite of hisburrito so he had to chewawhilebeforehecouldspeak
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again, and Joanna andNorman were forced to wait—”time’s stuck. Somethingscrewy is going on with thewolvesandtheFallenandtheunderworld. It’s throwneverything into chaos. Iwould be there, but I can’teven teleport over to youguys, so that’s why we’rehavingtochatlikethis.”“Okay,” said Joanna, “but
what does that mean for us?We can’t just sit back and
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wait.”Norm placed his arm
around Joanna’s shoulders.He needed to keep her calm.TheOraclewas inoneofhischeery moods, but he couldget cranky and gloomy likeany teen and he was notabove pulling a mean pranktoamusehimself.“Shejustmeanswe’rehere
ifyouneedus,”Normsaid.The Oracle grinned. “Oh,
and I forgot—with time
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broken,ifsomethinghappenstothatsaucy,hotdaughterofyourswhile she’sback there,it’ll stick for all eternity.Time’sallscrewedupsothateven our immortality is inquestion. If someone dieswhile this shit is going on—they’redonzo.Never comingback tomid-world.”Here heleaned off the bed anddisappeared from the frame,then popped back in, sippingfrom an oversize soda cup.
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“Doomed to the underworldforeternityandallthat.”Joannagasped.TheOracle
was saying that if Freyawashanged,asshehadoncebeenhanged before, during thefirst time they had enduredtheSalemtrials,thistimeshewouldnever return.Never. Itallclickedintoplace.This was all an elaborate
plantokillFreya.TheOraclemusthaveseen
the desperate expressions on
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theirfaces,becauseheleanedin and said, “But you’re inluck because there issomething you could do togetaroundit…”Joanna and Norm huddled
inclosertothescreen.
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chaptereighteen
GoneBabyGone
It had been a relativelypeacefuldayatthefirestation
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—boisterous, carefree highjinks among the firefightersas they performed theirroutine housekeeping duties,washing windows, cleaningwalls, sweeping floors.Freddie enjoyed the spirit ofcamaraderiebuthealsolikedthe structureanddiscipline itbroughttohislife.Itwasniceto be part of a smoothlyworking team, a cog in awell-oiled machine. Theychecked and inventoried
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personal protective gear,tools, and equipment forreadiness:bunker jackets andtrousers, gloves, boots,breathing apparatuses, rescueequipment,hoses,handtools,and portable fireextinguishers. Freddie wroteout a report listing damagedand nonfunctioning gear.Next came checking theemergency medical-careequipment and replenishingthe first-aid supplies in the
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trauma boxes. Then, after atrainingasession,itwastimeto break for lunch, andFreddie found his buddiesBigDave,Jennie,andHunter.He was in an excellent
mood. Things with Gert hadbeen ultrasmooth since hisaccident. He and his friendswere still fixated on whathappened at the last big fireandthatwastheusual lunch-hour conversation. Therescued college girl, Sadie,
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wasaliveandwell.“What happened, man?
You’re usually our mainguy,”BigDaveasked.“Happens to everyone at
some point. Even firewhisperers,” Jennie saidsagely.Freddie took a swig of his
Pepsi and gave them acrooked smile, shrugging hisshoulders.Jenniewinked at him, and
for a second it did cross his
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mind that Jennie liked himmore than just as a fellowfirefighter. Now that hethoughtaboutit,shewaskindof cute with those frecklesandoversizeblueeyes.Whatwas he thinking? He lovedGert. Things were awesomeathome.“Youhealed friggin’ fast,”
noted Hunter, reaching overthe lunch table to push atFreddie’s head so he couldsee the burn mark on his
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neck. The towheaded Irishkidwhistled, impressed. “It’slookinggood,myman!”Freddie’sburnshadhealed
faster than an ordinarymortal’s would have, butusuallysuchhealingwasnearinstantaneous for him. Hisneck still appeared red inspots.After lunch, the lieutenant
eventuallysentthemonacall—a rather innocuous one, itturned out. An old man had
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tripped down some stairs inhis apartment building andpulledthefirealarm.Hewasfine,atough,grumpyoldguywho kept refusing theiremergency medical care,pushing them away,mutteringunkindepithets.Work ended at five thirty,
and Freddie walked to thegym to do laps in the indoorOlympic-size pool. It hadoccurred to him thatswimming would revive his
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lungs, which had felt singedfrom that fire and had alsobeen slow to heal. He hadtaken to going to the pool intheearlyeveningsandgottenhooked. Fire and water werehis favorite elements—hiselements as the god Fryr—but fire had betrayed him. Ifhis powers were diminishinghe needed to compensatesomehow. He had beenthinking that if they wereslowly becoming mortals,
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then so be it. He and Gertwould live happily ever afteranddieofoldagetogether.Itwasn’tsobad.Theyhadeachother. Once Freya returned,and she would—he didn’tdoubt it—then life would beback to normal. He’d calledIngrid the other day andfound his older sistersounding awfully blue. WithFreya gone, theywere all onedge.The pale light of early
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evening filtered through thedomed skylight above thepool.Freddie loved thesmellof chlorine and the moisturein the air, the sounds ofswimmers splashing throughthe lanes, theechoofvoices,and even the occasionalwhistlefromthelifeguard.He dove in, slicing the
turquoise water with the tautknifeofhisbody.Hedid thecrawl, getting into a rhythm:splash,silence,breath,splash,
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silence,breath…Hewaspuremovement.When he reachedthepool’send,hecurledintoaball, spun, thenpressedhisfeet against the wall,launching out beneath thewater likea rocket.Hisbodyfelt agile and fit from thesedaily laps and all the sex hehad been having with Gertlately. They had becomeinsatiable,doingitasoftenasthey could, wherever theycould: downstairs in the
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laundry room against thespinningdryersandthetablesused for folding clothes, inthecarlateatnight,andoncein a campus broom closetbetween Gert’s classes.Splash, silence, breath,splash…When he couldn’t swim
any farther, he climbed theladder out of the pool.Panting, he removed hisgoggles and ran a hand overhis forehead, pushing back
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his wet hair, shaking thewater out of his ears. Herested,leaningover,handsonhis thighs. His lungs stungbutfeltgood.Hewasnotunawareofthe
otherswimmers’subtlelooks,menandwomenalikegazingat him as he walked in hisnavy Speedo toward thelockers. Well, let themlook…helookedgoodandheknewit.
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He felt the pleasant ache inhismusclesasheclimbedthethree flights up to theapartment. He unlocked thedoor and swung it open. Hispiglet familiar came runningathim, as fast as its fat littlelegswouldallow.“Hey, guys, Daddy’s
home!”Freddiecalled.Nooneanswered.He petted his familiar.
“Hey, Buster, Mr. GoldenBristles! Where’s
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everybody?” He tried again.“Hello?”Nothing.He checked the bedroom
while Buster followed,snufflingathisheels.Thebedwas made but there was noGert sitting there in a pile ofbooksas sheoftendid in theevenings. It was almostseven. Usually, around thistime, she was here, readingand asking him to orderpizza, Thai, or Chinese.
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Perhaps shewas stuck at thelibrary. He checked thepixies’room.Theirbedswerenotmade,messyandrumpled—he’d get on their cases—butempty,too.Hadeveryonegone to the movies orsomething? Without him? Asadthought.Thatnewcomic-bookherofilmSkyBootshadrecently opened, and it wasallthepixiescouldtalkaboutlately. He had promised toseeitwiththem.Freddiehad
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actuallygrownusedtohavingthem around.Asmuch as hemight be loath to admit toGert, having them as hiswards did satisfy a deepcravinginsidehim.Therewassomething very cool aboutbeing a dad—so to speak.This had been on his mindrecently, and he had beenwaiting for the rightmomentto bring it up with Gert.Freddiewantedtobeafather,andhebelievedhewasready.
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They were married. Wasn’tthatwhatmarriagewasfor?He strode into the kitchen
tomake himself a sandwich,which he would eat by thewindow to keep an eye outfor his family. He couldalwayseatagainwiththemiftheyhadn’talreadyeaten.Hewas famished. As he walkedtothefridge,hedidadoubletake. On the red fiftiesFormicatable,hesawanote.He recognized Gert’s pale
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yellow stationery with thefaintinitialsGL,andhisheartsank like a sun plummetingtoofastbehindthehorizon.
Freddie,I’msorry, Iknowthis isunexpected and the lastfew weeks have beenwonderful,butIneedmyspacerightnow.Ireallyneed to get my degreewithoutanydistractions.
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I’ve only got one moresemester till I graduate,and I have toconcentrate on mythesis. I’ve gone to livewith friends who arealsostudying.Ihopeyoucanwaitforme.Please?
—G.
Who the hell were thesefriends? Judith? Or thatpretentious asshole with the
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mustache—beard—whatever.He read thenoteagain, irate.Just when he thought thingswere good, Gert pulled thisoneonhim.Whatwaswrongwith her? She had been solovingsincehisaccident,andhehadbeenhelpingquizherwith her study cards aftereach one of their heated,sweatysessionsathome.What did she mean by
“distractions”? Was sex adistraction? Was he a
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distraction?He read the notea third time, not quitebelieving what he wasreading and halfwayexpectingGerttojumpoutofa closet and tease him forfalling for a joke. But thiswasnojoke.He had been completely
blindsided. He shoved thekitchen table, furious withhimselfandwithher,andthenote fell to the ground. Hehad believed they were back
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on track. That he was ontrack. Marriage. Children.Domesticity.Monogamy.That’s when he saw the
purple Post-it with a smileyface that had been stuck tothe Formica beneath Gert’snote:
Picked up the scent.Onour way to retrievetrident. Back soon.Please refill fridge for
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ourreturn.
We had gone to parsonagewithMr.Putnam.Weweretostandaroundthepastor’shall,praying for the girls. It hadgrown dark outside. Abbyand Betty were considerablymore tranquil, as they hadexhausted themselves.Invariably,theycalmedintheevening in time for dinnerand bed. Betty sat on the
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floor, her petticoats fallingover her splayed limbs. Shedrooled as she stared down,her head like a poppet’s thathad come loose at the neck.Meanwhile, Abigail crawledonallfours,mewling.“Who did this evil?”
ReverendParrisasked.“Tell us! Who did this to
you?”Mr.Putnamcried.“Tell us! Who was the
witch?”The more the men
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badgeredthem,themoreriledthe girls became. Abby roseand ran across the room.“Whish, whish, whish!” shewhispered,flappingherarms,while Betty flopped on thefloorlikeafish.Abbystoppedatthehearth
and threw a firebrand acrossthe room, then attempted torun up the chimney as shehad oftentimes done before,but Mr. Ingersoll, the tavernowner and innkeeper, caught
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her and held her back. Sheeventually calmed, then felland rolled about, hidingherselfinherskirts.“TELL US! TELL US!”
the men demanded, theirvoicesangrierandtheirfacesredfromrage.“Shewill not letme say!”
Abby screamed, holding herhands to her neck as if shewerebeingchoked.Betty took the cue. “She
torments me but I will not
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signherbook!”“Whoisit?Whoismaking
youdothis?Whoistryingtomake you sign the devil’sbook, you poor child?”ReverendParrisasked.Abby sat up, eyes wide,
staring. Betty followed herlead.“Doyounotseeher?”said
Abby, pointing. “Why, thereshestands!”Theyallturnedtome.
—FreyaBeauchamp,
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June1692
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salem
may1692
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chapternineteen
MiracleWorker
There was never a lack forwork on the Putnam farm.Thebirdschirpedinthetrees
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and insects screeched andhopped as Mercy and Freyastrode along the grassy pathone day in early May. Theyheld their baskets at theirhips. They arrived at thepotato field and stared out atthe endless rows, daunted. Itwas already growing hot.Thomas Putnam had taskedthemwiththeentirefield.“It’s bigger than I
thought,”remarkedFreya.“Yeah,well,youknowMr.
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Putnam…” Mercy blew at astrandofhair.Each girl took a row,
kneeling in the dirt, and setabout uprooting the spudswith their spades. Theyworked quietly for an hour,focused on getting as muchdone as they could. Freyawiped the sweat from herbrow and neck. At the ratethey were going, they wouldnevergetthisentirefieldandeverything else done today.
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Perhapstheycoulddoathirdof the field if they werelucky. There were theblackberries, ripe for thepicking, that needed to beturned into preserves, not tomentionhousework.“I have a crick in my
back,” said Mercy, placingherhandsthereasshepressedherchestforward.“Wewillbe standing soon
enough,” said Freya,squinting.
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“Mr. Putnam must becrazed in his intellectuals ifhe thinks we can get it alldone in one day.”Mercy didadoubletakeatherfriend.“Whatisit?”askedFreya.“Don’t you ever grow
weary of it all? You arealwayssmiling,Freya.”Freya realized she was
smiling and felt a bitembarrassed. “Why, I have alottobehappyfor.Forone,Ihave you.” She chucked a
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couple of potatoes into herbasketandgrinned.Mercy shook her head.
Whentheirbasketswerefull,theybroughtthemtotheedgeof the field, where theyemptiedtheminabin.In theevening a farmhand wouldcomearoundwithawagononhis way back to the farm.Mercy scuttled sideways onher knees to move down therow.“Ihavebeenworkingasfar back as I can remember,
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ever since I was a wee girl.Yea high.” She placed herpalmatherbreast.Freyagiggled.“Thatsmall,
eh?”“Icameoutofmymother’s
womb working, sister! Abasket on my hip.” Sheknitted her brow. “PoorMother, God rest her soul.Don’t get me wrong, I amgrateful for the employment,and to the Putnams, and forwalkingontherightlypathof
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God,but Idogetwearyof itfrom time to time.My bodyaches and my burned handalwayshurts.”Sheclosedandopened her scarred, dirt-caked fist.Her face suddenlytook on a grave expressionandsheshookherhead.Theywentbacktowork,silentandpensiveforawhile.Theyhad theirdifferences,
but Freya cared deeply forMercy. Whenever Freyaplaced a hand on her friend,
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she could feel Mercy’ssuffering, a great rushingriver of sorrow. She felt theterrorandpowerlessnessofagirl hiding as the violencetook place, trembling at thesound of the blood-curdlingscreams of her family. Shesaw thechaos, thepeelingofskin from flesh as if from afruit. She felt all the panicandguilt of agirl escapingafire in which the rest of herfamily perished behind her.
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Freya wished she couldconjuresomesortofnepentheforMercy to help her forgetherpast,butshedidnotknowofone.Itwasironicsincesheherselfcouldnotrecollectherownpast,tryasshemight.Although there was
something she could do togiveherfriendalittlerespite.Itwasverydangerousbutherheart went out to the maid.Shecouldbearitnolonger.Itwouldbejustanotheroftheir
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secrets,shedecided.Freyapressedherhands to
her thighs and stood. Shewaded across the clumps ofdirt and reached out a hand.“Come, my dear, I want toshowyousomething.”Mercy glanced up at the
profferedhand.“Wereallydonothavetimetotarry,sister.”“Do as I say,” Freya said
gently.“Whatis theretoshowme
in an ugly field of dirt and
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potatoes. Have you struckgold?”She laughed,but tookFreya’s hand and let herselfbepulledtoherfeet.“You must promise you
willtellnoone!”Freyasaid.Mercysnickered.“Whydo
youlooksograve?”Freya patted Mercy’s
shoulder. “You mustn’t befrightened.”“You know me. I have
seen it all. Nothing frightensmeanymore.”
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Freyabroughtherfriendtotheborderofthefield,wherethe trees would hide themfrom prying eyes. She madesure no one was near. First,shehad to create a pocket toenclose them.Shemurmuredthe right words, and she felttheshiftandelectricityfilltheair.Aeuphoric feeling sweptover her, making her entirebodytingle.The wind swept around
them, singing through the
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trees, raisingdirt in thefield.It was as if a hundredinvisible hands had set towork. The spuds lifted fromthe earth, filling the baskets,plopping into the bins. Timeleaped from one moment tothe next, jarring and jagged.The bins overflowed. Thewind stopped, and the dustsettled.Freya clapped the dirt off
her hands. “Tellme thatwasmuch easier!” She smiled at
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Mercy,whowasoglingher.“Itisn’tpossible!”shesaid,
breathless. She ran to theedge of the field, Freya rightbehindher.Mercy fell toherknees, throwing her armsoverabin.“Amiracle!”“Yes!”saidFreya.Mercy gazed at Freya in
awe.“Youareawitch!”“There’s no such thing!”
Freyasaid.Mercygrinned.“Ofcourse
thereisn’t!”
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Next came the blackberries.Rather than getting nickedand bloody hands from thethorns, the berries pluckedthemselves off the brambles,falling into thegirls’baskets.Five lovely jars of preservesweremade in theblinkofaneye. The house was cleaned,spotless, and ordered withinminutes without either ofthem lifting a finger. Afterdinnertheyputthechildrentobed, and once the entire
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family had turned in, Mercyand Freya whispered backandforthfromtheirropebedsin the hall. Mercy wonderedat the multitudes they coulddo in so little time and withnearly no effort on Freya’spart.“We mustn’t get carried
away,” Freya warned. “Weneedtocontinuedoingthingsthe old way. We cannot getcaught.YouknowwhatIamnow, Mercy, and you know
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what they do to people likeme.Theywillhangmeiftheyknewthetruth.Theysaythisis the devil’swork, but I amcertain—deepinmyheart—itisn’t.”“I don’t believe one word
of it either, Freya. It is Godworking through you. Godmaking miracles through mydearest friend.” She reachedfor Freya’s hand. “Does itmakeyouweary?”“Quitethecontrary.Itfeels
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marvelous!”The girls were quiet for a
while.“I cannot sleep,” said
Mercy.“Me neither!” There was
so much more Freya wantedtoshowMercy.Itwasnicetono longer have to hide for achange.An idea came to herand she turned to her side tofaceherfriendwithadreamyexpression.“What?” Mercy lifted her
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head.Freya’sbarefeetlandedon
the flagstone floor, and thebedswungasshesatupright.“There is something else Imustshowyou.Quickly!”The girls went quietly,
carefulnottowakethehouse.Barefoot in their linen shifts,their hair loose, they set outfor thewoods,butnotbeforeFreyagrabbedabroomonthewayout.They flewoverSalem, the
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cobalt night glittering withstars.
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chaptertwenty
RaisetheRoof
Itwasbarn-raisingdayonthePutnam farm, a merry
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occasion. Nearly the entirecommunity of SalemVillagehad come to help. The menhammered away. Soon theywould lift thestructure.Theyhad been working sincedawn. Eventually, everyonewould cheer, and then theywouldbreaktoeat,drink,andmingle. Once the food wasservedandtheshadowsgrewlonger and the villagers letdown their guards, no longerwatching one another like
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hawks, perhaps Freya couldfind Nate and slip off to thewoods with him, unnoticed.Hiswordsechoedinherheadagain: “I have harbored adeepdesiretobewithyou,toknowyou…”Shetrembledatthe thought of knowing himandwonderedhowsoontheywouldbemarried.For now she and Mercy
helped set up the row oftablesintheshadeofthetreesat the edge of the forest,
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where the goodwives of thevillage,alongwithhouseholdservants, would present theirspecialties—avillagepotluck.Roasted pig. Venison withmaple syrup. Pork, apricot,andprunepie.Beefstewwithpeas, carrots, potatoes in athick, sweet wine sauce.Stuffed fowl. A cornucopia.Todrink,plentyofale,cider,and wine from Ingersoll’sTavern.Freya arranged the bread
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she had baked, all the whilestealingglimpsesofNateouton the barn’s foundation,where he and James labored.The frontofNate’s shirtwasdamp. His hair fell over hisfaceasheswungthehammer.She imagined what it mightfeel like to run her handsbeneath his shirt, to feel thehidden strength and hollowsofhisbody.Hehadnotonce looked in
her direction, almost as if he
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wereavoidingher.Butsurelyhe could show his affectionnow that he had asked forconsentandshehadgivenherhand. Then again, Mr.Putnam said no one was toknow,somaybehewasonlyfollowinghisdictate.Still, Freya was suddenly
irritated by everything—thesmelloffood,hertight,heavybodice, the incessant chatterof women gossiping aroundher, talking unkindly behind
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each other’s backs whilesmiling ineachother’s faces.She felt hot and itchy, dampunderthearms.Shebattedataflybuzzinginherface.Reverend Parris’s
Caribbean slave, Tituba,walked over, and Freyarecognized her from themeetinghouse, standing withthereverend’schildreninthegallery. She handed Freya afan made from leaves.“Something we do in
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Barbados.The leaves are notasbighereastheyareonmyisland. Here they are rathersmall and sad. But it willkeepyoucoolandscareawaymeddlesomeflies.”Freya laughed, taking the
fan. “Most kind of you,” shesaid. She was glad for thedistraction. They chattedpleasantly for a while, andFreya noticed some of thegoodwives—even Mercy—givingthemtheeye.
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She knew they werethinking it was not befittingfor her to talk to a slave, letalone one who wasconsidered a savage, thedevil’s servants themselves.Most of the villagers alreadythought it strange that thereverendhadnot justonebuttwo slaves: Tituba and herhusband, John Indian.Servants, even indenturedones, were standard—butslaves!Thevillagersaccepted
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the reverend’s eccentricitiesbecause, after all, ThomasPutnam had seen to havinghim ordained as the villageminister.Freya ignored thewatchful
stares. She was laughing atsomething Tituba had said,happy to have made a newfriend.SheshowedTitubathearrayofbreadshehadbaked,fat ones with golden crusts,pieces of bacon and corninside, rosemary ryes, and
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loaves made with oats andherbs.Themenbegantoraisethe
structure, and the womenmoved away from the tablestogatheraroundthebarnandcheer.TitubaandFreyaremained
at the tables. The Caribbeanmaid reached out for Freya’shand and studied her palm.“You have a way with thehearth, with creating. Yourhands possess magic,” she
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said.Freya smiled but said
nothing.MercyappearedandTituba
quickly dropped Freya’shand.“What are you doing?”
Mercy said, pulling Freyaaway. She glared at Tituba,wholoweredhereyes.“I am sorry, miss,” the
slaveapologized.“Mercy!” chastised Freya.
“Neither shenor Ihavedone
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anyharm!”“What is this?” Mercy
demanded as she reached forthefanmadeofleavesTitubahadgiven her, plucked it outof Freya’s grasp, bunched itup, and threw it to theground.Freya stared at the
crumpled fan in the grass.Thevillagefolkhadbeguntochant as the men heaved thestructure upright. Until now,Freya and Mercy had never
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quarreled.Freya’sfaceturnedred and she quaked all over,fromangerorhurtshewasn’tsure.“Ibesttakemyleave,”said
Tituba,wholeftthemalone.“I’m very sorry,” Freya
called to her as Mercycontinued to glower at theslave’sback.Mercy tugged at Freya’s
arm. “A word with you!”They took a path into thewoods, whispering hurriedly
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back and forth as theytrudgedalongthepath.“Thosearethepeoplewho
slaughteredmy family!” saidMercy.“Mercy,Titubaisfromthe
Caribbean… she is notIndian,”Freyapointedout.“They are all savages!
They are evil! They consortwith the prince of sin anddarkness.”“Titubaandherpeopledid
not slaughter your family!”
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said Freya. She’d hadenough. They stopped in thepath. The light spilledthrough the trees,dancingontheir dresses. “I care aboutyou greatly, Mercy. You arelikeasister,andIunderstandhowyoufeel.Whathappenedto you and your family wasan atrocity, but that hasnothing to do with Tituba.Sheisjustlikeus,aservant.”Mercy laughed at this.
“Youarenaïve,myfriend.”
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Freyaknewtherewouldbeno persuading the stubborngirl.Shesighed,droppingherhead,andwhenshespokehervoicewasfullofcompassion.SheknewMercywouldneverrecover from the horror shehadseen.Itwasetchedonherbody, with the scars on herface and mangled hand.“Forgiveme,”shesaid.“IamsorryIhurtyou.”Mercy apologized, and
they hugged, proclaiming
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theirloveforeachotheroncemore. Freya said she neededto be alone to gather herself,and Mercy agreed to coverforher.Theyseparated,Freyastrolling deeper into thewoods as Mercy returned tothebarnraising.
Cloudsblanketedthesun,andthe forest was shrouded inshadow as Freya walkedthrough the tall pines. She
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sensedapresenceand turnedto look back, hoping Natemighthavefollowedher.Shespuninacircle,scanningthewoods, but saw no one. Itmusthavebeenawildhogoradeer.She took a path she
recognized.Itwoundthroughthe trees coming around tothe side of the Putnam farm.She stopped in her tracks.There was the knock of awoodpecker against a hollow
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trunk, but it had stoppedabruptly.Thewindpickedup.She looked up through thetrees at the sky, which hadturnedmetalgray.Again,shespunaround.This time, a tall man
stepped out from behind anoaktreelargeenoughtohaveobscured him. He wore ablack steeple-crowned hatwith a buckle, a black capeover a red shirt, and blackknee-length breeches with
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ocher socks. The silverbuckles on his long blackpointy shoes shone. Freyalooked inquisitively into hissmall dark eyes. He had agrizzled mustache and apointygoatee.Shecouldhearhiswheezybreathrattleinhischest. She recognized himfromthemeetinghouse.“Why, hello,” he said,
reaching out an infinitelylongarmfromthefoldsofhiscape.He stood in themiddle
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of the path, cutting off herway.“Allowme to introducemyself. Mr. Brooks at yourservice. It is a pleasure tomake your acquaintance…”He smiled, his hand stillhangingintheair,waitingforFreyatotakeit.Freya tried not to laugh.
There was somethingridiculous about the man,overblown, with the foppishattire and comportment. Mr.Brooks… this must be the
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uncle Nate lives with, sherealized,andtobepolite,shegave him her hand. “FreyaBeauchamp,”shesaid.Themantookit,bringingit
reverentially to his lips,pushing his cape back whilebowing slightly. His dry lipsmade her grimace withrepugnance,andshe tookherhand back as quickly aspossible without beingimpolite. She curtsied. “Apleasure.”
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He sighed, smiling. “It isall mine. I was escaping thebarn raising just now, takingashortcuthome.”Heplacedaspindly finger to his lips toshow this was their littlesecret. “How stupendous tomeet such a lovely youngmaidalongtheway!”Thunder roared. She heard
the cries of the villagers.Most likely they wererunningforshelterbeforetheraincame.Shecouldfeelthat
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heaviness in the air thatpreceded a virulentdownpour.“Goodness,” said Freya,
lookingupatthesky.“Imusttakemyleave!”“Yes, yes,” said Mr.
Brooks. “Go, child, go, getback to the farm before thetempeststrikesanduntilnextwemeet!”Freya curtsied once more,
then ran as fast as she couldthe other way. She couldn’t
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getawayfromNate’sslitherygoatofarelativefastenough.
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chaptertwenty-one
ThankHeavenforLittleGirls?
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A few days later, ThomasPutnam sent Freya, Mercy,andhisdaughterAnnieonthetwo-mile walk to theparsonage to deliverprovisions the pastor hadrequested during his lastsermon. The pastor had ahabit of working in what heneeded for his house in hisrailings against the devil.Stepping inside from thebright sunlight, Freya wasmomentarily blinded by the
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darkness as she and the girlsentered the parsonage. Theshutters had been closed totrap the nighttime cool, butthe air felt thick and stiflingin the middle of the day. Asinglecandleflickeredonthelargewoodentable.As Freya’s eyes adjusted,
she saw littleBettyParrisonher hands and knees,scrubbing the flagstone floorwithabrush,abucketnearby.Abigail Williams, her older
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cousin, had been standingoverher,asifsupervisingtheyounger girl’s work. NowAbby was striding towardFreya as Betty rose to herknees. The reverend’s girlsbeamed as if the visit weredivineprovidenceitself.“Sister Beauchamp!” cried
Abby, placing a hand onFreya’s shoulder. Abby wasvery fondofFreya.Thiswasasourceofdiscomfortforherbecause she sometimes
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sensed Mercy’s jealousywhenever she and Abbyconversed outside themeetinghouse.“Sister Lewis and Sister
Putnam!”saidBetty.The girls joyfully greeted
oneanother.“Is the pastor in?” asked
Freya. “We have broughtmeal, corn, soap, andcandles!”“Oh, no, he isn’t here,”
saidBetty.“Heisoutmaking
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his spiritual rounds withMother and little Sister andBrother.Theyaretoreturnatdinnertime. For now, we areallalone.”Shewasadelicate,frail-looking girl of nine,blond with sharp, foxlikefeatures and pale hazel eyes.There was a smudge on herforehead, soot from thechimney. The hearth, Freyasaw, had been scrubbedclean. The hall was spotless,precisely ordered, and
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smelled of orange blossomand myrrh. Freya gentlyrubbed the smudge fromBetty’s forehead as the littlegirl smiled up at her for thekindness—a sweet little facewith ruddy cheeks, Freyathought.Mercy squinted, peering
into the hall. “Are yourIndian man and womanhere?”Abby knew of her fellow
orphan’s story. “Worry not,
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Mercy. John is out in thegarden. Tituba has just nowwrung the necks of twochickens and is pluckingthemfordinnerintheback.Iwillnot let them inuntilyouaregoneifthatwillmakeyouresteasier.”“Yes, thank you, Abby,”
repliedMercy,curtsying.It still irked Freya that
Mercy could not see that theservants were gentle,harmless folk. Abby offered
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thegirlsaseat.Shesaidtheymust be weary and thirstyafter such a longwalk in thehot sun. Betty took theprovisionsfromthemandputthem away while Abby litcandles.“We do not want to keep
youfromyouremployment!”Freyasaidnervously.“No,wemustnot,”agreed
Annie.“We know how the
reverendis!”addedMercy.
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Abby laughed. “Comenow! You have broughtprovisions. The reverendwouldnotmindifyousatfora while and had tea.” Shewent to retrieve glasses, apitcher of tea from acupboard, and some hardbiscuits that smelled rancid.“We can have ourselves atrifleofmischiefsolongasitremainsbetwixtus!”“Yes!” exclaimed Annie,
who sat beside Betty at the
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table.Theoldergirls laughedatthechildlikeenthusiasm.Scarcely had they all sat
whenMercy began ramblingabout James Brewster.Apparently, there was muchtosayabouttheyouth’slooksand how she wished shecouldmarryhimandthatshebelieved he shared herfeelings. The girls listened,but Freya noticed howAbbykeptglancingather.Finally, Freya let her gaze
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meet Abby’s; they smiled ateach other amicably. Abby’sbig brown penetrating eyesstared back, glinting as darkas coals in the candlelight.Abbywas an extremely self-possessed girl, tall for hertwelve years, busty already.Herglossyblackhairfelloutofhercapandherlipslookedalmostcrimson incontrast toher pallor. One alwaysnoticedSisterWilliamsinthemeetinghouse.
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“How wonderful that Mr.Brewster has made hisaffection known,” Abby saidwithadrolltone.“Oh, he has not!” Mercy
protested.“Then how do you know
hesharesyourfondness?”“I don’t,” Mercy had to
admit.“Notforcertain.”Abby’s smile was slightly
mockingatthat.“Whataboutyou, Sister Beauchamp? Hasanyone caught your fancy?
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Orhasanyonefanciedyou?”Freyademurred.“Nonsense, of course you
have an admirer! You aresuch a beautiful maid! Iwould not be surprised ifsomeone has already spokenforyou!”Abbyclearlymeantto make Mercy feel lessworthy.Itwasunkind.Mercy lowered her eyes
and placed her scarred handat her face, elbow on thetable, looking questioningly
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at Freya, waiting for her toanswer.Embarrassed, Freya stared
downatherhandsinherlap.This was exactly the kind ofsituationshesought toavoid.She laughed,making light ofit all. “I’d rather not say forfearIhexit!”“Oh, she said ‘hex’!”
exclaimedBetty.“Wearenotto say such words in thishouse!”“Oh!”saidAnnie,clapping
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ahandtohermouth.They all looked at one
another with alarm, but thenAbby tittered, and they alllaughed.“What about you, Abby?”
askedMercy.“Doyouhaveaparamour?Praytell.”Abbysmiled.“Notallofus
aresoluckytofindhandsomeyoung men in the woods.”She smirked. It made Freyavery uneasy. What was thegirl trying to tell her? That
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shehadseenherandNate inthe woods the other day?Little girls, she thought, theyaresoverylonelyatthisage.She sensed a profoundlonging, a restless hunger inAbigailWilliams.Abby leaned in and
whispered, “Whileweareonthe subject of hexes, there issomething someone broughtthe minister from Boston afew weeks prior that Bettyand I are exquisitely curious
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about.”Mercy andAnniewidened
their eyes. They desperatelywanted to knowwhat itwas.ButAbby’swordshadsentachillupFreya’s spine. Itwasas if Abby had been waitingfor this moment all along.Abby sent Betty upstairs tothe minister’s study toretrieve the mystery item inquestion. When the younggirl descended the stairs, sheheld up a slim volume and
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broughtittoFreya.“Neither of us knows how
to read,” said Abby. “Wouldyou read to us a little, SisterBeauchamp? We would likethatverymuch!”“Father will only read the
Bible to us. He says thispamphlet’s content is not forlittle girls,” added Bettyplaintively. “But it waswritten by a minister, so wedo not see how it could beharmful. These are religious
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writings. And a very niceman came to drop it off. Afriend of Uncle’s, a tall manwithawhitehat.”Abbystraightenedhercap.
“Ioverheardthereverendsayto Mrs. Parris that thepamphlet is all the rage inBoston. Everyone has read itthere.Whycan’twe?”“All right,” said Freya,
staringatthepamphletbeforeher on the table. She ran ahand over the fine, swirling
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black-and-gold lettering onthe cover and read it aloud:“An Essay on Remarkable,Illustrious, and InvisibleOccurrences Relating toBewitchments andPossessions, by ReverendContinenceHooker.”
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chaptertwenty-two
WhishWitch
“That very same year, asprovidence would have it,”
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Freyareadaloud.“Ihadbeensummoned to the home of amost sober and piousman, atailor by trade, and his wife,Robert and Sarah Barker,wholivedinthenorthpartofBoston. The couple had fouroffspring and, save for theyoungest, an infant stillfeeding and mewling at itsmother’s breast, the childrenhad been recently seized byodd fits, and it was believedtheywere under the dreadful
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influence and astonishingeffectsofwitchcrafts.”Thegirlssittingaroundthe
table gasped, the youngerones clapping hands overtheir opened mouths. Freyacontinued.“The three children (the
oldest being thirteen andyoungest eight) had alwaysbeen remarkably pious andobedient, having received astrong and stringent religiouseducation. These good God-
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fearing children and modelChristians until then hadpossessed such dociletemperaments and excellentcarriage (several godlyneighbors testified as to thevirtues of their persons), itwould have been impossibleto believe they had anydesign to dissemble thestrange fits with which theyhad been seized. So amazedwere the scores of spectatorsby thechildren’s contortions,
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they, too, could onlyconcludethefitspreternaturalandnotsimulated.“Here,letuspause,whilstI
return a few steps back intime to tell how it all began,the very cacodemonicincident giving rise to theseinnocent children’s direfulafflictions.“TailorBarkerhadsenthis
eldest, Helen, to purchasefabric froma localweaver, aGoodwifeMaryHopkins.No
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sooner had Helen steppedaway from Hopkins’s doorwiththenewlyacquiredclothdid she see that it possessedan unsightly large brownstain. Immediately, Helenreturned to the home ofweaver Goody Hopkins toshowherthestainandtradeitfor a new clean piece offabric for her father. Upontheseactions,weaverwomanHopkins, a most scandalousand loathsome old Irish hag
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(whose own husband hadbrought her to court forplacing a curse on him andturninghis favoritecat intoadog), proceeded to give theyoung,prepossessingHelenatonguelashingsovilethegirlatoncefellill.”The girls laughed, but
Freya only blinked andwentonreading.“Upon the young Helen
Barker’s return home, withnot a stitch of fabric nor the
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money her father had givenher to purchase it, for thesnarl-toothed Irish hag hadkeptboth,thegirlwasseizedby fits so severe theyresembled the quaking thataccompanies a catalepsy.Within a couple of weeks,oneaftertheother,theBarkerchildren were fell into fits,tortured in so grievous amanner as to break the mostimmovableheart.“Thesefitswouldnotcease
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and only grew progressivelyworse, no matter how muchparents and neighbors fastedand prayed. By then I,Reverend ContinenceHooker,hadbeencalleduponto visit and see for myself.Perhaps I could offer a sageword or efficacious readingandprayer.WhatIsawinthehouse of the Barkers wasmost unusual and unnatural,and itmovedme tomy verycore. There, I witnessed the
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children in fits at their mostextreme and exquisite:trembling, shaking,contorting, babblingincoherently. They hidbeneath furniture; theystretched out and writhed onthefloor, twistingtheirheadsand pulling their tongues toan unnatural degree; theywent deaf, dumb, and blind;they crawled whilst barkinglikedogsorpurringlikecats.Once did Helen take to
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running to and fro about thehall, flapping her arms andcrying out, ‘Whish, whish,whish!’Thetwosmalleronesfollowed behind her,behaving like chicks, thenHelen threw a hot firebrandfrom the hearth across thehall, nearly striking aneighbor. Finally, the oldestattemptedtodashintothefireandupthechimney.“Itwasn’tuntiltheevening
when I visited that the
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children calmed—as ithappened, right beforedinnertime. They ate mosttranquillyandheartily,andatnight they appeared to sleeppeacefully.Infact,onemighthave thought them angels intheir slumber, neverpossessed by such demoniccontrivances as would seizethem again upon awaking atdawn.”The girls listened, eyes
glazed over and mouths
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agape. They were transfixedbythestory,andFreyacouldsee they enjoyed—evenneeded—thisbreakfromtheirhumdrum and difficult littlelives. She stopped worryingaboutwhether itwas rightorwrong to read them this taleand immersed herself in thestory.Eventually, word of the
strange happenings in theBarker home fell upon theears of Boston magistrates,
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who with “great promptnesslooked into the matter.” Assoon as Goodwife MaryHopkins was placed in thejailer’s custody, the childrenwere given some relief fromtheiragonies.ThenGoodwifeHopkins, along with theafflicted children, wasbroughtbeforeatribunal.At the trial, Goody
Hopkinsoftentimesrefusedtospeak in English, answeringthe magistrates in Gaelic
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instead, which no oneunderstood. Every time shebit her lip, the children fellinto the most pitiful fitsbefore the whole assembly,crying out that they werebeing bitten. If the goodwifeso much as touched her armor scratched her head, thechildren cried out they werebeing “most grievouslytormented,” struck, pinched,orprickedonthoseverysamepartsoftheirbodies.
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The weaver’s house wassearched, and they foundseveralpoppetsmadeofclothand goat hair. In court, “thehag admitted she used theseimages to torture the objectsof her ill will by wetting afinger with her spittle, thenrubbingthepoppets.”Further,at one point during the trial,Helencriedoutthatshesawa“small yellow bird sucklebetwixt the fingers” of theaccused, which her siblings
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then saw, too, and themagistrates concluded thatthe weaver had summonedherinvisiblefamiliar.There had been enough
damning evidence. GoodyHopkins was charged withbeing a witch, then hanged.Withherdeath,thechildren’sfitsceased.
Freya shuddered, slammingthe pamphlet closed. She
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could read no longer. Whatexaggerations and untruths!GoodwifeHopkinsmusthavebeen ridiculing the courtbecause the trialwas, in fact,a mockery. Did the poppetseven belong to GoodyHopkins or had they beenproduced to prove a point?From the start of his essay,HookerhadseemedtohaveabonetopickwiththeoldIrishweaver, whom he lost noopportunity to call names
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such as loathsome,scandalous,andvile.The girls were silent, still
absorbing Freya’s reading.Abby stood to walk to thecenter of the hall, where shefaced the girls at the table.She smiled and bowed herhead. She had their fullattention.Shereachedforhercap,removedit,andplaceditin her apron’s pocket. Shepulledthepinsoutofherbun,and her shiny dark hair fell
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down her shoulders. Sheshook her head softly. Thegirlswatchedherwordlessly,hypnotizedbyherlanguorousmovements. She was indeedravishing.Abigail’s body began to
tremble and shake, and shefell to the floor. Her headturned, her arms stretchedout,herbackarched,andhereyesrolledback.Shefloppedabout.Shewentstill.Shewason all fours, swinging her
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head so thatherhair flewupanddown.Shehoppedupandran about the room,pretending to be a bird,crying, “Whish, whish,whish!”Struck dumb, the girls
looked on in horror. Abbystopped in her tracks andstaredatthem,thenburstintodelightedlaughter.“Why the long faces,
girls?” She smirked. “Come!Do try it!” She threw her
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arms up in the air and spun,thenshookagain.ThegirlssaveforFreyaran
to the center of the hall andbeganpretendingtohavefits,barking like dogs, meowinglike cats, crying out abouttheiragonies.Sopassionatelydid they carry on that theircapsfellofftheirheads.Mercy stopped and looked
at Freya, still sitting at thetable.“Joinus!”Freya shook her head no,
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feeling a sudden chill. Thiswas all wrong… there wassomething here… somethingvery wrong…What had shedone?“Whatawetrag,youare!”
Mercymadeaface,felltotheground, lay on her back, andshookherentirebody.Tituba came through the
door into the parsonage,carrying two pluckedchickens by their necks. Thegirlshadbeensolost in their
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fitsthattheyhadn’theardherenter.TheCaribbeanservant,not knowing what hadtranspired, stared at the girlsin horror. “What is going onhere?”The girls immediately
stopped. Sitting on the floor,Mercy let out a little yelp offearasshespiedtheservant.“We were playing,” said
Abby, walking over toTituba, patting her on thearm. “That was all we were
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doing, Tituba. It wasnothing.”Tituba shook her head at
Abby. “You girls letyourselves be tempted!Oh, Isaw it, Abby, and I will nothaveit!Notinthereverend’shouse!”Shelookedaboutthehall.Thegirlsweregatheringtheir caps from the floor.“You put on your caps andgo!” she said, addressingMercy and Annie. “Abby,Betty,fixyourhairandskirts
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and return to your godlyendeavors.” She carried thechickens to the table, whereFreya had stood to take herleave.TitubagaveFreyaalookof
suchdisapproval thatshefeltas if her heart had withered.She really shouldn’t havesuccumbed to Abigail’sdemands as she had. Inhindsight she saw just howmanipulative the girl hadbeen.
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chaptertwenty-three
LooseLips
Freya had time on her handsnow that she was practicing
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magic more frequently. Sheloved to be alone, ramblingthrough the woods with herbasket, gathering herbs forpoulticesandtinctures.Itwasgood to get away from thePutnam farm and daydreamabout her upcoming nuptialswithNate.Shewasimpatienttowed; she had not run intohim lately, nor seen him atchurch, and she missed him.She found solace in thewoods with the birds
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twittering, the insects’ songswelling,andtinyanimalfeetscamperingoverdriedleaves.Oncewhenshehadwalkedtothe river, she spied a babyfawn taking a dip. Just itshead bobbed on the surface,movingdownstream,untilthesmall graceful creaturereachedthebankandstrolledout of the water with a littleshake. Freya hadmistaken itfor a dog until that moment.She thought it the sweetest
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thing,withitswhitespots.She arrived in the clearing
where the wild rosebushgrew. The rose’s white-pinkpetals had fallen, but therosehips they had left behindweren’t big or red enough topick yet. Someone coughed,and she turned around andsawherfriendJamesstandingby the large stoneoutcropping.“Good day!” He gave a
quickbow,removinghishat.
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“Iamverygladtohavefoundyou,”hesaid.“Youalwaysseemtoknow
whereIam,”shereturned.“Funny, that!” he replied
withtrepidation.“What is it, James?” she
asked. His expression hadmadeheranxious.He bit a knuckle, then let
thehandfalltohisside.“It’sjust that I felt I shouldwarnyou. I care very much aboutyou,Freya…”
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She peered inquiringly athim, nodding her head toencouragehimtocontinue.“You and your cunning
ways…” He cleared histhroat, appearinguncomfortable.“Yes?” she said, batting
hereyelashes.He shifted on his feet.
“Well, not everyoneunderstands you… theway Ido.”Shethoughthemeantthere
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wasanimplicitunderstandingbetween them because oftheir friendship, but heseemed to be suggestingmore.“Whatdoyoumean?”James took a step closer.
“Itisterriblydangerous,whatyouaredoing,Freya.”“WhatamIdoing?”“Onehearsthings…”“Things?”“The other night… I
happened to look up at the
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stars…and…”“And?”shechallenged.He shook his head. “I
cannot speak of it. It is toodangerous. Freya, you mustpromise me you will takebettercare.Donot…”“Do not what?” she said
impudently. She did takecare. Mercy was her dearestfriend and promised not tobreathe a word about hertalents. Those she helped inthevillagewereappreciative.
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Added to which, she wasn’tthe only one who madephysics.Afewgoodwivesdidas well; the only differencewas that her physics alwaysworked. So why not offerhelp when she could? Somepeoplemadesuchasillyfussabout it all, like the reverendorThomasPutnam,whotookeverythingsoseriously.“Do not do anything that
will cause people to notice.People are always watching
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in Salem. There are eyeseverywhere.”Freya softened. “Do not
worryaboutme,myfriend. Iamsafe.”“For now,” James said.
“Mind you listen to myadvice,” he said softly. “Itwould grieve me to see youcometoharm.”With that warning, James
badehisleave.
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Onceagain,Mr.Putnamsentthegirls toReverendParris’swithprovisionsthelittlemanhad hinted needing in hissermon.Whatwouldbenext?A horse and carriage?Freyawondered.Thistimeonlysheand Mercy made the trip onfoot.Annie stayed behind to sit
with her mother, who hadlately taken to talking to herdeadsisterandniecesandhadsomehowmanaged to sether
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Bible on fire. Mostprovidentially, Mr. Putnamhad been in his study at thetime. He had run into theroom at the scent of smokeand stomped on Mrs.Putnam’sBible.Itwasonthefloorbythebed,andacandlehad fallen on top of it. Thewholeevent,whichFreyahadlearnedabout throughAnnie,seemed strange.AnnPutnamSenior needed to be closelywatched when she behaved
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like this. Poor Annie hadbeenveryfrightened.ShesawtheburningBibleasaportentpresaging some kind ofdoom.As the girls walked to the
parsonage, Freya was quietwhile Mercy was herloquaciousself.Freyanoddedher head in agreement as themaid chattered, but she wasmilesaway.Shewasthinkingabout what James had said,aboutbeingmoreprudent.As
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ifoncue,Mercyaskedabouttheverysamesubject.“I saw you with James
earlier,” she said. “Was heaskingaboutme?”“Yes—no. I mean, yes, I
waswithJames.”“Whatdidhewant?”Freya told her about his
warning. “He is right. I havebeen brazen with my…abilities lately, and it isdangerous.”Mercy was the silent one
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now. They walked along anarrow road lined withpoplars.Freyagave themaidasidelongglance,andastheymoved inandoutof sunlightand shadow, she saw thatMercystilllookedtroubled.“How does James know
about your magic?” Mercyasked finally. “Do youconversewithhimoften?”“Howdo youmean? I see
him as often as you,” Freyasaid. “Anyway, he did not
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say,butIthinkhemighthaveseen us—flying the othernight.”She twistedherapronworriedly.“Do not worry about
James,” Mercy said coldly.“He knows nothing.” Thepale-haired girl stared at her.“ButIdowondersometimes,Freya, if you know what itmeanstobeafriend.”
Thepastorwasout—asusual,
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making his religious rounds.If anything, Reverend Parriswas devout. A seat awaitedhim in heaven. Mrs. Parris,weak of health, lay in bedupstairs. Only Abby, Betty,and Lizzie Griggs, aseventeen-year-old girl wholived with her uncle, thephysician William Griggs,wereinthehouse.Lizziehadstopped by with supplies fortheministeraswell.All three girls now ran to
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greet Freya and Mercy. Nosooner had they stepped intothe dark interior of theparsonage, the girls, full ofawe, gathered around Freyawith a barrage of breathless,whisperedquestions.“We hear you can make
objectsmove!”saidLizzie.“We hear you can fly!”
followedBetty.Abigail grabbed Freya by
the arm, pulling her aside.SheplacedahandonFreya’s
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shoulder.“Willyoushowmehow to fly, Freya? I wouldmostlovetoflywithyou!”In a panic Freya looked
overatMercy,whostoodoffby herself. It was apparentshehadgivenawaythesecretshehadpromisedtokeep.“You told them!” Freya
accused.“They are but children,”
Mercy protested. “No onewill believe them if they sayanything.”
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Right then, Freya felt shewould suffocate in Abby’sclutch. She peered into theyoung girl’s glinting darkeyesthatboredintohers.“Doit!”Abbywhispered.“I cannot do these things
you say! I know nothingabout any of this!” Freyalooked atMercy for support,butMercyonlyshrugged.“We knowwhat you are,”
Abby said. “Mercy told us.”She narrowed her eyes and
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looked at Freya withcontempt. “It doesn’t matterif you show us or not—weknow the truth about you.Show us yourmagic, or youwillbesorryyoudidn’t.”Freya felt herself grow
cold with fear. James wasright. She had been reckless.Henceforth, she would takecaretoensuretherewouldbenomoremagic.
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chaptertwenty-four
LoveandMarriage
Itwaslectureday,aThursday
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afternoon in June. Themeetinghouse had grown hotand rank. Reverend SamuelParris finished one of hisindefatigable windy sermonsabout heeding the devil andhis minions. Thecongregation sighed in relief,seeing the endwas near.Butthe diminutive Parriscontinued to speak. Herealized everyone was eagertogetbacktotheirbusylivesbuthehadsomethingmoreto
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say. The parishioners in thepewsandgalleriesperkedup,orrathermadeasemblanceofdoing so. Freya straightenedher cap, peering at Parris.Whatnow?The reverend nodded
solemnly. “One of our nobleand pious brothers has anannouncement. A man oftremendous stature andstanding, a leader of men, aprosperous farmer, a greatman I am exceedingly
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gratefulto,notadaygoesbythat I—” Stymied, Parrisclearedhisthroat.This appeared to be
Thomas Putnam’s cue as hehad risen from the front row.Parriscededthepulpitwithareverential bow. Befuddled,Freya and Mercy glanced ateach other. As the barrel-chested Thomas made hisway to the front, theimpressionwasofwatchingagreat storm cloud billow
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across the heavens. Themaninspired fear and awe in thecommunity, and all whispersceased.Mr.Putnamfacedthecongregation. His face brokeintoanunexpectedsmile.“Good day, parishioners. I
willmake this brief. Iwouldliketobringtoyourattentionthe engagement of twoindividuals in ourcommunity. The youngwoman in question is adevout and devoted
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maidservant, an orphan mywife, Ann, and I took in notso long ago. Her name isFreya Beauchamp. I haveagreed to give her hand inmarriage one year from nowwhen she is of proper age tomarry.” Mr. Putnam lookedup, searching the gallery forFreya.The parishioners craned
their necks. They laughedwhentheysawFreyastumbleforward.Mercyhadgivenher
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a little push, and she caughtthe banister, turning brightred. Thomas hadn’tforewarned her of this. Shedidn’t think it would happeninquitethisway.Thomas’s eyes settled on
hers.Hemotioned for her tocome down. She bowed herhead. Mercy grabbed herhand and squeezed it, and inthat auspicious moment, aswillhappenwithfriendswhohave been close but
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quarreled, all was instantlyforgiven between them. Thecrowdpartedtomakewayforher.“Good tidings,” servants
andchildrenwhisperedasshepassed. She descended thestairs,whichseemedtocreaktoo loudly with the silencethat had come over themeetinghouse.AsFreyawalkeddownthe
aisle between the pews, alleyes were on her: the
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mysterious maid with greeneyes and rosebud lips, hercheeks a similar hue to herapricot-coloredhairtuckedinher white cap, visible at thenape. She couldn’t help butsmile. Why shouldn’t shemake a show of herhappiness? She stood beforethe congregation, lacing herhands. She had looked forNate earlier but hadn’tspottedhim from thegallery.Perhapshewaswaitinginthe
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wings.Mr. Putnam spoke again.
“Let us wish the newlybetrothed well and say aprayer for them this eve. Inow call forth the gentlemanwhohaspromisedtowedthispoor, young orphaned girl.Mr.NathanielBrooks!”Theroombecameverystill
astheparishionerswaitedforhim to step out from thecrowd. Freya looked eagerlyfor Nate’s handsome face.
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The members of thecongregation began to clap,but her own face drained ofcolor.Nathaniel Brooks was
walking toward her, but itwasnot therightMr.Brooksat all. It was Nate’s uncle,thattall,ridiculous,solicitousfellow she had met in thewoods: goatee, black cape,bony legs peeking out frombeneath in tight ocher socks.The buckles on his gigantic
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shoes clinked and clanked ashemarchedforward.Nathaniel Brooks…Nate’s
namesake.Ofcourse!That was why Nate had
beenavoidingherat thebarnraising the other day—hemust have believed she hadgiven her consent! Theclapping became louder,deafening,andFreya’svisiondimmed.Shegrippedthepewnext to her lest she fall in aheap on the floor. She
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searched for Nate—her Nate—butwhenat last she foundhim he would not meet hergaze.
That evening Freya poundedthedoortothemaster’sstudywithher fist so that it rattledin its frame.Shewasbeyondfollowing the rules ofdecorum. She pressed herface against the wood andspied through the crack,
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seeing Mr. Putnam at hisdesk.“Comein,”hesaid.She bustled into the study
andstrodenearlyall thewaytothedesk.Shedidnotcurtsythistime.“Mr.Putnam!”Herfacewasred.Thomasglancedup.“Why,
good evening, future Mrs.Brooks. We can discusswedding plans. Dates…”Some of Freya’s hair hadcomeoutofhercap,andMr.
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Putnam cocked his head, hiseyes traveling to those curlsthatfelluponherbreast.“There has been a terrible
mistake!” said Freya. “Icannotmarry thisman… theelder Mr. Brooks. I do notlovehim,norcouldIever.Heisrepugnanttome!”Mr. Putnam frowned.
“Whenhasiteverbeenaboutlove? Especially not in yourpredicament, an orphanblowninonthewind.Thisis
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merelyameanstoanend,mydear. You will be deliveredfrom your station. Does thatnot please you? Is that notenough?”hesaidcalmly.Freya glowered. “No, it is
not, Mr. Putnam!” Shesquared her shoulders andstoodfirm.SomeairescapedfromMr.
Putnam’s nose, making asound—pfff. He made anotation in his ledger. Freyabelieved she might say
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anythingtohim,anditwouldbarely make a ripple. Theman was immovable.Ponderously, he pressed hislips toward one cheek, thenthe other. He did this backand forth for a bit. “When Ifirst informed you of Mr.Brooks’s proposal, you hadappeared so very delighted.Did I not say, the venerableMr. Brooks?” He knit hisbrowquestioningly.Freyasought to remember.
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In fact, she recalled theconversation well. Mr.Putnam had called him Mr.Nathaniel Brooks and alsoMr. Brooks but had saidnothing with the wordvenerable.“Youusednosuchadjective, sir,” she statedflatly.He gave one of his rare
little laughs. “My mistake.You know, the youngerBrooks—if that iswhomyouthoughtImeant—isknownas
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Nate.”Heshrugged.Freya thought she masked
her emotions well, butapparently not. She didn’tknow how, but Mr. Putnamappeared toknowshewas inlove with Nate. Mercy wasthe only onewho knew.Themaidservant had thoughtnothing of betraying Freya,sharing their secret with allthevillagegirls, a secret thatcould ultimately lead to herdeath.HadMercybeenacting
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as Mr. Putnam’s spy? Itwould never have seemedfathomabletoherinthepast,but in the light of Mercy’srecentbetrayal,shewonderedifshecouldtrustthegirlatallanymore. Thomas appearedto be toying with her,mockingherlove.Orperhapsit was all too evident… shewould have, of course,assumed he had meant theyoung, good-looking Mr.Brooks and not the older,
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unattractive uncle. Mr.Putnam had purposelydeceived her. How foolishandheedlessshehadbeen.“Well,atthetime,IknowI
did not say Nate Brooks,”Thomas continued, pouringsaltintothewound.“IwouldhavesaidNate,notNathaniel,had I meant that particulargentleman. Besides, Freya,you are most fortunate. Youwould be nothing but adisreputablewench,abeggar,
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a ragamuffin had we nottaken you in. And now youare to marry Mr. NathanielBrooks. You will be awealthy woman, and one ofhigh standing.The venerableMr. Brooks has offered asubstantial dowry, and I willreceivea largeparcelof landadjoining mine so that myland goes all the way toSalem Town.” He smiled ather with what feigned to begratitude. “You will marry
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NathanielBrooks, and that isthat. I will hear nothingmore.”Hegrabbedhisplumeand resumed writing in theledger.Freya’s arms stiffened at
her sides. She would hearnothing more either, and soshespunonherheeland lefttheroomasfastasshecould.
“Where are you going?”calledMercy to her back. “I
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swear I had nothing to dowith any of this! Freya!Wait!”Freyastrodeacrossthehall
and did not answer, onlyslammedthedooronthewayout of the Putnam house. Itwas almost seven accordingto the sundial attached to thewall of the farm, still lightoutside. She knew many ofthemeninthevillagewenttoIngersoll’s Tavern onThursdays around this time,
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once they had finished withmilitia practice. Surely shewould find Nate there. Shewould beg him to take heraway—he could not let thishappen—they were in loveand theyneeded to runawaytogether.Shetookashortcut,butshe
wassodistressed,shelosttheway and had to climb awallthat rose before her out ofnowhere, it seemed. Briarscaught on her skirt as she
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madeherwaydowntheotherside,andshefeltittearasshejumped,butshekeptrunning,frantically.Shewasinawild,overgrown field, and shetripped on a sudden pile ofstones, fell, fumbling for amomentinthetallgrass,thenshe scrambled back to herfeet. She would have flownon a pole had it not beenbroad daylight. She cursedthis village. Her cap slippedfrom her head as she ran, so
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she pulled it off, tucking itinto her apron’s pocket. Herhair cascaded down, lightinguplikefire.She saw thevillageproper
ahead,leanedoverandplacedher hands on her thighs, andpanted.Shefoundpinsinherpocket, fixed her hair, thenpulled her cap over it. Herpulse thrummed at hertemples. Her petticoat hadbeentornonthethorns,butitwasnothingtooconspicuous.
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She glimpsed a deep scratchon her calf, where the bloodhadalreadydried.Shewasinsuch a state, she hadn’t evenfeltitwhenithadhappened.She set a calm expression
to her face and walked therest of the road that led intothe village’s center. Shepassed a house on the way.The woman outside feedingchickens gave her a painedsmile. Everyone recognizedhernowafterthatshowinthe
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meetinghouse. She was theyoung, comely maidservantwho was to wed the old,homely, and wealthywidower.A man on his horse came
down the road. Sherecognized James Brewsterand waved to him, relieved.James smiled, dismountingthechestnut stallion.Heheldthe reins close to the bit asthey stood together on thegrassyshoulderoftheroad.
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He squeezed her arm andlet it go. “I was there,” hesaid. “Do not worry.” Hisgreen-gold eyes burned withcompassion.“Itcan’thappen!”shesaid.
“Where is Nate? Do youknow?”“Nate? No. I haven’t seen
him since Mr. Putnam madethe announcement at themeetinghouse,”hesaid.“I cannot marry Mr.
Brooks,” Freya said. “I will
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not.”“Of course not. I would
neverletthathappen.”His kindness overwhelmed
her, even as it was Nate shewanted.“Listen,Iwillhelpyou,but
we mustn’t remain here lestweareseen.Peoplewilltalk.Meet me at the dog rosebush.” He was alreadymounting his horse, whosecoat shone in the loweringsun. James looked quite
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glorious up there. He tippedhishat.“Yes,” said Freya. “I will.
Thank you, James, thankyou!”James nodded and tugged
on the reins, so his horsestretched its neck.He gave alittle kick, and theywere offatatrot,thencanter.Freya walked in the
opposite direction in caseanyone had seen. There wasalways someone watching in
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Salem Village, she knewnow.
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chaptertwenty-five
TheImmortals
When Freya arrived in themeadow,shespottedJames’s
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horse, but the stallion wasalone. He grazed peacefullyin the grass, the reins loose.Sensing Freya, the horseblinked in her direction,shookhismane,andreturnedhis black nose to the groundto continue grazing. James’shorse but no James. Wherewashe?Whateverheplannedtodotohelp,ithadtohappenposthaste. But what aboutNate? She had to let himknow that she had left the
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Putnams,without agood-byeoranyofherbelongings,butshe had to make himunderstand they would haveto run away togetherimmediately. She was a girlalone,withno family andnohome. She was vulnerable,and somehow she knewinstinctivelyhermagicwouldnotbeabletohelpheroutofthissituation.Shecouldmakethebutterchurnby itselfandplow a field of potatoes
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without lifting a finger, butshe could not reverse Mr.Putnam’sdecisiononherfateifhehadalreadymadeuphismind.Looking for James, she
walkedalong theedgeof themeadow, peering into thewoodstowardthewestwherethe sun had begun to drop.The boughs of pines andleaves of oaks and beechesappeared backlit. Shafts oflight poured through,
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resembling smoke as they litthe dustmotes in the air. Asshe trudged along, the sunslipped between the barespaces of trees, blinding her,andshebroughtahandtoherface to shield her eyes fromtheglare.Then a shadow fell upon
her face, and for a momentshethoughtitwasNate,butitwas not. James stood beforeher.“WhereisNate?”
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“Why do you keepasking?” James askedimpatiently. He carried acouple of blankets and aknapsackonhisshoulder.“Because…” She took a
deepbreath.“Because?” he prompted,
hisfaceturningdarker.“Whydo you always ask aboutNate? What is he to you?”James strapped the bags tothehorseandturnedtoFreya.“ForgetaboutNate.”
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“I can’t,” she said. “Iwon’t. Nate is… Nate ismy…”“Yourwhat,Freya?”James
said.“Nate is my love,” she
whispered. “I cannot leavewithout him,” and when shesawthehurt lookonhis faceitdawnedonherthatthiswasyetanothermisunderstanding.Her life seemed to be so fullof them lately. She had donethis.Itwasallherfault.That
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morning when James wasreturning from night-watchduty at the tower, when shehadkissedhimon thecheek.She had been overflowingwith feelings that day,because she was in love—inlove with Nate. But now itdawnedonherthatJameshadcome to believe he was theobjectofheraffections.Sheturnedawayfromhim,
but he reached for her handand pulled her toward him.
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His breath was warm on herface. “What… what did yousay?”“Ilovehim…IloveNate,”
she choked. “James, I’m sosorry…”He gaped at her, shaking
hishead.“No.No!”She moved backward,
away from him, and trippedon something that rose fromtheground,astoneora root.Jamestriedtoprotectherfallbut instead he fell on her, so
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that they were both lying ontheground.Hewasnearlyontopofher,andtheybothwerebreathing heavily but fordifferentreasons.“Youdon’tlovehim…you
can’tlovehim…”Hepushedhimselfupslightlytolookherbetter in theeye.Hehadonehandonhershoulder,his legswungoverhers,pinningherto the moist grass. His bodywas long, sinewy, themuscles heavy. The sun cast
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an orange-pink glow on herface. “Freya, listen to me.You love me… you’vealways loved me and onlyme.”“Idon’tknowwhatyou’re
talking about! Please let mego.” She stared up into thedimmingskyasshelookedathim.“James…please…”“My name isn’t James
Brewster.” His eyes werehooded, and he looked sounhappyFreyacouldcry.“At
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least, it’s notmy only name.Some of us are not as luckyas you, Freya, to be able tokeep our name over thecenturies.”As James spoke, it was as
if doors upon doors wereopening in her mind, in hermemories,herconsciousness,her identity, trickling frombehind a hidden and lockedpassage.Shesawimagesthatshedidnot understand, facesshe did not recognize—an
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older, gracious woman withsilverhair,formidable,withasoftnessaroundhereyes,anda younger one, blond andbrittle looking until shesmiled—and Freya felt anoverwhelming sensation ofloveforthem.Theywerepartof her. “I am a witch,” shesaid. “I have always been awitch.”“You are more than that,”
hemurmured. James’s lasheswere wet with tears, and
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Freyaputahandonhisface,to feel his pain and to try tounderstand what washappeninghere.“Who are you, James?
Whoareyoureally?Andwhoam I? What are we to eachother?” She felt warm in hisarmsandnolongerafraid.He held her tighter and
breathed into her ear. “Youreally don’t remember me,mydearestlove?”His voice and his touch
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sent a shiver through herbody, and in her mind’s eyeshe saw a flicker of light, amemory, an image, of abeautiful dark-haired man,looming over her just likethis, the two of thementangled in each other, hisbody hot against hers, andthere was no wicked shame,no guilt, none of the Puritanrestrictions,fortheywerenotPuritans, they were in love,and in lust, and he was so
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strong, his hands abovehers,holding her down, and herbody alive, open, needing,and she was screaming hisname,hisname…“Killian?”sheasked.“Freya,” he whispered.
“It’sme.”Then it came back to her,
and suddenly it was as if allthe doors had opened in aburst of light andunderstanding. The past, thefuture, the present.Killian at
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her engagement party, thetwo of them against the sinkof the bathroom counter,without even a word to eachother, overcome by desire,and the intense need to feelhis lips onhers, her bodyonhis.Their lastnightonboardthe Dragon, rocking againsthim,asifholdingonfordearlife,becauseshehadsenseditwas so close to the end…theirend.Thetridentshadowon his back that had marked
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him as the thief who hadstolen Freddie’s trident. Andfinally, the Valkyries,surroundinghim,rippinghimawayfromherarms.“But the Valkyries—they
tookyou…”“Here.”“NotLimbo?”“No. I had no memory
either, until I saw you in themeetinghouse, and then it allcame back to me, but I didnot want to frighten you. I
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thoughtyouwouldrememberonyourown.”She shook her head,
ashamed. She had no ideahow she had gotten hereherself. It had to be someawful form of trickery. Shehad been swept back herethrough thepassagesof time,her memory lost, unable toremember who she was andwhy she was here. Was thisyetanotherpunishmentofthegods? Or another of Loki’s
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tricks? Loki… was that whyshe had been inexplicably,irrefutably drawn to NateBrooks? He must be Loki,there was no otherexplanation. Was this stillpart of the spell he had castonherwhenhewasBranfordGardiner and had first cometo North Haven? When herdress had fallen, the strapbroken, and he had touchedher skin, had branded her ashis. But it couldn’t be—she
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was not enchanted this time,shewassureof it.Whatwashappening?Whyhadshefeltthat way? She did not loveLoki, did not love Nate; sheonly loved Balder. KillianGardiner. JamesBrewster. Inany incarnation, under anyothername,shealwayslovedhim.“Killian, my darling,” she
whispered, putting a handonhischeek.Her love.Her trueheart.Herdearestfriend.She
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would put aside her worriesover her conflicted emotionsfor the moment and try tounderstand them later. “I’msorry. I don’t know what Iwasthinking.”“You do remember…”He
smiled, relieved. “But it isdangeroustousethatname.Imust remain James Brewstertoyoufornow.”Shenodded.“Butwhatare
we doing here? How are wegoingtogetaway?”
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“Don’tworry,mylove,”hesaid, and kissed her. Whentheirlipsmetitwasasiftheyboth realized at that samemoment how near theirbodies were to each other,and when he kissed her, sheopenedhermouthtohim,andthen his handwas strugglingwith her bodice, as shestruggled to unlace hisbreeches.She wanted him so much,
wanted to takeaway thehurt
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she had caused, wanted toforget for a moment wherethey were—she was just sovery glad to see him again,andthattheyweretogether—and he was kissing her neckand her breasts, and shehelped him out of his shirt,andhefellbackontopofher,and he was pushing up herskirts,andtheywerelaughingsoftly together, at howterribly difficult it was toremove their clothing—and
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then it was done, and theywere lying in the grass, andhe was holding down herhands above her head, andkissing her, biting her lips,ravenous, hungry, they hadbeen separated for too long,andwhen he entered her shegritted her teeth at the painand the pleasure of findinghimagain.“What are you doing?”
came a voice above them—amaid’s voice. A quiet,
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horrified voice as if thespeaker could not quitebelievewhatshewasseeing.James startled and rolled
away, while Freya satupright, frantically reachingfor her clothes and coveringherselfastheyseparatedfromtheirembrace.“And here I was making
excuses for you to Mr.Putnam!” said Mercy, hervoice hot with anger. “Ithought youweremy friend,
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my sister. You are nothingbut a harlot, a temptress! Acommonwhore!Lookatyou!Naked on the grass! Withhim! You are a witch! Youhave bewitched Mr.Brewster!”Freya rose to her feet, her
arm outstretched, the otherholding her clothing againstherbody,redwithshockandshame.What had they done?In the woods? In the open?“No,Mercy—please!”
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The maid was tremblingand her eyes watering. “Ishalltelleveryone!Ishalltellthemallthetruth!”“No—please! Mercy, I
loveyou—Iwouldneverhurtyou!” Freya said, buttoningher blouse while Jamesquickly got dressed behindher.“Youmustunderstand—thisis…heis…”The girl stepped back,
liftingherchinchallengingly.Shetookinadeepbreath,her
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face flushed, and her lipsquivered as she spoke. “Youare a liar, FreyaBeauchamp!A liar, you hear me! A liarand a witch! I will tell themall!” She swung around andran off through the field,leaving Freya and Jamesaloneintheduskymeadow.“Whatdowedonow?”she
asked. She had lived longenough in Salem Village toknow what would happennext.“Theywillkillus.”
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“Run,”Jamessaid,tuggingonhisbootsandhandingherhers.“Runawayasfastaswecan.”
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northhampton
thepresentvalentine’sday
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chaptertwenty-six
TheHammerStrikes
Hudson held up a tiny pink
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one-piecewith a tulle tutu toshow Ingrid. There was adecal of a piglet doing apirouette in toe shoes on thechest.“Whatdoyou think?”The
light flashed against the lensofhistortoiseshellglasses.“Um, Tabitha is having a
babyboy?”shesaid.They had snuck out on
their lunch break at thelibrary to shop for Tabitha’sbaby shower at the nearby
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boutiqueTaterTots.“So?”Hudson looked at it
sadly and put it away.“You’re right.Why isn’t shehaving a girl? This is socute.”Hudson was impeccably
dressed as usual; only hecould make a thick downjacket look slim and elegant,but something was different.A few months ago, he hadfinally come out to hismother, andwhile thingshad
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been frosty for a while, thegrand Mrs. Rafferty hadfinally come around to thereality of the situation andhad even agreed to meet hisboyfriend. It turned out thatas long as any discussion ofpolitics was assiduouslyavoided, Hudson’s motherand Scott got alongswimmingly—to such adegree thatHudson felt a bitleft out at times. Heoccasionally brought up
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politics just to put a littlewedgebetweenthem.Ingrid grabbed the tutu.
“Let’s get it! Why not? Imeanbabiesarebabies.Can’tyou just dress them uphowever you want? They’rekindoflikedolls,right?”“Um, not really. Put it
back, Ingrid,” Hudsoninstructed,being thevoiceofreason now. “If he wants towearpinktutusthatshouldbehis decisionwhen he’s ready
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tomakeit.”Sheexhaledasigh,putting
thetutubackontherack,thencontinued to flip through thepint-sizeclothes.“I don’t know,” Hudson
said wistfully, “doesn’t thismakeyoufeellike…”She turned to him with a
look of horror. “Like what?Likehavingababy?”“Yeah…”She shrugged. She hadn’t
everreallythoughtaboutit.
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“Yeah, me neither!” Hewent back to searchingthrough the rack, his fingersmoving fast and adeptly.“Justtestingyou.”Heheldupwhat looked like miniaturelederhosen butweremade ofsoft green terry cloth.“You’ve got to admit theseare extraordinarily cute, andit’sjustfunshoppingforbabyclothes.”She eyed him suspiciously
butletitgo.“Ineedtotalkto
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you about something,” shesaid.Hudson made a tsk-tsk
sound. “I knew somethingwasupandyouwerekeepingme in the dark.You’ve beendistracted today—and not agood distracted. I know thatlook.What’sup?”“Iranintothematthatnew
café,Matt,Maggie, and, um,Maggie’s mom, Mariza. Hisex-girlfriend?Theylookedsoperfecttogether,andperfectly
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happy. Mariza’s a knockout.She’s built like an Italianscreengoddessand—”“Iknowwherethisisgoing
—stop right there!” warnedHudson, holding up a hand.“First of all, the M names?Totallydorky!Andsecondofall, Matt chose you, notSophiaLoren.Hecouldhavemarried her by now if hewanted to make it work.Hedidn’t. The reason theyappear intimate is that not
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only do they have a history,but they also have a childtogether, so they’re friends—friends being the operativewordhere.”“Friends.”“You have to be if you’re
goingtobegoodparents,andfrom what you’ve told me,the kid is awesome, right?Well, that takes a lot ofmaturity on her parents’part.”“Isuppose.”
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“You have nothing toworryabout.”“Okay,” she agreed
morosely. Though Hudson’sadvicewasalwayssound,shestillhadherdoubts.Bythetimetheymadeitto
the cashier, their arms werefull. They couldn’t help butgetthetutuandalsotheterrylederhosen, a hooded hipporobe,andatrendystuffedtoythat was supposed to putbabies in a goodmood—and
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various other items thatseemedabsolutelynecessary.
Outside, achillybreezeblewagainsttheircheeks,andtherewasadustingofnewsnowonthe sidewalks. She andHudson strolled along thesunny side of the street. Heproposedaroundofcocktailsafter the frenzied bout ofshopping,whichhad lefthimthirsty. Ingrid reminded him
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they had jobs to get back toandweren’t richhousewives.Besides, they had a babyshowertoplan.“Speakingofhausfrausand
marriage and babies,” saidHudsonashewalkedjauntilyalong, “I forgot to tell you:ScottandIarethinkingabouttyingtheknot!”Ingrid stopped mid-
sidewalk. “Nowyou tellme?AsifI’mtheonewithholdingalltheinformation!”
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“Well, we’re justconsidering it. Now that it’slegal in New York and all.We thought we’d do aweekendinNewYorkCityatHotel Gansevoort in theMeatpacking District—afterCity Hall, of course.Although I’ve heard thatdoingitinBrooklynisbetter,less busy than in downtownManhattan.So—”“No!”saidIngridirately.“Excuse me!” said a tall
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man standing behind Ingrid,whomneithershenorHudsonappearedtohear.Hudson glared
incredulously at his friend.“Whatdoyoumean,no?”Theyhadcreateda jamon
the narrow sidewalk, and theyoung man in front of themclearedhis throat toget theirattention. “Excuse me!” herepeated. Politely. He wasattempting to get past themon the skinny sidewalk with
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alloftheirTaterTotshoppingbags.But Ingrid andHudsondidnotbudge.She had a fist planted on
onehipandwasscowling.“IfyouandScottaregoingtogetmarried, I want a realwedding!Thinkof theTimesannouncementatleast!”Theyoungmanhadgrown
impatient. “Excuse me!” heboomed, his voice a deep,operatic bass, like rollingthunder.
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Ingrid huffed and swungaround to confront him.Hudson craned his neck topeerupat theman,whowaseasily six feet five inches,dressed in a smart pin-stripesuit under a lush blackcashmereovercoat, thejackethanging unbuttoned on hislarge frame. She stared intothe square-jawed face: largepalegreeneyesbeneath lightcopper lashes and brows, astrong nose. A bolt of
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lightning struck her, and shenearly dropped her shoppingbags.“Erda?”heasked.“Thor?” she said, knitting
herbrow.“What’s going on?” said
Hudson. “And am I hearingthingsordidyoujustcallhimThor?”Ingrid stared at the
towering redhead before her.Freya had told her a whileback that when she’d been
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livingontheLowerEastSidein New York City andrunning the Holiday LoungeonSt.Mark’s,theiroldfriendhad set up shop nearly nextdoor. Freya had made a fewtrips to spy on hercompetition, reporting toIngrid that hehadopenedupa small, dusky, hole-in-the-wall after-hours club acrossthe corner, the kind of placeyou might miss if youblinked. Known only to an
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elite set ofmismatched nightowls—the Fallen and theWaelcyrgean among them—with a new passwordcirculatedeachweek,theRedDoor had a small stagefeaturing burlesque dancers,aerial artists, starry-eyedHula-Hoop performers, andthe occasional red-nosedclown. “Hottest thing in thecity right now and I don’tmean the club,” Freya hadsaid with a smirk. “You
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shouldsee the ladiesgowildfor him!” To which Ingridhadreplied,“I’drathernot!”Thor,thegodofthunder.Heroldflame.He had carried a torch for
Erda for centuries: she wasdifferent from all thegoddesses who threwthemselves at him, and themore she rejected him, themore he sought her out. ButErda knew Thor’s reputationfor breaking many an
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immortal heart and had kepthimatbay.“MydarlingErda,”hesaid,
takingherhandandkissingit.“It’s Ingrid now,” Ingrid
saidsharply.“Will someone please
explain to me what’s goingon?” said Hudson. “Issomeone going to introduceme to theHunk—Imean theHulk—or is itThor?Ordo Ihavetodoitmyself?”Ingrid finally remembered
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to breathe. She turned toHudson, flustered. “I’msorry!This is—”Shemadeahelpless gesture with herhands.“Troy Overbrook,” the
giant redhead said with anaffable smile that made adimple in his cheek.He heldoutahand.Hudson beamed as he
shook it. It was obvious thathe had already fallen underthe handsome god’s spell.
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“HudsonRafferty.Anyfriendof Ingrid’s is a friend ofmine,”hesaid.Troy tiltedhisheadather.
“Wehavealotofcatchinguptodo, Ingrid!”Hewinked atthe name. “You lookamazing.”Ingrid coughed. “Well,
Hudson and I need to getback towork.We’re runninglate.”“When can I see you
again? I’m here in North
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Hampton for the winter.Coffeesometime?”Troysaid,leaning seductively againstthe wall, playing shy for amomentashelookeddownathissneakers.“Youknow,it’sValentine’sDaysoon.”“I’m at the local library,”
she said flatly. “Come getsomebooks.”Hudsonnudgedhersharply
in the ribs. “Don’t be silly,Ingrid. Give your old friendyourphonenumber.”
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Ingrid hesitated for amoment before rifflingthroughhershoulderbagandfishing out a slightlyshopworn business card tohandtoTroy.Heslippedthecardintohis
pocket and winked at her.“I’ll call you,” he promisedbeforetheypartedways.Once he was out of
earshot, Hudson spoke. “Ican’t believe you were justgoing to walk away from
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that!”“You have no idea what
you’re talking about,Hudson!”He glared at her. “Oh,
really!”Ingrid frowned. “Troy and
Ihaveahistory.”“Praytell!”“It’s a long and boring
story. Besides, I have aboyfriend, remember?” Theycrossed the street toward thelibrary. “One cup of coffee.
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Jesus!”Hudson laughed. “I didn’t
say, ‘Sleep with him!’Although if you don’t, Iwill!”
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chaptertwenty-seven
TheFamilyThree
“I’ll do it, ” Norman said
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simply, turning to his wife.They were on the trainheaded back to NorthHampton. “I’ll do what theOracle said would get Freyaback.”Startled, Joanna looked at
her husband. She shook herhead and frowned.“Absolutely not!” she said,letting her head fall on hisshoulder. “There must besomethingelsewecando.”“Thereisn’t,”Normansaid
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softly as he held her close.Butheletthesubjectdropforthemoment.They had passed
Patchogue, themidway pointbetweenNewYork City andMontauk,whereIngridwouldpick them up. Norman’s carhad broken down in the city.The trip had beenmore thanthe dinosaur Oldsmobilecouldhandle.He gazed out at the hills
covered in frost, the
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weathered barns. The viewgave hints of seascape, hisbeloved ocean. He loweredhis Ray-Ban Clubmastersfrom the crown of his headoverhiseyes.Hefeltthepullof the water, but it wasweakening, fading like aslowing pulse. His wife wasnow fast asleep, her head onhis chest, and he dared notmove an inch, even as hismuscles cramped. Instead hesat awake, listening to the
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rhythmic thrum of the train.Small moments like thismade him happy—he washerewithJo.He thought of Freya
trapped inSalemVillageandrecalled those horrific days.BeforethewitchhuntsheandJoanna had lived happily asWaelcyrgean among mortals.They observed the rules oftheWhiteCouncil,interferingas littleaspossible inhumanaffairs, keeping their powers
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secret and contained. Heworked as a fisherman,Joanna as a midwife.Eventually, his girls gotcarriedaway, Ingridwithherhealingways,Freyawithherpotions.When the witch hunts
reachedafeverpitch,andtheringofaccusinggirls ranoutof names to name in theirown village, they called outnew ones, ones they hadheard their parents speak of
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bitterly as they gossiped.Soon the marshal came andtook Ingrid and Freya away.There was nothing Normancoulddotostopanyofit,nomatter how much Joannapleadedwithhim.TheWhiteCouncil forbade anyinterference.IngridandFreyawould eventually be returnedto them—they wereimmortal, after all. If theywould let things be, Joannawould give birth to them
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again.Freya and Ingrid
Beauchamp were brought tostandtrialintheadhoccourtofoyerandterminerinSalemVillage, where they werecharged with witchcraft. HeandJoannahadwatchedtheirdaughters hang at GallowsHill.Joannacouldnotforgivehim for being unwilling tosave them, for following therulesof theCouncil, andhadcast him out of her life. His
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wifehadfinallyforgivenhimandhadtakenhimback.NowtheywererelivingthepainofSalemalloveragain,butthistime, he would not fail her.Hewould showher just howmuch he had always lovedher. He would be the one todo as the Oracle instructed.He would get it right. Hewouldn’t screw it up thistime. He owed it to Joannaafter everything that hadhappenedbetweenthem.
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The train stopped, and hiswifeshifted.Normanplacedahand on her headprotectively, running a palmdown the length of her hair,as he watched passengersdisembark. He observed afewbundled-upNewYorkerslooking for a quiet, romanticwinter weekend in theHamptons. The train doorsclosed. He turned to thewindowandwatchedanotherbeachside town roll away
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beneaththebluesky.“Dad?”cameavoice.Norman looked up. His
gorgeous golden son stoodoverhim,flaxenhairtousled,a knapsack slung over ashoulder. “Freddie!What areyoudoinghere?Whatagreatsurprise!” he whispered.“Your mother’s asleep. Ican’tmove.”Joanna’s head lolled. “No,
I’mnot,” she said.She liftedher head, yawning, turning
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towardtheaisleasshepulledher hair off her face. “Mybaby!”“Mother!”hesaid.Joanna stared at her son
with a sleepy smile. “Nowthisisahappysurprise!”SheandNorman laughed as theyrose from their seats. Joannaembraced her son. Normancame into the aisle, grabbingthe strap of Freddie’sknapsack.“Comesitwithus!Let me help you with your
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bag.”Heliftedit,placingitinthe overhead carriage, andhuggedhisboy.“Can I be in the middle?”
Freddieasked.“Where else?” Joanna sat
down, moving over to thewindow,pattingthespotnextto her. Freddie scooted inbeside her. “Oh, my sweet,it’ssogood toseeyou!”Shekissed andhuggedhim somemore, making a fuss. Foronce Freddie didn’t seem to
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mind. “What are you doinghere?Where’sGert?”Norman knew Joanna had
come to really likeGert, andthey had believed the two ofthemwerehappilyensconcedin New Haven. But nowFreddie was staring into hislap. Puzzled, Norman asked,“What’sthematter?”Freddie tilted his head,
glancingathisfather.“You can tell us,” said
Joanna.
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“Yeah, I know,” he said.“It’sjust…it’snoteasy.”Hesighed.“Gertleft.”Heputhishandsoverhisface.“What?” said Joanna,
suddenlylivid.“Why?”“She needed to study, she
said.”“Well, students doneed to
concentrate…” Norman said,buthiswifeshuthimupwithalook.“Not now, Norm,” Joanna
warned. She pattedFreddie’s
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shoulder and frowned at herhusband.Norman hugged his son.
“It’sgoingtobeokay.We’regoing to get through this,kiddo.”Freddie’s hands dropped
intohislap.Hesniffled.“ButI guess the good news is thepixies picked up the scentagain. They’re on their waytothetrident.Orsotheysay.Who knows with them.” Helooked at his father, then
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mother, then back and forth,studying them. “What’swrong with you? You bothlookawful…Imean…reallytired…”“We’re okay, Freddie.”
NormpeeredatJo,givinghera look. They simultaneouslyshook their heads,exchanging a tacit agreementnot to share what they hadlearned on their trip to thecity. They mustn’t tell himwhat the Oracle said would
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save Freya. Freddie alreadyhad plenty on his plate. AndtheyhadalsodecidedtokeeptheOracle’ssuggestionsecretfromIngrid,lestshefretmorethanshewasproneto.Freddie yawned loudly.
“I’m exhausted!” His headfellontoJoanna’sshoulder.Norm squeezed his knee.
“You just rest, son. Youprobablyneedit.”“I do,” said Freddie,
closinghiseyes.
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All three sat silently for awhile, and soon Freddie wasfast asleep, lulled by thehypnotic sound of the train,comfortedbythesafefeelingofsittingbetweenhisparents.NormanandJoannasmiledateach other, watching overtheir boy sleeping peacefullybetweenthem.“Wedidgood,didn’twe?”
Normanwhispered.“Yes, we did,” returned
Joanna.
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Still, thedangerFreyawasin and the knowledgeimparted by the Oracleweighed on them.Therewasno ignoring it. Normanrecalled what Jo had said atthe meeting. Her words hadhaunted him: “I wouldn’twish eternity in theunderworld to anyone, leastof all to our Freya. I wouldratherdiemyself.”Sowouldhe.
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chaptertwenty-eight
TheMannyDiaries
Light poured through the
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gauzycurtainsbillowingoverthe open sliding glass doorsinside the little beachfrontshack. Freddie felt the sunagainsthis faceand thecool,soft morning breeze floatinginfromtheocean.Atfirsthethoughthewashome,backatMother’s,asithadbeenafewweeks since he had returnedto North Hampton. Then heremembered where he hadspent the night. He grinned,keeping his eyes shut. Soon
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thesoundsoftheoceanlulledhim back to sleep, the sheetonly half covering him,exposinghis tawnyback andlegs.The little weathered hut
wasall thewayat theendoftown, way past theBeauchamp house andGardiners Island, on a smallragged stretch overgrownwithseagrass,thesandmorepebblyandputtycoloredthanfineandgolden.
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A sudden thump besidehim woke him merelyseconds after he had turnedhishead.“Crap!”exclaimedavoice,
followed by more bedthumping.Hereachedouthisarmand
felt the empty spot. Heopened his eyes and rolledontohisside,stretching.Kristysmiledathim.“Why are you cursing so
early in themorning, babe?”
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He sat up to watch her,rubbing his eyes, blinking atthe light.Thebartender fromtheNorthInnwasstillnaked,riffling through a dresserdrawer. The tan lines fromher bikini emphasized herround bottom, a tattoo of apassionflower above it,slightly off to the side nearher hip. She yanked on herunderwear, then snapped onherbra.“Hi, babe,” she said. She
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twisted her silky brown hairandtieditintoatopknot.Thelightplayedinherhazeleyesasshebattedherthicklashes.LikeFreya,andnowFreddie,Kristywas abartender at theNorth Inn.With Freya gone,Salhadneededanextrahand,andFreddiehadsteppedintofill it. His first day at workwas also the first dayhehadstartedpursuingthehotsinglemom.Afterall,Gerthadlefthim,
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then rebuffed his manyattemptstoworkitout.Aftertwoweeksof franticcalls, e-mails, and texts, Gert stillrefused to answer, andFreddie began to feel like astalker. She had even senthimatextthatread<<Stopit.U & I r over 4 now>>.Rover? They were rover?Then he realized she meant“youandIareover.”Hehadrefused to believe it and hadtexteda<3back.
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Radio silence from Gertagain.<<B that way!>> he
punched in his phone afterthree days of self-control,decidingitwouldbehisverylast text to her. He couldn’tquite believe how immaturethey were being. He was“rover”itaswell.Hewasn’tthetypetocheat
—okay,okay—hedidhaveabitofawanderingeye,buthehad tried, hadn’t he?He had
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tried to make the marriagework—butGerthad lefthim.Whatwashesupposedtodo?Bealone?Hehadbeenaloneforfivethousandyears!Kristyhadaprettyfaceand
was fond of showing off hercleavage squeezed inside alow-cut tank—which hadimmediatelycaughtFreddie’sattention.Shehadresistedhischarms at first, which onlymade Freddiewant hermoredesperately. She was thirty-
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six, she told him, while hewas barely drinking age, letalone prepared to be with awoman who had two kids.“I’m, like, fifteenyearsolderthanyou,Freddie.”Hehadn’tthe heart to tell her he wasactually thousands of yearsolder.Plus, hewasdefinitely not
her type, she addedemphatically.“ButI’meveryone’stype,”
he had argued. He tried to
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settle for their playful,friendly banter as they slungdrinks behind the bar. Mostofthetimeshehumoredhim.She was steadfast in herrejection, which made herevenmoreappealing.One evening in the
basement ice room, heslipped his arms around herslimwaist.She said, “Listen,you’re cute and all, Freddie,but I can’t. I have kids.Maxim and Hannah. I don’t
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doone-nighters,andweworktogether, love.”Helethergoand apologized for being soforward.Then they began making
out. It was Valentine’s Day,afterall.“Love?” he teased when
theirlipsparted.So here he was, dating a
singlemomwithtwokids.Hetriednot to thinkofGertandhe liked Kristy. She wasbeautiful, cool, and no-
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nonsense. She had a heart-shaped face, bee-stung lipsthat felt plush and tastedsweet when he kissed her.Their lovemaking was goodbuthurriedandfrantic,whichhe supposed was to beexpected when there weretwokidslurkingabout.He swung an arm out
toward her, wiggling hisfingers, beckoning for her togetbackinbed.She walked to the closet,
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then glimpsed over ashoulder, grinning. “I can’t!I’mrunninglate.”Shetookadressoffitshangerandthrewit on. It clung nicely to herframe, not too tightly, justright.Freddie rubbed his eyes,
sittingup. “What time is it?”Hegrabbedhisphoneby thebed to answer his ownquestion just as Kristy’s cellgavealittlecatcallwhistle.ItwassixA.M.
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“Well, that’s a monkeywrench!” Kristy said,glancingathercell’sscreen.“What do you mean,
you’ve got to get out ofhere?”She tilted her head,
appearing distracted. “Youknow, my daytime job. TheplaceIusuallygomostdays.Butlisten,Ineedafavor.”Freddieliftedhiseyebrows
and scooted over on the bed,glancing down at the empty
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spot.Hewasn’tgivingup.Kristy ignored the signal.
“Thebabysittercalledinsicklastnight,andnowtheirdad,who had promised to takethem for the day, just textedthat he can’t. I need you totakecareofthem.Youknow,just for the day. Max hasLittle League practice andHannahballet.”Shethrewhisclothes at him and smiledsweetly. “Come on, babe?They’re good kids, right?
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And you have nothing to doalldayuntilyouhavetoworktonight.”Freddie sighed.Theywere
goodkids.She kissed him. “Thanks,
love!”Heroseandbegantodress.“Don’tworry,it’seasy.I’ll
write down instructions, andyoucanusemycar. I’ll takethe Vespa. You just have todrop themoff and pick themup on time. Make sure they
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eat. Good food, not junk.”She stopped talking andsmiled, then came over andleanedintogivehimanotherappreciative kiss. “Theyreally like you, Freddie. Oh,andMax is avegetarian.ButHannah isn’t. Try toremember.”“Okay,”saidFreddie.Just then, on cue, Kristy’s
seven-year-old, Hannah,beganwailinginthehouse.“Quick!” said Kristy,
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motioningtotheslidingglassdoors. “Go! Come back andsayyou’retheirbabysitterfortoday. You are officially thenewmanny.”“Manny?” Freddie echoed,
grabbing his Chuck Taylorsand slipping out. Outside inthecold,heputonhisshoes,shivering. The kids normallyknew him as “Mommy’sfriend.”Hewould pretend toleave when he came over,onlytosneakbackinthrough
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theslidingglassdoors.HeheardKristy’slittlegirl
come into the bedroom.“Mommy,Mommy,Max hidFloppy. I can’t find him!HesaysFloppyisstinkyandthatI’mtoooldforhim.”Freddie knocked on the
glass.“Oh, look at that!” said
Kristy. “Freddie is alreadyhere! He’s your newbabysitter. He must havecome up from the beach.
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He’ll help you find Floppy.”She slid the door open, andFreddie entered, smilingsheepishly.Hannah clung to her
mother’s leg, looking up atFreddie with huge, wetpleadingeyes.Kristy ran a handover the
littlegirl’sfine,scragglylightbrown hair. She was a tinyslipofa thing.“Floppy,”sheechoed. The little girl staredat Freddie as she cried and
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hiccupped,andher little chintrembled before she let outanother whimper andhiccuppedagain.Kristy’sson,Max,toreinto
the room, canonballing ontothebed.“Hey,tiger,”Freddiesaid. Wasn’t that what youwere supposed to call littleboys?Eitherthator“champ.”“Tiger” suited him better—Maxwasaterror.“What’s he doing here
already?”Maxwas kneeling,
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fistsonthemattress,hisshinybrownhair,likehismother’s,going every which way. Hisfacewastan,cheeksrosy,andhis button of a nosesunburnedatthetip.Heworeround blue-framed glassesthat made his brown eyeslookevenlarger.Freddie mussed his hair.
“You’restuckwithmefortheday,tiger.”“Don’t call him that, his
name is Max,” said Hannah,
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still clinging to her mother’sleg as she walked about theroom, both of her feetbalanced on one of hermom’s. Kristy gathered herpurseandkeys.“Kids,pleasebe nice to Freddie today,okay?”They made faces at him
before they ran out of theroom.Just when Freddie had
gotten rid of the pixies, hefound himself saddled with
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twonewwards.Hewonderedwhich were better—delinquent pixies or littlemortals who cried andhiccupped and asked pryingquestions? Ah well. He hadwanted to be a dad, hadn’the? You get what you wishfor.When he walked into the
living room, Hannah waswaiting, and together theywenttofindFloppy.
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chaptertwenty-nine
MyBoyfriend’sBack
A wheel on the book cart
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wobbled. I need to fix that,thought Ingrid as she pusheditalonganaisleinthelibrary.ShecouldaskHudson,buthewas even less mechanicallyinclined than she was.Tabitha,herbelly resemblingadirigible,couldbarelybendover. The squeaky wheelechoedthroughouttheempty,quietlibrary.TroyOverbrookhadcalled
theverysamedayIngridandHudson had run into him.
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Then he had called the next,andthenext,untilshefinallyacquiesced, agreeing to meetfor that one cup of coffee.Troy had even insisted onpicking her up at the librarytoday.She came around a bend,
rolling the broken cart intothe nookby thewindow thatfacedthesea.Itwaspastfiveo’clockandthesunwouldbesettingsoon.Shewasgladtobe inside the quiet library,
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with the constant, soothingwhiroftheheater.She placed The Great
Gatsby in its rightful spot intheF section and felt a handgently scoop around herwaist. She jumped from thesuddenunexpectedtouch.Matt stood there in his
civilianattire,acollaredshirtand dark trousers, giving heraslow,sexygrin.“What are you doing
here?” she asked,
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immediately regretting herwords.He stared at her silently,
cocking his head. “What doyoumean?Idroppedby.Idothat sometimes, don’t I? Issomethingwrong?”She adjusted her glasses,
pushing them up farther onhernosewithanindexfinger.“No, no, nothing’s wrong.”She shook her head in anexaggerated way. “It’s goodto see you!” She smiled and
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movedforward,trippingoverher own feet, giving him ahug.Matt stood there a bit
stiffly, holding out his arms,as ifnotknowingwhat todowith his hands for amomentbefore he hugged her back.“Are you sure nothing’swrong?”She felt immediately
guilty, thinking about Troy,even if it was just a casualcoffee thing.Tomakeup for
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it she lifted up onto her toesandkissedhimonthelips.“Get a room, you two!”
Hudsonteasedfromthefrontdesk, where he and Tabithawere sitting. Tabitha yawnedhello and Hudson yawned,too. The lack ofwork, alongwith the hum of the heater,seemed to be makingeveryonedrowsy.Matt nuzzled her neck.
“Mmm, that’s better,” hesaid.
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Hudson coughed. “Um,Ingrid,Troy’shere.”Matt released her fromhis
embrace and gave Ingrid apuzzledlook.Who’sTroy?hemouthed,justasTroystrolledinto view. The strappingredhead seemed to suck allthe air in the room—evenTabithalookedenamored.Ingrid looked between the
twomen standing in front ofher.“Hey,Troy, this isMatt,Matthew Noble. He’s a
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detective for theNHPD.Thedetective, that is,ofour littletown,” she said, fumblingwith herwords a little. “AndMatt,thisisTroyOverbrook,anoldfriendfromwayback.Wekneweachotherwhenwewere,uh…kids…TroyandIranintoeachother—”Matt nodded. “Hey, Troy,
how’s it going, man?” hesaid,offeringahandtoshake.“Hey,Matt,”Troysaid.They released hands, and
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Matt swung an arm overIngrid’s shoulders. “Soyou’re visiting?You in townfor a while?” he asked,seeming genuinely curious,friendlyeven.Troy hesitated. “Um,
yeah…Iguessyoucouldsaythat.”Henodded.“We should all go out for
drinkssometime.NorthInn’salwaysablast,”saidMatt.Ingrid put a hand on his
shoulder, her heart pounding
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hard. “Actually, honey, Troyand Ihadplans togoout forcoffee now… to catch up onoldtimes.”Matt’sgrin lookedpainful.
“Fantastic!” he said. “Youhave fun, babe.” He gaveIngrid a smack on the butt,which made her stand toattention.Babe? Matt had never
calledherthatbefore.“Cool,”saidTroy,bobbing
hishead.
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Matt kissed her good-bye,a kiss that seemed to go onforever and left her a littledizzy.Whenhelethergo,hegave her a salacious once-over, and Ingrid worried hewould slap her behind oncemore.“Later,”hesaid.Matt left, and Ingrid and
Troy were alone with thewobbly cart. She pushed ittowardthenearestbookshelf.“Youneedhelpwiththat?”
Troyasked,kneelingdownto
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fixthewheel.Helookedupather. “So that’s the newboyfriend.”Hewhistled.“Shut it,” Ingrid warned.
“Notaword!”Troy twirled the wheel
expertly into its rightfulplace.“Justone.Mortal?”“Uh-huh,” said Ingrid,
sighing. “Look, he knowsaboutme,okay?”“I’m not worried about
him, I’m worried about you.You know what mortal
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means…”Itmeantshewouldoutlive
Matt, itmeant shewould gether heart broken. Yes, sheknew exactly what it meant.Perhaps Troy was right toquestionherchoiceofmate.
Outside the coffee shopwindow, the sky tinted pinkand orange as the sun sankinto the waves. Out on thebeach,alonecouplewatched
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thesunset,whileafewpeoplestrolled along the shore,walkingtheirdogs.She told Troy what had
happened toFreya, her voiceshaking. Across from her,Troy peered at her frombehind his cappuccino andtorn sugar packets. His eyesshone, as if he were tearingup,too.Themuscleathisjawtwitched, and he reached outahand,enfoldinghers.She’d forgotten what a
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steadying presence Thorpossessed.Shedidn’thavetoexplain or make excuses forany of the details. Heunderstood because he waslikeher.“It seems the passages
have closed,” she continued.“We can’t get through. Ourpowers…”“Are ineffective,” he
completedthesentence.“More likegone,”shesaid
wistfully.
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“It has crossed my mindthat Imightbe turning intoamortal,”hesaidwithagrin.“Ohdear!”Ingridsaid,and
theybothlaughed.She talked about what she
had discovered in herresearch on Salem, thesimilarities between theaccusers’ actions to those inthe pamphlet she had found.“You don’t think I’m crazy,doyou?To think thatmaybethegirlsdid this…togetout
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of their chores? Imean theirlives were rough—and herewas a chance for them to betreated like… well, likecelebrities.”Troynodded.“Peoplehave
done a lot more for a lotless,” he said. “It’s notimplausiblethattheirhardlotwasafactor.Whynot?”Ingrid nodded, glad he
agreed. “And there’s thePutnams, too. ThomasPutnam filed most of the
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complaints for witchcraftduringthetrials.Hehatedhishalf brother so much,according to Putnam familylore,thatJosephPutnamkepthis horse continually saddledduring thewitch hunts so hecould be ready to skip townonce the finger pointed athim.Josephwasactuallyoneof the few townspeople tospeakoutagainstthetrials.”“Whatareyousaying?”Shefrowned.“Thatmaybe
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once the girls started havingfits and calling peoplewitches,ThomasPutnamsawitasaconvenientopportunityto knock off some of hisenemies. He probably wouldhave gotten to Joseph exceptit sort of got out of handbeforehecouldgettohim.”
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chapterthirty
ThePriceofAdmission
TylerAlvarezsatonastoolat
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Joanna’s kitchen counter,concentrating on the pastrybefore him. He stared at thelittle fruit tart: onestrawberry,asliceofkiwi,anapricot half, and a scatteringofblueberriesinaclearglazeinsideaperfectroundcrust.“You made this, Jo?” The
six-year-old son of Joanna’shousekeeper,Gracella, staredat her with his big, curiousbrown eyes, his face tan andcheekspink.
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Joanna glanced at himfrom the kitchen table.“Actually,Iboughtthatatthenewbakery.”She’dbeenoutto the market and was nowputting a bouquet of rosestogether, cutting the stemsand removing the leaves andthornsbeforeplacingthemina cylindrical vase. She lovedwhenGracellaandTylerwerethere. Itmade the house feelespecially homey andtranquil.
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Gracellawasatthekitchensink, doing the dishes. “Youstoppedbaking,Jo!Wereallymissthat.”“I know,” Joanna said
wistfully. “I just haven’t hadthe time.” Itwas a lie.Well,not entirely, but really shehad stopped baking becauseshe had lost her touch. Howsad to discover that with hermagic gone, she had no realnatural talent at baking, onlytheabilitytofixburnedcrusts
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andsweetentastelesscakes.Tyler’sforkhovered.“This
looksyummy!”hesaid.Joanna laughed, snipping
atstems.Gracellaturnedaroundand
leaned against the sink, herforehead beaded with sweat.She lifted a rubber-glovedhandtowipeatherbrowwithher wrist. “There issomething I need to talk toyouabout,Jo.”“Youknowyoucantalkto
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meaboutanything,Gracella,”shesaid.“It’saboutyouknowwho.”
Gracella gave a little nod inTyler’s direction as he dugintothetart,whichmadehimwince,thenlickhislips.“It’saboutme,”saidTyler,
jamming another forkful intohismouth.Gracellarolledhereyes.Joanna laughed
lightheartedly, but then shesaw that Gracella was
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suddenly on the verge oftears. “Oh, Gracella!” Sherushedover.“Let’syouandIhave a little chatwhileTylereats that. Can you give us amoment,sweetie?”He dropped his fork onto
theplatewithaclank.“CanIplay with Oscar when I’mdone?”“Of course,” said Joanna.
“He’s upstairs in Ingrid’sroom.Don’tlethimout.”“Promise,” said Tyler. He
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was a smart child. He hadnever told a soul aboutIngrid’s griffin, nor anythingabout Joanna being able tobring his toy soldiers to life.Well, she couldn’t doanything like that now, butshecouldconsoleGracella.Gracella removed her
rubberglovesandapron, andJoanna tookherby thehand,guiding her to the livingroom, where they sat on thecouch.
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“You see, Miss Joanna,youhavebeensokind tomeandmy family. I reallydon’twanttoseemlikeIamaskingforanything.It’sj-just…”shestammered.“Come,come,Gracella,let
it all out,” encouragedJoanna, patting her on theknee.Gracella nodded and
forgedon.She reiterated thatJoannahadbeen sogenerousputting Tyler in preschool.
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“But now he is kindergartenage, and the public school isterrible. My friend Ceciliasaid that there is a lot ofbullyinggoingonthere—andasyouknow,Tylerisnotlikemostkids.He’stoosmart,forone,andtakeseverythingtooliterally. I am very worriedthe children will pick onhim…”“Ugh!” said Joanna.
“When is all that bullyinggoingtoend?Youreadabout
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it in thepapers all the time.”She realized that in all thisdistress over Freya she hadforgotten that she had meanttodosomethingaboutTyler’sschooling in September.Therewasnowayshewouldlet him be subjected tobullying. He needed to bewith children who were asspecialashewasandteacherswho would nurture suchuncannyintelligence.“Ofcoursewearegoingto
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do something about it. Tylerwill not enroll there in thefall,don’tworry.”Gracellawipedathernose
and cheeks, sniffling a littleastheyhugged.Joannawasn’trich,butshe
had some money sockedawayforemergenciessuchasthis. She was going to goupstairs and give Norm aring, tell him to hold off onlookingforthatnewcartoday—did they really need a
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second one?—and ask if hehadanypullatsomeofthosefancy private schools in theHamptons.
The next day Joanna andTyler were on their way totheir first appointmentatoneof the most prestigiouselementary schools in thearea. It had beenrecommended by a certainHamptons creative set.
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Norman had a painter friendwho was on the board, asuccessfulartistwhoseshowsoften got rave reviews in theNew York Times and waswritten about in the NewYorker. Norman had pulledsome strings to secure theappointment for Joanna andTyler.She parked the car in the
lot,whichwassurroundedbya neatly trimmed boxwoodhedge.“Thislooksnice,”she
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remarked to Tyler as shesqueezedintoaspot.ShetookTyler’shand,and
they made their way acrosswhat appeared to be a largesoccer field. It was cold out,butinthefieldsatacircleoflittle girls and boys wearingwingsover theirheavycoats.At the center of the circle, awoman with long pink hair,wearing much larger wingsoveralongvioletcoat,heldabook in one hand. She was
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gesticulating as the childrenattentivelywatchedher.“This looks fun!” she said
to Tyler, somewhatskeptically.The pink-haired woman
and little children waved asthey strode past them towardthe schoolhouse.Amanwitha shag and scraggly beard,dressed in white, waited outfront.Joannawonderedifshehad stepped into theseventies, if the passages of
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timehadinfactreopened.“Mr.Rainbow?”sheasked.“Just Rainbow.” He
smiled. “There are no suchformalities around here,” hesaidastheyshookhands.“Well, I’m Joanna
Beauchamp,andthisisTyler,theboyinquestion.”Rainbow kneeled down to
beatTyler’seyelevel.“Hellothere, Tyler.” He winked,touslingtheboy’scurls.“Hey,” responded Tyler,
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then he looked down at hisfeetandkickedatthecement,intimidated by the man’soverfriendliness.“Come on inside and see
oneoftheclassesinsession.”Joanna andTyler followed
Rainbow into the school.Children’s paintingsdecorated the walls. Theschool was bright withsunlight,airy,andsmelledofElmer’s Glue. They pushedthrough doors into a hallway
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andmade theirway down it.She could hear fun, happySpanish-soundingmusic.“What’sthat?”sheasked.“The class is in
‘movement’ right now.”Rainbow swung a door openontoahugeroomwithblondwood floors,whereboys andgirlsshifteddesultorilyabout,some spinning in circles,some wandering off into farcorners,allappearingtohavenorealsenseofdirection.
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“Movement?”“Other schools call it
‘physical education,’ ” heexplained with a look ofdistaste.“Youwanttodance,Tyler?”Tyler shook his head no,
thenlookedatthefloor.“That’s okay. In time. But
ifthemoodstrikesyou…”“Canyoutellmeaboutthe
curriculum?”askedJoanna.Rainbow smiled in his
affable way. “This is an
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experimental school. Formovement,wemighttakethechildren out to the gym andhave them invent their ownball game. We like ourstudents to feel free toexpress themselves in ordertoreachtheirfullpotential.”“Even when it’s freezing
outside?”“What is weather
anyway?”Rainbowsmiled.Joannaattempteda serious
expression while Tyler did a
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little break-dance movebesideher.“That’s fantastic!” said
Rainbow. “Keep going,Tyler!”Tyler stopped immediately
and watched the dancingchildren.Joanna expressed her
concerns about bullying, andRainbow reassured her thatthere was none of that here.The school was a breedingground for pacifism, if
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anything.Classeswere givenin an impromptu,unstructured fashion, oftenletting the childrenthemselves dictate the tone.There were no textbooks orhomework or lesson plans.The staff believed they werein the middle of creatingsomething new,revolutionary, creative, andwereinventingitastheywentalong.Themissionstatement:“Freedom in learning.
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Learninginfreedom.”The cafeteria was vegan,
using local organic produceonly, which added to thealreadyprohibitive tuition,ofcourse, but who would wanttheir kids to eat anythingelse?Rainbowhappilyrattledofftheillustriousnamesofallthe rich and powerful andfamous parents who haddonated time and money (alot of money) to make theplacewhatitwastoday.
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The more she learnedabout the school, the moreJoanna grewwary that Tylerwould learn anything here.She imagined the classes asutter chaos. Children needed—even wanted—disciplineand structure. They neededbooks.The music changed; this
time itwas aman singing inan angelic, operatic voice.The children drifted about,waving their arms as if they
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were flying, mimicking themovements of the youngwoman who began to leadthem.“So if there are no books,
how do the children learn toread?”sheasked.“Ordotheynot?”“Oh, they do! They do!”
said Rainbow. “Somehowthey do,” he added with aserenesmile.“Whataboutwhentheygo
to high school? Won’t
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makingthetransitionbeabitlikecultureshock?This issodifferent.”Rainbow gave her another
big, happy grin. “I’m notsaying there aren’t going tobechallengeslater.”Joannasighed.Ohwell.At
least there wouldn’t be anybullies.AndRainbowdidsaythe kids learned to read…somehow. “When areapplicationsdue?”sheasked.The serene smile left his
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face.“Youhavenotapplied?”“No?”Rainbow shook his head
sorrowfully. “I am so sorry.Applicationsweredueayearago. We only have sixteenspaces, andwehadhundredsof families apply. I am sosorry.”AndthatwaswhenJoanna
realized that the little schoolwith no textbooks, no lessonplans, and no physicaleducationdidhaveonething:
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a surfeit of prestige—whichwas the one thing thatmatteredintheHamptons.
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chapterthirty-one
TequilaSunset
Leaning against the cashregister in a plaid shirt and
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jeans, Freddie crossed hisarms as he ran an eye downthebarof theNorthInn.Thelone bleached blonde at theend,withoversizepearls andcoral lipstick, was tilting offher seat, and he thought hebetter cut her off soon andcallheracab.Overall,hewasgetting good at this mortalthing, being unable to availhimself of his powers. Hiscustomers had drinks andramekins of peanuts. It was
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midweek, early in theevening.Salwasintheback,playing poker with hisseptuagenarian buddies, andKristy was home with MaxandHannah.AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells”
begantoplayonthejukebox,the tolling of bells followedby a guitar’s opening riff.Freddiedugabeeroutof theice bin and popped it open.He took a long, hard swig,exhaled a satisfied sigh, and
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lookedupatthehockeygameon the old-school TV abovethe bar. His teamwas in themidst of scoring a beautifulgoal and they were winning.Small pleasures, he toldhimself.Healways sensed the shift
in atmosphere when acustomer entered the bar.Thistimehefeltitbeforethedoor opened. One second heflicked his eyes at the dooranditwasclosed,thenextthe
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door swung open andsomeone was walkingthroughit.Hestillhadalittlemagic in him after all. Themanstriding towardhimwasnearlyas tallandwideas thedoorframe itself—football-player size, at least thebreadthofhisshoulders.Waita second, thought Freddie, Iknowthisguy…“Odin’s beard!” Freddie
said.“Wha?” Troy laughed,
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swinging a hand out at him.Freddiegrabbeditandhisoldfriend tuggedhim forward togivehimabearhugover thebar top. The young menpattedeachotherhardon thebackastheylaughed.Troy took a seat. “Hey,
man!”“Wow! Look at you!”
Freddie shook his head andwhistled. “Thor, how haveyoubeen,myfriend?”“Good, good, everything’s
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great.Goodtoseeyou,man.IsawIngridtheotherday.Shetoldmeyouwerehere.So…hereIam!”“That right?” said Freddie
with a grin. “Wow! Ingrid,huh? Erda and Thor.” Helaughed.“Yep!ExceptIgobyTroy
Overbrook now.” He swunghisbangsoutofhisface.Freddie shook his head
with a smile. “TroyOverbrook, Freddie
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Beauchamp at your service.WhatcanIgetyou?”Troy eyed the bottles on
the shelves behind the bar.“How about we haveourselves a little reunioncelebration?” He squinted atFreddie and gave a nod.“Tequila?”“Perfecto!” Freddie got an
unopened bottle of SauzaGold alongwith shot glassesand dewy cold Coronas. Hehad already finished his own
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beer. He set the tequila andbeers down between them.Theylickedsaltofftheirfists,slammeddowntheirshots,bitinto limes, and took deepswigsofthechasers.Troy flashed his glowing
whiteteeth.Freddie saluted Troy with
hisbeerbottle.“Whatthehellhave you been up to?” Hedidn’t usually drink on thejob, but this reunion was aspecialoccasion.
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As they downed moretequila shots and beers, Troyproceeded to tell Freddieabouthis life inMidgard.Hetold him about his morerecent fiasco: the after-hoursclubhehadownedinthecity,and how he finally had togive up the ghost. He hadsolditandmadeamodestbutdecent chunk of change. Hebelieved the club’s lack ofsuccesswassomehowrelatedto theirmagicwaning. Then,
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on a lastminutewhim, Troyhad decided to spend thewinterinNorthHamptonandenjoythequiet.Hehadsomebusinesshere.Freddieliftedhiseyebrows
inquisitively at Troy as hepoured two more shots thatspilledovertheglasses.“Well, I kind of just
wanted to see Erda, to tellyouthetruth.”Troyshookhishead. “I mean Ingrid. Youknow, give it the old college
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try.”TheSauzahadloosenedhistongue.“Oh,”saidFreddie.“Right,
well, good luck with that!”Hegrinned.“Help me out here,
Freddie!A guy needs all thehelphecanget.Can’tyoudosomething? I mean, she’syoursister!Shereallyseriousaboutthatmortal?”Freddie hiccupped. He
took a long swig of beer,which seemed to help. “Sure
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lookslikeit.Sorry,bud.”They laughed good-
naturedly. Freddiereplenished their beers, andthey drained two more shotsand bit into lime quarters,making puckered-up faces.Freddie quickly served thenew customers who hadwandered in, disappointed tofind Freya and her pop-updrinksweregone,butFreddiemade them forget his sistersoon enough with his own
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brand of magic: being anenergetic, good-looking guyat the bar. He refilled a fewdrinks, and returned to Troy,all ears, but not beforepouringhimselfandTroytwoadditionalshots.Troyregaledhimwithtales
from his immortal life—inRoman times, he had been asenator (tons of gold,bacchanalia, anddebauchery); in sixteenth-century France, he had lived
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in the courts of kings (moregold and oh-so-many lovelybreastsheavingupfromtightcorsets); then in thenineteenth century, he waswith Jefferson in Paris(excellent cash flow and notstodgy at all—in fact, thelibertines were total babes).And on it went with ravesabout gold and women, theneventually cars andmotorcycles.Freddie had started to feel
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a little edgy—or, rather,envious of Troy. His friendhad lived all these amazinglives.WhathadFreddiedonesince he’d arrived inMidgard?SincehehadmadehiswaybackfromLimbo,hehad fallen for this chick,Hilly, who had totallybamboozled him and heendedupforcedtomarryhersister, and just when he hadcompletely fallen for Gert,shehad lefthim.Mostofhis
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time in mid-world had, infact,beenspentplayingvideogames, if he really thoughtaboutit.Hehadputoutafewlittlehousefires,butbigdeal.He felt miserable,
unaccomplished,drowsy,andpunchy.Atotalloser.Tequilahad a way of doing that. Atfirstyoufeltwickedlyontopof the world, then you wereready tosock thefirstpersonwho looked at you askew.Vodka would have been
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better. And where was thatbleachedblondeattheendofthebar?Itwaslookingalittleblurry down there. Had shefallen off her stool? He hadforgotten to call her a cab.He’d take care of it later. Itwas her own damn fault ifshe’d gotten too wasted.Someone came over andaskedhimforadrink,andhemixed it hastily, making amess on the bar, which hedidn’tbothertowipe,thenhe
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slapped the cash in theregister.“So what’s been going on
with you? Tell me all aboutyour lives!” Troy saidenthusiastically, givingFreddiehisbig,dimpledgrin.Freddie stared blankly
back. Why had Troy justasked him that? Of courseTroy knew what had gonedown, thatFreddiehad spentthe last five thousand yearswhiling his time away in
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friggin’ Limbo because hehad beenwrongfully accusedof destroying the Bofrir.WTF?Troy’s smile went slack,
and his broad shouldersdeflated.Herealizedthefauxpas. “Oh, I’m so sorry,dude… yeah… about that…At least you’re out, right? IheardtheValkyriesfoundtherealguywhodidit.”Freddie didn’t answer. It
was his fault, what had
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happened to Killian. Therewere so many things hewished he could have donedifferently.Freyaback in thepast, Killian in Limbo, andhere he was, stuck in thislittle town, getting drunk ontequila. He was useless. Hislifehadbeenawaste.“Hey!”saidTroy,reaching
overthebartograbFreddie’sarm. “Did I say somethingwrong?”Freddie smiled. “It’s cool,
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man. It’s totally cool!We’regood!” Freddie poured therest of the Sauza into theirshotglasses.He couldn’t do anything
for anyone.Not forhis sisteror his best friend. Therewasnothing to do but drink.Might as well finish thebottle.
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chapterthirty-two
ShowerthePeople
Guests sat on the carpet in a
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half circle around Tabitha. Itwas reminiscent of herreading hour at the library,only she was unwrappingbaby-shower gifts in herlivingroom.Hudsongatheredthe ribbons from thediscarded wrappings andstuckthemontoapaperplate,which then would be turnedinto a hat to place onTabitha’shead. “Adelightfuland hilarious tradition,” hehadremarked.
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Ingridwasmakingalistofthegifts for thank-younotes.She had to admit there wassomething adorable abouttiny,tinysocksandshoesandever-so-soft miniature T-shirts and swaddling cloths,something that gave her avague stirring.Ababy.Noneof her siblings had ever hadchildren. They were stuck,somehow; Freya and Freddiewere perpetual adolescents,while Ingrid had been a
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spinster all her life, anunripened fruit, withering onthe vine. But love hadchanged her, and she couldfinally understand what allthefusswasabout.“A tutu!” exclaimed
Tabitha.“Um, that’s from Ingrid!”
Hudsonquicklyshotback.Tabitha and her friends
laughed.“It’s a boy, right?” asked
BettyLazar,whohadrecently
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shacked up with herboyfriend, Seth Holding, thejuniordetective.“Well, you never know!”
said Ingrid, scribbling downtutu and her name beside it.Shegiggled.“I love it!” said Tabitha.
“It’s perfect. Every childshould have a tutu. Thanks,Ingrid.”“Notroubleatall,”retorted
Ingrid.“I thought it was genius,”
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saidHudson,grabbingapinkribbontostickontothebelle-of-the-ballhat.Ingridglancedat themany
shelves in Tabitha’s homelibrary, which was so likeMatt’s.Thinkingofhimmadeher wistful. She had beenavoiding him lately, and hewas starting to notice. Sheknewshewasbeingsilly,butshecouldn’t stop feeling likeahomewreckereven ifMattandMariza had never shared
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ahome.“I’vedecidedI’mgoing to
practice attachmentparenting,” Tabithaannounced as she balanced agiftonherknees.“What’s that?” asked
Hudson. “Is that the thingwhere you see parentswalking around with a childon a leash? Those littleharness things? I alwayswonderedaboutthat.”Even Ingrid had to laugh.
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Although she had alwaysbeen puzzled by thoseleashes, but usually chalkedthem up to parents havingwatched toomany true-crimeshows.“Silly!” replied Tabitha.
“It’s a type of parentingmethod created by apediatrician and has to dowith developmentalpsychology. There are eightprinciples.”“Like what?” asked
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Hudson.“Like ‘Feed with respect
andlove.’”“Oh, Scott does that with
me,”heretorted.Tabithagiggled.“It’sabout
nurturing a healthydependency so that the childbecomesaconfidentperson.”“I think my mom got the
other handbook,” Hudsonquipped. “Detachmentparenting. The hands-offmethod!”
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Ingrid laughed but hermindwas still onMatt.Overcoffee,Troyhadtoldherthathe thoughtshewasmakingabig mistake, letting herselffall for a mortal. “I’ve donewhatyouaredoing.Trustme.I don’t recommend it. Thepain…” he had said. “To behonest,it’sagonizing…”Yes, the pain, thought
Ingrid. Matt would be afleetingmomentinanendlesslife.Matt would die and she
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wouldbeleftwiththepainofhislossforalleternity.Wasitworth it? Was loving himworththepainoflosinghim?“Oh, my God!” squealed
Tabitha, holding up theminilederhosen.“Ihopeyourchildyodels!”
saidHudson.“Oh, he will!” said Betty
Lazar. “I hear they keep youup all night long yodeling!”Atthatsheletoutayodel.On the notepad, Ingrid
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inscribedthewordlederhosenafterHudson.
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chapterthirty-three
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ThePriceofAdmission,PartTwo
Infrontofthelow-slungmainbuilding—madeofwoodand
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blue glass—stood a whitemarble reproduction of theGreek statueWinged Victoryof Samothrace. The goddessNike of peace, efficiency,speed, and victory splayedherwings as she pressed herchestforward,facingthesea,as had her originalcounterpart in the port ofSamothrace, to welcomeincoming ships from theirconquests.Everymorningthestatue greeted the five
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hundredorsokindergartenersthrough twelfth graders andthe staff of the CarlyleSchool.On the orientation tour,
Joanna and Norman hadvisited the quaint little greenschoolhouses, connected bywoodenwalkwaysatthebackof thecampus.Theyadmiredthe lovely little playgrounds,gardens, greenhouses, andsmallfarmwithtwopigs,fivegoats, and six sheep, which
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the smaller students weretaught to care for. The barndoubledasthe“artstudio.”Now Joanna and Norman
sat in the principal’s officefor the interview. CharlieWoodruff was a disarming,good-looking fellow in hisearly fifties with white hairand sincere blue eyes. Heexplained the school’smission as one thatencouraged their students toadopt a global outlook,
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embrace technology, pursuetheartsandsciencesasmuchascompetitivesports.“We’retraditional but forwardthinking, at least we hope tobe so,” he explained. “Sowhatdoyouthink?”“Where do we sign?”
Joanna joked. Truly, itseemed like a dream school.She could already imagineTyler in one of those littleblazers with the school crestand gray flannel pants they
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woreasuniforms.The principal smiled. “Of
course,wewill need tomeetwith his parents as well, butultimately everything willhingeonhowTylertests.”“Of course!” echoed
JoannaandNorman.
“So who is your patron?”askedDorothy.Joannastaredblanklyback
from across the luncheon
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table at Dorothy De Forrest.What was her dear but self-important heiress friendasking her now? Joanna hadgrown weary of Dorothy’schronicles of finishingschools and debutante ballsbut had agreed to the lunch,because if one did not seeone’s annoying old friends,one might not have any oldfriends at all. “Excuse me?”Sheblinked.Dorothyblinkedback.“My
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dear,whodoyouhaveontheinside?AtCarlyle?”Joanna was from an old,
well-known family. She wasa Beauchamp. But she neverunderstood why certainpeople gained a sense ofentitlement from a name.Gentle birth. Landed gentry.Old money. It was all dumbluck. Who cared? “What doyoumean?”“I mean who is backing
your application. Surely you
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have someone on the board?Surely Norman…?” Dorothyasked.“TheCarlyleSchoolisextremely selective.Admission is practically amiracle,” she said with asmall laugh. “Surely youknow somebody who canhelp.”Joanna shook her head,
feeling a bit sick to herstomach.“No,wedon’tknowanyone atCarlyle.” She tooka sip of her wine. “Besides,
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weweretolditalldependsonhow Tyler tests and I’mcertain he’ll do very well.”She returned to slicing herduck.“Of course, of course,”
saidherfriend,cuttingupthequail on her plate, which satin a tiny basket made ofpotato strings on a bed ofbaby greens. “Sorry tomention it. Please pass thesalt,darling.”
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chapterthirty-four
WhereThingsComeBack
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Sunday morning. Sort of. Itwas noon when Freddieawoke in his own bed foronce. He would have sleptlongerhaditnotbeenforhiscell persistently ringing onthebedsidetable.Ithadbeena long week caring for Maxand Hannah after eveningsslinging drinks, and he hadtoldKristyheneededtimetorecoverinhisownspace.Theprevious night had been adoozy, the North Inn
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remaining packed until fourin the morning. He’d had toget ironfisted about last call,eventuallykickingoutthelastlively hangers-on. “It’s notthe Fourth of July yet. Noneed for fireworks,” he toldthem.“Justgohome!”He wished he had turned
off his ringer, butrememberedhehadabrunchdatewithKristy at one.Thatmust be her. Good thing shehad called—he might have
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sleptthroughthedate.Herexhadthekidsfortheweekend.After brunch, they hadplanned to go antiquing (herchoice) and after that spendtime lazing around in bed(his). He grabbed the phonewithhernameonhislips,butjustashewasabouttosayit,the person at the other endgaveachipper“Hi,love!”Love?Butthevoicewasn’t
Kristy.“Who is this?” he asked
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suspiciously.“Babe,it’sme.”Freddie sat up, glancing at
the room. Everything wasmuch cleaner and moreorganizedthanhehadlastleftit. Gracella, he thought.Mother really shouldn’tsubjectthepoorwomantomymesses. After a lengthypause, he came back to theuncomfortablemoment.“Gert,” he said, his voice
flat.
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“Hi, sweetie!” she repliedcheerfully.Thiswasnotagoodwayto
wake up. “What do youwant?”“I finished my thesis
early!”“Great!” he said. Did she
expectthemtopickupwheretheyhadleftoffaftershehadabandoned him out of theblue? Wasn’t that actuallyconsidered grounds fordivorce? Abandonment.
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Wouldn’tthatbeawayoutofMr. Liman’s contract he hadsigned with his blood?Although it said nothingaboutabandonmentbyoneoftheparties.Freddiehadmadeadecent
life for himself since he hadmoved back to NorthHampton.Hemadealivingatthe bar and enjoyedworkingthere.Kristyappreciatedhim.Hewasbecomingattachedtoher kids—imaginative
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Hannah and her quirky andquick-witted bespectacledvegetarian brother. He likedwhenHannah told him crazystories about fairies, and hewasteachingMaxhowtoice-skate. Kids… he liked kids,but Gert had never evenwantedtotalkaboutthem.Sheexhaledintothephone,
and he had to pull the cellaway from his ear for asecond.“Freddie, I’msorry IleftlikeIdid.Iknowitwasa
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littlecold.”“Cold?” he said. He
remembered his variousattempts to fix the marriageand how they all had failed.He glanced at the clock. Hehad to shower and get readytomeetKristy.“Listen,Gert,it’s a bit early forme to talkaboutallthis.”“Early?”shesaid.“I was up late. I mean, I
workatabar.”“Oh,”shereplied.“Canwe
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talklatertoday?Ireallyneedto.” It was always on herterms, wasn’t it? “Freddie,there wasn’t anyone else, ifthat’swhatyou’rethinking.Itwas totally about school. I…I…”Itwasn’twhathehadbeen
thinking. He didn’t careanymore, or at least he triedtoconvincehimselfhedidn’tcare. It hadn’t been easy toforget her—no matter howmuchhe likedKristy,hehad
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to admit he missed Gert, hemissed hiswife.But she hadlefthimwithanote,andnowshejustexpectedthemtopickup where they had left off?Amazing. He couldn’t bemore furious, but when heheard a tremor in her voice,he relented. “Look, let’s talklater.”“Okay,” she said. “I miss
you…”“Uh-huh.” Freddie
exhaled.“Look, I reallyhave
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to run.” It came out curtly,which hadn’t been hisintention. Gert had a way ofgetting to him. “I’ll call youlater,” he said, and hung upthephone.
Whenhereturnedhomeafterhis date, the house wasempty.Joannahadleftanotesaying she and Norman hadgone out for clam chowder.You had to love the
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specificity.Well,at least thatwas one relationship thatappearedtobeworking.Freddie climbed the stairs,
done in. He glanced inIngrid’s room to see if shewas around but only sawOscar, Buster, and Siegfriedcurled up on the bed. Busterblinked at him. His eyesappeared heavy, and hequickly closed them as hepressed his snout againstOscar’s fur. Since the
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Beauchamps had lost theirpowers, it was as if thefamiliars had gone intohibernation. Poor kids,Freddie thought. He closedthedoor.Freddie felt sorry for
himself,too.Hehadbeenlateto his date with Kristy, andthey’d had their first fight.Afterward, they had goneback to the shack on thebeach and made up in bed.But after their lovemaking,
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Kristy got teary eyed. Shecomplained about being somuch older than Freddie andthat eventually he wouldleave her. Max and Hannahwere getting attached. Itwasn’tgood.Ithadallbeenahugemistake.Asmuchashetried to assuage her—heplanned to stick around andhe really, really cared somuchabouther—sheseemeddead set on being negative.“Is that really enough?” she
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asked. She had never beenlikethatbefore.PerhapsKristyhadapoint.
Hewasreluctanttosaythosethree little words that mightseal the deal. It felt so rightwithKristy,but…hewasstillmarried.Hejustwasn’treadyto say it. Perhaps Gert hadruined him.ThenKristy saidit was best if Freddie wenthome. They needed space.The whole thing had madehimfeelshitty.
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And here he was. Heemptied out his pockets ontothe dresser—cell, change,crumpledbills—pulledoffhisT-shirt, and stumbled out ofhisjeans,whippingthemontoan armchair. He just wantedtobeinbedandresumewhathehadn’tfinishedearlierthatmorning:sleep.He closed the windows,
pulled the curtains, andturned down the heater. Heliked getting the room chilly
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as he snuggled up in theduvet; it made for the bestkind of sleep. It was onlyaboutseven,andhewasgladtobegettinganearlystart.Hecrawled into bed andstretched himself outluxuriously. His leg hitsomething. “Ack!” he said,joltingup.“Kelda!” Freddie’s arms
fell protectively to his sides,shielding himself with theduvet. “What are you doing
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here?”The pixie widened her
almondeyes,pushingstrandsofmessywhitehairbehindanear.“Iwaswaitingforyou.Ihavesomecrappynews.”“Nice!Doyoumind?Hand
me my shirt, will you?” hesaid. Like the pixies, he wascomfortable with nudity, butif his mother strolled in, itmight be awkward. Joannamade unexpected check-ins,needing to reassure herself
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that Freddie was still homefromLimbo.“Good news, bad news
kind of thing.” Kelda rolledoff the bed to hand him hisshirt. She was filthy, in arumpled T-shirt, dusty blackjeans,stainedtubesocks.Freddiegrimaced, thinking
abouthiscleansheets.Kelda did a yoga stretch,
comingup in a reverse swandive, her hands forming aprayer at her chest. “Good
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news: we found the trident.Bad news: Jörmungandr hasit.”
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chapterthirty-five
PutaRingOnIt
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They had barely sat down atthe table in the Frenchrestaurant when Ingridnoticed a platinum band onHudson’s ring finger.“Hudson! You didn’t tellme!”“We wanted to keep it a
surprise!” Hudson laughed,holdingScott’shand.Scott and Hudson liked to
jokethattheydidnotlooksomuch like a couple as a pairof gay twins, even if Scott
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was half Korean. LikeHudson, Scott wasmeticulously dressed andboyishly handsome. “Wewanted to wait till dessert tomake the announcement.Really, we don’t want tospend the entire dinnertalking about us.” Althoughof course now that they hadannounced it so early theywould have to spend theentire dinner talking aboutthem,but Ingriddidn’t really
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mind.She and Matt were on a
double date with the couple.Matthadreservedthetableinthe nook by the windowfacingtheseaatLaPlage.“Wait!” said Ingrid,
flustered. “You didn’t getmarried without telling me,did you? You couldn’t have—”“Of course not. Scott just
popped the question. Theweddingbandsaregold.They
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fit on top of these. Cool,right?”“Congratulations!” said
Matt. He stood and held outhis arms to Scott, who wassittingbesidehim.Scottgaveawrysmileand
rosetoreceivethehug,whileIngrid embraced Hudson.Matt flagged the waiter toorder abottleofbubbly.Thechampagne was brought tothe table with an ice bucket,and Ingrid and Matt raised
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theirflutes.“To the happy couple,”
Mattsaid.“To our friends,” Ingrid
said,hereyessparkling.While Hudson and Scott
clinkedglasses, Ingrid turnedto Matt, squeezing his kneebeneath the table.He slippeda hand on her thighunderneath her skirt. Theslinky touch sent a warmshiver through her. She feltthe crimson flush rise to her
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cheeks and took a sip ofchampagne to steady hernerves.“So…anyplansyet?”“We’re thinking May,”
pipedHudson.“Wow, so soon! That’s
great!” said Ingrid, adjustingherselfinherchair.“AndofcourseIwouldbe
honoredifyouweremymaidofhonor,”Hudsonsaidwithatentativesmile.“Me?”Hudsonnoddedwithagrin
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andtheyhuggedagain.“Wehavealotofplanning
todo,then!”Ingridgushed.“Wait a second,” said
Scott. “This is what I mean.Let’snot.Let’sjustrelax.”Ingrid winked. “Hudson
andIwilltalk.”“Absolutely!”saidScott.“That we will. And guess
what?” Hudson widened hiseyes.“What?”Ingridleanedin.Again, Scott cut in. “His
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momiscoming.Afterallthatfuss!” He folded his napkinon his lap. “I really don’tknow why Hudson hemmedand hawed for so long. Mymom’s Korean—she wasn’teven born in the States, andwhen I came out to her atthirteen she barely batted aneye.”“Your mom was not a
debutante from Charleston,”said Hudson. “Your mom iscool.”
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“Not really,” returnedScott.Hudson lifted his fork.
“Anyhow, it’s all behind usnow.Momsaysshe’slookingforward to the wedding.That’s huge!” He dug in tohis coquille Saint Jacqueswithasmile.“Next thing you know,
she’ll be asking about kids,”saidScott.“Markmywords.”“And?” Matt nudged with
agrin.
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Hudson and Scottexchanged a knowing look.“We already found an eggdonor,” confessed Hudsonwithacheekygrin.“Nowallweneedisawomb!”
Outside in the parking lotafter Hudson and Scott haddriven off, Ingrid and Mattwatched the taillightsdisappearinthemist.Theairwas chilly and she huddled
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close tohim.She couldhavestoodthereforeverwithMatt.He twined his fingers in
hers.“Ingrid,what’sgoingonwith us?” he asked. “You’reavoiding me and not justbecause of your work. I feelyou drifting away.” He hadaskedherwhyshehadleftsoabruptly during that lunch afew weeks ago, but she hadlied and told him she hadn’tbeenfeelingwell.Sincethen,they had hardly spent any
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timetogether.Ingrid took a deep breath.
Itwastimetocomecleanandtell him what was botheringher. “Do you wish you andMarizahad stayed together?”she asked finally. It wasn’tquitehowshehadplannedtosay it, but there it was. Shewanted to do the right thingby Maggie, but she alsowanted to protect her ownheart.Itwasbothselflessandselfish of her. She lifted his
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hands thatwere holding hersandlet themdropagainstherasshewaitedforhisanswer.“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“Wetriedonce.ForMaggie’ssake.Butthatwasalongtimeago.Maggiewas indiapers.”He ran his cheek along herhair, breathing in itsfragrance, then let go of herhands and leaned on the carso theywere both facing thebeach. “Is this what’s beenbotheringyou?”
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She shook her head.“Yes…”shewhispered.Itfeltgood to no longer skirtaround it. She looked up atthe deep black blue of thenight and sighed. A din rosefrom the nearby North Inn.The crowd seemed to begetting rowdy. Someonewhistled.Awomansquealed.Clapping.Matt stared out at the
ocean. “ImetMarizawhen Iwas sixteen. I was a kid, an
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irresponsible kid. Not that Iregretit,notatall.Iwouldn’tchange anything because itmeant we got to haveMaggie.ButMariza and I, itwas a lifetime ago. We’refriends,Ingrid,wehavetobe,for our daughter. But as thatsong Maggie keeps playingsays,‘we’renever,ever,evergetting back together,’ ” hesaidwithagrin.He turned to Ingrid and
flipped around to hover over
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her, his hands pressingagainst the car’s roof, one ateachsideofhershoulders.Hehad her locked in so shecouldn’t go anywhere buthere, which was exactlywhereshewantedtobe.
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chapterthirty-six
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ThePriceofAdmission,PartThree
Her stomach lurched. Joannawasn’t the one about to be
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tested, but it felt as if shemight as well be as shestrolledpastthegoddessNikeinto the Carlyle School,holding Tyler’s hand. Thelittle boy wore a crisp paleblueshirt and redpaisley tie,hisbigcurls slightlywetandbrushedflat,appearingpastedto his large forehead. Theytook the flight of stairs toPrincipal Woodruff’s office.HehadsentJoannaapersonale-mail, saying he would
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accompany her to the officeof the admissions director, aMrs. Henderson, for Tyler’sinterview and test. He waslookingforwardtoseeingherandTyler.“Where are we going?”
askedTyler.“It’s going to be fine,
sweetie,” said Joanna, hervoice almost shrill, as theyascended the black marblesteps. She squeezed his handtoreassurehim.
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“Ouch, you’re hurtingme!Your hand is clammy, andmyshoesaretootight!”Tylerpulled his hand away andstompedon the stepwith thepolished black leather shoesinquestion.Heleanedagainstthe banister and refused totakeanotherstep.Joanna attempted to pull
herself together. She shouldhave asked Norman to dothis.Itwastoonerve-racking,but she had wanted to do it
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becausesheneededtoensureitwentsmoothly.“Youcamehere with your mother andfather,remember?Didn’tyousee Principal Woodruff? Mr.Charlie?Hetoldmeyouwerea very intelligent little boy.You made an excellentimpressiononhim.”“Oh!” Tyler looked down
and ran the side of his shoealongthestep.“Icanwalkupthe stairs myself. I’m a bigboy.”
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“Yes, you are, Tyler. Youdo that. That’s very good.”She loved Tyler, but he wasmakingherjittersworse.
“Well, Hello!” said PrincipalWoodruff, rising to greetJoanna and Tyler as theyentered his office. “You arelooking extremely dapper,youngman!”Tyler looked down at his
shinyshoesandshrugged.
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“Say hello to PrincipalWoodruff.”Joannapattedhishead, and he immediatelypushedherhandaway.Sincewhen had Tyler begunbehaving this way? Joannaforcedasmile.“Tyler?”Tylerglancedup. “Hi,”he
said to the principal, thenquickly looked away to gazeout the window at the frontyard.“It’sverycoldtoday,”said
Mr.Woodruff.“Iunderstand.
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We’reallabitcrankywhenitgetslikethis.”“I do apologize, Principal
Woodruff,” said Joanna in arush. “I think his shoes arebothering him. You knowhow fast they grow at thisage. It’s hard to keep up,really!” She reached out toshakehishand.“Call me Charlie. Please
don’t apologize.” He smiledamicably, but he seemed alittlefrayedaroundtheedges,
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asifheweretrudgingthroughthese formalities. “Let’s go,”he said. He accompaniedthem to the admissionsdirector’s office, where heintroduced them to Mrs.Henderson, wished themgoodluck,andsaidgood-bye.Joanna felt that sudden
dropping sensation in herstomachagain.
She and Tyler sat facing the
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gleamingdesk,wheremanilafolders, a glass paperweightwith a tarantula trappedinside it, a pen carrier, andphotos were neatly arranged.Mrs. Henderson appeared tobe a fastidious woman. Shewas British, attractive, withfine, light blond hair up in aFrench twist and bigturquoise blues with a leftlazy eye that roamed to theinner corner. When the eyerighteditself,Mrs.Henderson
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smiledwithherbrightscarletlips.Joanna could only see the
backsof thephotoframesonthedesk.Perhaps,shemused,if she could see thesephotographs—Mrs.Henderson’sfamilyordogorcat—she might feel lessintimidatedbythisgatekeeperto her top-choice school.Dorothy De Forrest’squestions rang in her head.Whoisyourpatron?Whodo
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you have on the inside? Sheglanced at the large black-and-whiteprintonthewall,apretty freckle-faced AmeliaEarhart in an aviator’s capand goggles, and quicklyrecited an incantation in herheadtolittleeffect.Tylerstudiedtheroomand,
with watchful eyes, stared atMrs. Henderson as she wentonabout the scholarships theschooloffered.Joanna could feel vast
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ringsof sweat formingat thearmpits of her silk blouse.She kept her arms pinned toher sides and collectedherself, a witch withoutmagic. To her dismay, Tylerappeared to be moping. Shenoticed the bright yellowroom adjacent to the office,which could be spied via aconnecting glass window.Inside, she saw a play areawithcolorfultoys,desks,andchairs. This was most likely
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where the kindergartenconsultant would administerhertest.“Yes, that’s where Tyler
will go and play in a littlewhile,” the admissionsdirector said, and nodded.She turned to the boy. “Firstoff, why don’t you go aheadand take off your shoes,Tyler.Andwhileweareatit,you are welcome to loosenthat nice tie of yours. Iwantyou to be as comfortable as
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possible.”Tyler shook his head no,
then looked down. Joannaimmediately leaned over tohelphim,andhis littlehandsflutteredathersasifshewereanirritatingfly.Hewasbeingso very uncooperative todayof all days. Usually, he wassuch a good kid. What hadgotten into him? “I don’tunderstand. He’s never likethis,”saidJoanna.“It’sokay,IwantTylerdo
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it by himself,” Mrs.Henderson said. “Tyler,please remove your shoes.”Hervoiceremainedpolitebutfirm.Joanna realized the testing
had begun, even if thedirectorhadn’ttakenhimintothe adjoining room. Shewatched Tyler’s lack ofresponse,panicrising.Tyler slumped in his chair
andwouldn’tbudge.“Tyler, is there something
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troubling you?” asked Mrs.Henderson.He looked up at her and
stared.Thiswasgoingtobeadefining moment, Joannaknew. Her pulse rang in herears and her stomach flip-flopped once again. Shebegged Tyler in her head tobe a good little boy. Hepouted.“Tyler?” urged the
admissionsdirector.Heglaredupather.“Leave
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mealone!”heshot,hisblacklashesblinkingoutatearthatrolled down his cheek. Heglared at the admissionsdirector. “Leave me alone! Idon’twanttobehere!”
Joanna was silent as shedroveTylerbacktohishome.She combed through whathad happened at the schoolfrombeginningtoend,tryingto pinpoint where she had
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gone wrong. Perhaps hernerveshad rubbedoffon thesensitive child. They hadcompletely flubbed theinterview, andwhile she hadbeen successful at finallycoercing Tyler to go “playwiththenicelady,”therestofthe meeting was just asawkwardas thebeginning. IfshecouldjustgetTylerintoadecentkindergarten, then shewouldbe agoodmother, notone whose children were
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being threatened all over thenineworldsoftheuniverse.Mrs. Henderson had
remained unflustered,responding graciously toTyler’s awful little tempertantrum.“Weallhaveouroffdays,” she had saidcheerfully. “Don’t worryabout it. He’s six years old,afterall!”But Joanna knew she had
flubbed it. There wasn’tgoing to be a second chance
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at Carlyle. She glanced atTylerinthepassengerseat.“Didyouhavefunwiththe
nicelady?”sheasked.“Whatdidshewantyoutodo?”Tylershrugged.“Nothing.”Shesighed.He turned to look out the
window and ran his pudgylittle index finger over theglass.She mussed his hair and
watched the road. “It’s okay,Tyler. Everything’s going to
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beokay,”shepromised.
When she pulled into thedriveway, Norman waswaiting outside for her,shoveling snow, waving andsmiling. She was relieved tosee him. He opened thedriver’s-sidedoorforher.“How’ditgo?”Hesawher
face.“Thatbad,huh?”Joanna laughed—she had
to. At least it was over.
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Perhaps she had grown tooserious about this wholekindergartenthing.Younevergotanywhereifyoucameoffdesperate.“I’drathernottalkabout it, but needless to sayI’m back to the drawingboard.”“Ouch!” Norman said,
hugging her. “I have somenews. I’m packing a bagupstairs.IheardfromArthur,and I’m on my way to meethim.”
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She released herself fromNorman’s grasp, feeling athousand newworries as sheremembered the conditionsexplainedbytheOracle.Thatcertainly put the privateschool admissions race intoperspective.“Wish me luck,” said
Normanwithabravesmile.They had very little time
left, and if Arthur, as thekeeper of the passages,couldn’t provide a better
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solution than that of theOracle… well, there was noreason for Joanna to thinkofthatnow.“He’ll think of something,
I know he will,” Normansaid. “Everything’s going tobeokay,”hesaid,echoingthewords she had just said toTyler and with just as muchconviction.
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chapterthirty-seven
TheMonsterattheEndoftheWorld
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Jörmungandr was the seaserpent whose head restednear the bottom of Midgard.He wrapped himself aroundmid-world, long enough tobite his own tail and form acircle.Hedidthelatterwhilehe slept, much like a childsucking on his thumb for
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comfort. His fangs drippedblood and black poison thatkilled in an instant. He wasfondofridiculousriddles.AndnowhehadFreddie’s
trident.“You’ve got to be kidding
me!” Freddie said to Kelda.“How the hell did he get it?Whatever.Don’texplain. I’mexhausted.Sowhat?Whatdowedonow?”Sheblinkedathimasifhe
were slow. “Duh! It’s an
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emergency?” She looked athimsideways.“You’vegottocome downwith us to get itback unless you’re, like, notin the mood to save theworld.”Just when Freddie had
thoughthewasgoingtogetagood twelve hours. Hecovered his face with hispalms, took a deep breath,and flicked a hand at Kelda.“Can you just… um…” Hegestured,makingacirclewith
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his index finger. “Turnaround!”Kelda grabbed her combat
bootsandfacedawall.Freddiegotoutofbedand
found a pair of pants neatlyfolded on a chair, whichappearedtohavebeenfreshlylaundered, thanks to theirindustrious housekeeper.“Save the world, but how?I’m tapped out. No magic.We all are. You guys mightnothavethoughtthisthrough.
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Howareweevengoingtogetthere?”“Nyph and the guys are
waiting for us on GardinersIsland.” Kelda stepped intoher boots and kneeled to tiethem. “Just get ready.You’llsee.”“All right,” Freddie said,
distracted. The clothesGracella hadwashed smelledlike flowery fabric softener,which somehow made himremember he needed to call
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Gert back although he didn’tknowwhat hewanted to sayto her. He had no clue whathewas going to dowith anyofhiswomen.Women!Therewerealwayssomanyofthemaround him. He slipped onthecleanclothesandgrabbedahoodedsweatshirt.Itwouldbe cold at the bottom of theworld. He knew; he’d livedtherebefore.“You can turn now,” he
toldKelda.
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Sheswungaround.Freddiejumped back, clutching hisheart andgasping.Keldahaddonned a large, terrifyingmask of an ox’s head withtwo large horns. Though themask was dirty andmade ofrubber, its verisimilitudewasstriking. She tilted the largeoxheadtowardhim.Freddie studied her.
“Where’dyougetthat?”“Dumpster,” came her
muffledvoice.“Likeit?”
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He nodded. “Bring it.We’regoingtoneedit.”Freddie walked to the
dresser and grabbed his cellphone.Thiswasexactlywhathe needed. It made him feellike hewas inAsgard again,when the world was youngand he was ready foradventure. He decided hewouldringKristyonthewaytoGardiners Island to let herknow he had business out oftown.
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Ever since Freya and Ingridhad stepped through thehidden door in the ballroomalmost a year ago now, FairHaven had vanished beneathatangleofgreen,eveninthedeadofwinter.Thetreesandgrass were overgrown. Ivy,kudzu, passionflower, andother vines swallowed theproperty—only thegreenhouse on the southeastside of the house, whichKillianhadfixedupforFreya
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before he had disappeared,looked tidy.Vines aswell asmoss crept along theground,down the dock, and onto theDragon, Killian’s sixty-footsport-fishing yacht, whichwas raised on blocks andcovered in canvas for thewinter, looking sadlyfunereal. The overallimpression of GardinersIsland was that of a jungleengulfing the remains of anearliercivilization.
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Kelda,stillintheoxmask,ledthewayupthefrontsteps.A path had been cut throughthe growth to the front doorof the mansion, which thepixies had unlatched with askeleton key. Inside,everything had remainedintact, preserved by theblanketoffoliage.Freddie followed Kelda
through an empty roomwithan enormous nineteenth-century painting entitled
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Ragnarok: The Death ofBalder. An arrow piercedBalder’s heart as he lay onthe ground, one armoutstretched, surrounded byValkyries with pale skin,blond tresses, and eyes ascold as the steel of theirhelmets. He recognizedBrünnhilde. Hilly. What adeceptivevixenshehadbeen.There she was holding aspear.Valkyries!Feh.They entered the ballroom
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where the pixies waited,sprawled on velvet divansand damask armchairs. Theburgundy drapes had beendrawn, the windows opened,and the moonlight cast asilverglowinsidetheroom.“Don’tallgetupatonce!”
saidFreddie.Nyph, on a dusty-rose
loveseat, looked up from hermagazineand tossed it to thefloor to pounce on Freddie.Sheworeagreensatingown,
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white gloves to the elbows,herhairup,andaboatwirledaround her shoulders. Theother pixies ambled over togreethimaswell.“Something’s different,”
said Freddie, knitting hisbrow.“We’re clean,” said Nyph,
smiling up at him, her faceshiny.Freddie did an about-face.
At one end of the ballroom,the wall had been crudely
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demolished, revealing awoodendoorcarvedwith theimage of a tree. A pile ofSheetrock and rubble, alongwith a crowbar—the verysameIngridhadonceusedtouncover the ghost door—layonthefloor.“The way to Yggdrasil,”
said Val. “AndJörmungandr.” He pulled agold watch from his pocket,glanced at the time, andstraightenedhisascot.
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Sven, decked out in athree-piece suit, exhaled astreamof smoke fromapipethatsmelledofappletobacco.“And the trident,” he addedgruffly.“I gathered,” said Freddie.
He studied the pixies, thecostumes and props, andgrinned.Hehadmissedthem.They followed him to the
door, where he ran a handover the intricate design offlowers, birds, and twining
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branches,thetreeanislandinthesky.Irdickcrouched,acigarette
clenched in his lips. Hepointedtoabottomsectionofthe panel. “You walk to theend here, then you jump.Pretty self-explanatory.” Hewinked from beneath thebrimofa1940sfelthat.“Who’s coming with?”
askedFreddie.The pixies stared at him.
Sven made a show of
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yawning.“I’mbeat!”hesaid.“I need to change for
dinner,”Keldamutteredfrominsidetheoxmask.Val shuddered. “I can’t st-
st-stand Jörmungandr. Hegivesmethejitters.”“The kid’s got serious
halitosis,” added Irdick,studyinghisfingernails.Nyphsnortedwithdisgust.
“You’re all a bunch ofcowards!I’llgo,Freddie.”Freddie patted her on the
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head. “Okay, but don’t bringthe boa.” He glanced atKelda. “And letme have themask.”Kelda pulled it off and
tosseditatFreddie.HetookNyph’shandinhis
and together they walkedtowardtheportal.
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chapterthirty-eight
SlidingDates
Ingrid climbed the stairs toher room. The familiars
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leaped off the bed andclambered at her feet to saytheir hellos. Siegfried rubbedhairs off on her leg. Oscarstared up at her withmournful eyes while Bustersnorted at her feet. “Hello,pumpkins!”Shetossedthebooksinher
arms onto the bed so shecould playwith the familiarsbefore she took a shower.One of the books fell open,and something on the page
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caught her eye. She stared,then picked it up and ran tohermother’sstudy.“Mother!” Ingrid held up
thebookasifshewereaboutto swat someonewith it.Sheshook her head, unable tospeak,hercolordrained.“Darling,whatisit?”She handed Joanna the
book held opened to theoffendingpage.It was a list entitled
PERSONS HANGED IN
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SALEM FORWITCHCRAFT DURING1692. A date she had neverseen in the list before hadbeen added. In this new list,the death toll began on June10—as it always had—thedate the first of the accused,Bridget Bishop, had hanged.ButbetweenJune10and thedate that usually followed it,July 19, when five morehanged at Gallows Hill, wasanentirelynewdate:June13.
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“See what it says—rightthere—twonewnames…I’veneverheardofthembefore—butlookatthethird…”“Freya Beauchamp,”
Joannawhispered.“Freya’sbeenhanged!”“No—look!”Joannasaid.Mother and daughter
watched as the names fadedfrom view and the listreturned to the original onesheknewwithno anomalies.Nineteen hanged and one
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person pressed to death. NoFreya. Before their eyes, thelist became evanescent,changing, names vanishingand reappearing, then goingback once again to theoriginal. Freya Beauchamp,hanged,June19.Ingrid thought she had
glimpsed June 13 originallyinsteadofJune19forFreya’sdeath.Ithadfadedsoquickly,she wasn’t certain what shehadseen.
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“What’s happening?”Ingrid whispered. “Why is itchanging?”Joannatookthebookfrom
Ingridandset itdownonherdesk. Her hands wereshaking. She turned to heroldest daughter. “Rememberwhen we saw the Oracle inthecity?”“Yes. You said he was
unhelpful.”“Thatwasn’tquitetruthful.
There was nothing he could
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dotohelpus,but…”“But?”Joanna told her what the
Oracle had told them, abouthow time was fluctuating,undulating,andifFreyawereto die while the passageswere closed, how she wouldbe doomed to remain in theunderworldforever.Ingrid sank to the couch.
“No,”shewhispered.“No.”“Butit’sallright,herdeath
hasn’t been set yet. See?
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That’s why the ink keepschanging. It means it hasn’thappened yet—only thatthere’sthepossibilitythatshecould die. She’s still alive,Ingrid. There’s still somehope.Fatherhasgoneto…toseeUncleArt…Hecanhelpus.Hewillhelpus.”“Andifnot?”“Ifnot…”Joannaclenched
the book’s edges tightly.“Well, we will come to thatbridgewhenwecrossit.”
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chapterthirty-nine
Trickster’sSon
Nyph placed a hand on thedoor, whispering the ancient
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password thatwould open it.Thedoorgaveway,swingingopenontoasilent,envelopingdarkness. Freddie stuffed therubber mask into the frontpocket of his hoodie, Nyphlifted the hem of the greensatingown,andtogethertheystepped through to the otherside.Oncetheyhadcrossedthey
found themselves standing ina dense green thicket. Beadsofdewclungtothegrassand
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leaves, glistening like jewelsin the soft moonlight. “Thisway,” Nyph said, leadingthemdownapathtowardthevoid.Freddie explained his plan
for retrieving the trident asthey trudged ahead. “I knowit’s not much, and we’llprobably have to wing it inthe end,” he added. “Youknow how Jörmungandr is.You never know what toexpect.”
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They heard crickets,cicadas, and katydids, butalsothecroakingoftoadsandthe occasional startlingscreechofabarnowl.Theairwas thick, moist with theperfume of rich soil,mushrooms, and the grassthat crushed underfoot.Enormous roots rose aroundthem and snaked along theground. Eventually, theyarrivedattheheartofthetreethatheldthepathbetweenthe
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worlds.Freddie held on to a root
and swung out into the void.Hepeereddown.Beneath,hesaw something resemblingstars, floating white lights,somestagnant,someshootinginspraysacrossthedarkness.“Here we go!” he said,
swinging back. “Youremember the plan?” Nyphnervouslynoddedyes.Freddie took the ox mask
out of his hoodie pocket and
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pulled it over his head,hoping his planwouldwork.He took the pixie’s littlehand,andtheyjumped.Theyfellsideways,floated
upward, spun fast then slow.The air held them like a net.Thiswentonforsometime—turning and turning untilneither knew what directiontheyhadgonealtogether.Theend of mid-world wassomewhere in the middle ofthe glom, the twilight space,
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right before Limbo, beforeHelheim,beforetheabyss.
Through the slits for eyes inthe ox-head mask, Freddiepeered into the wide-openjaws of Jörmungandr. Theblack poison coating thesnake’sfangsdrippedintothevoid as it hissed. Irdick hadbeenrightaboutthehalitosis.A fetid wind wafted atFreddie, smelling of onions
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andsour,rottingmeat.Behind Jörmungandr’s
head, a little ways off,Freddie spied his goldentrident floating in a nest ofwhite lights.Nyphpokedherhead out from behind one ofJörmungandr’s scales, whereshe hid, keeping an eye onFreddie.Jörmungandr yawned.
“Nice try, Fryr!” He had alethargic way of speaking,carefully enunciating his
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words, and his S’s raspedwith extra sibilance. “Thortriedtheox-head-as-baittrickonme once before. Fool meonce,shameonyou.Foolmetwice—”“Shame on me,” said
Freddie.TheMidgardserpentspoke so slowly, it wasdifficult not to complete hissentences.Jörmungandrsmiled.Freddie hadn’t forgotten
the story and was depending
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on it to help. Once upon atime, back when the worldwasyoungandAsgardwhole,Thor and the giant Hymirwent fishing forJörmungandr, using an ox’sheadasbait.Thorcaught thesea serpent with the bovinelure, but terrified of themonster, Hymir cut the line,setting Jörmungandr free.Freddie hoped Jörmungandrwould feel pleased not tohave been trapped by the
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same bait this second timearound. He was counting onJörmungandr’s vanity to lullthesnakeintoafalsesenseofconfidence so that themonstercouldbecoaxedintooffering a riddle in exchangefor the trident. The serpent’sriddles were easy enough tosolve,butevenifthingswentawryNyphwould snatch thetrident while Freddie keptJörmungandr distracted. Shewashisbackupplan.
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Freddiepulledthemaskoffhis head, which was thesignal for Nyph to stayhiddenbutalsothattheyweremovingontophasetwo.“Sohowdidyouknowitwasmeunder the mask?” Freddieexaminedhisfingernails.Jörmungandr gave a grin.
“Well, I figured you wouldcome sooner or later. I dohave your trident, after all.”The sea serpent turned hisheadtoglanceatitjustasthe
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pixieducked.HeturnedbacktoFreddie.“It’snotlikeIgetmany visitors down here.”His large reptilian eyesblinked. “You want it, don’tyou?”Freddie shrugged
sheepishly.“Ikindofdo…”“I could offer a riddle? If
you answer it correctly, I’llgive you back your trident.It’s not like I need it. I wasjust holding it hostage,becauseI’mbored.”
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“I don’t know,” saidFreddie. “Your riddles aremuch too clever, my friend.What about I fight you forit?” Freddie ran a handthrough his hair, examinedhisarm,flexingthemuscles.“No,no,no,I’mnotinthe
mood,” said Jörmungandr. “Ihaveagoodriddle.Please?”Freddie pulled his eyes
away from his arm. “Allright,” he relented. “I’ll giveitatry.”
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Jörmungandr blinkedhappily.“So…mydad…”“You mean Loki,” said
Freddie.“Yes, Loki, my dad,”
replied the serpent.He lovedto weave Loki into theconversation whenever hecould, as Jörmungandr wasvery proud of his Asgardianheritage. “But that’s not thecompleteriddle.I’mnotdoneyet.”Freddie smiled. “Oh! I’m
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sorry, Jörmungandr. Go on,then…”“So my dad says, ‘I have
nobrothers and sisters,’ ” hecontinued.“But he does!” said
Freddie. “Hehas onebrotheratleast.”“Just pretend for the sake
oftheriddlethathedoesn’t,”said Jörmungandr, a littlefrustrated. “And while youare at it, also pretend I don’thave siblings either. I hate
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mine. I have forgotten allabout them myself. Theydon’t exist.” He grinnedbroadly.“Okay,” said Freddie.
“Lokihasnosiblings,nordoyou.Done.”“Great!”saidJörmungandr.
“So Loki says, ‘I have nobrothers and sisters, but thisgod’s father is my father’sson.Whoisthegod?”Freddie narrowed his eyes
at Jörmungandr. “So I’m
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answeringLoki’sriddle?”“Yes.” The snake smiled
dumbly.“Aren’t you
overcomplicatingthings?”Jörmungandr sneered.
“Maybe.”“Jeez, that’s really tough.
HowlongdoIhavetofigurethis out?” Freddie glimpsedNyph peeping out, and hescratched his head to signalsheshouldstayhidden.Jörmungandr laughed.
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“Likefivesecondsago.”“Hmm,” said Freddie,
appearing flummoxed. “Ireally do get my trident if Ianswercorrectly?”Jörmungandr nodded his
head.“Yes.”Freddie smiled. “Okay,
well, I think I know theanswer. But I’m not reallysure…”Thesnakelickedhisfangs.Freddie bit a finger as if
still pondering. He realized
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the snake was actually verylonely and trying to extendthe rare company he had. Itwassad.Theriddleitselfwasso narcissistic and obviousthat Freddie had instantlyfigured it out: Loki says,“This god’s father is myfather’s son. Who is thegod?” A riddle that went incircles, from god to son.Jörmungandr and Loki andOdin. Jörmungandr’s fatherwas Loki who was Odin’s
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son. The god then wasJörmungandr.“The answer is you,
Jörmungandr.”The serpent blinked at
Freddie. “Is that youranswer?”“Because it is the correct
one. Now, the trident,please.”Theserpenthissed.Hewas
notatallpleasedtohavelosthisfavoritegame.Freddie began to back
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away. He tugged his ear togiveNyph the signal to grabthe trident while he keptJörmungandrfocusedonhim.But the pixie had trouble
navigating the void, and theballroom gown didn’t help,with all that fabric floatingaroundher.Shekeptmissingthemark.“Thetridentplease,Iwon’t
ask again,” Freddiethreatened.“Take your trident.”
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Jörmungandr laughed and,withasuddenshake,whippedhis tail to the skies, sendingNyph tumbling into thevoid.HeturnedtoFreddie,openinghisjawswide.Freddie pushed off the
snakeandgrabbedhistrident—itfitintohispalmperfectly—andthetridentsizzledwithpower as it returned to itsrightful owner, and FreddieBeauchamp was no longer.Only themighty god Fryr of
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the sun and sky stood beforethem, Fryr, golden andpowerful and glorious,returned to himself, whole,complete. With a roar helunged at the serpent, histridentblazingwithwhitefireas it pierced the heart of thesnake.There was a deafening
explosion, a blinding light,beforeeverythingwentblack.
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chapterforty
MotherGoddess
Shehad lied toherdaughter.She had lied to her husband.She couldn’t bear the good-
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byes and she hoped theywould understand. It wasbetter thisway.Themorningwas still cool as the sun roseintheeast,dissipatingthefogenshrouding North Hampton.She gazed beyond the tallgrasses, rocks, and sandbelow the deck, out at theyellow light that slinked onthe water. To the left,GardinersIslandwascoveredinablanketofmist.Joannaknewshehadtoact
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now, before they discoveredwhat she had in mind.Norman’s brother would notbe able to help them, sheknew. There was no way torepair time once it had beenset.Theonlysolutionwastheone that the Oracle hadproposed.“Thereisawaytostopthis
and save your daughter fromcertaindeath.Butitrequiresasacrifice. Are you willing?”theOraclehadasked.
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Alifeforalife.Adeathforadeath.Of course, they were
willingtodoanythingtosavetheir daughter. On the trainride back toNorthHampton,Norman had declared hewould be the one: he wouldsacrificehimselfsothatFreyacouldlive.“I’lldoit,”hehadsaid. Joanna knew there wasno arguing him out of it, soshe had encouraged him tofindan alternative solution—
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had sent him off to find hisbrotheroncemore.Because there was only
one sacrifice needed here.Hers.It was why she had been
deadsetongettingTylerintoagoodschool.Shewantedtoleave her home at peace.Ingrid would be happy withher detective. Freddie—hewould fumble but ultimatelyfindhisplaceintheworld.Sothere was only Freya whose
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futurewasuncertain.Joanna was their mother.
She would make everythingall right. That was whatmothers were for, to kissaway wounds, to sootheheartaches, to provide a softcushionforhardlandings,forfailures. But this was herfailure. She had been unableto protect her daughter fromharm, but perhaps she couldreverse the course of fate—her magic was one of
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resurrection, after all, offixingthatwhichcouldnotbefixed. No mother shouldoutlive her daughter, andJoanna would see to it thatshe was not the first of herkindtodoso.She would be the first to
admit that she was notperfect, nor the perfectmother, far from it. Herdaughters lovedher,but theykeptheratadistancethatshecould not cross, no matter
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howhard she tried.Thegirlswere unknowable to the end.Freya especially—her sparkplug, her wandering saint,whohadsomuchlovetogivethatshelostitall.Witha sigh, Joanna reread
thelettersshehadwrittentheother evening. She arrangedthem on her desk whereIngrid could find them.Theycontained instructions forhow to handle the estate;whatever legacy shehad left,
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she had left to them, to dowith as they wished. Shehoped Ingridwould keep thehouse; perhaps she andMattcouldmove in at some pointandraiseafamily.Freyahadlittle use for money, andFreddie even less, but it wasalways nice to have a littleinheritance. All these longyearsonearthandsolittle toshow for it, and if she wasbeing honest, even herchildren had been something
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ofadisappointment.Noneofthem settled, all of them alittle lost. Even Ingrid hadchosen a mortal to love,which could only bring herpain.She looked at the
photographs arranged on thewall for the last time. Herbeautiful girls, a new one ofFreddie and Gert from theirVegas wedding, Tylerholding a baby chick, andfinally Norman, with his
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glasses pushed up on hisforehead, looking handsomeand scholarly. He wouldalways be Nord, her NorthStar, the wave that hadcrashed on her shore. Joannaremembered the first timethey had met. She had beensunbathing on the shores ofAsgard and fallen asleep onthe sand in the shade of arockthatcutjaggedlyintothesky. Cold droplets fell ontoher skin, waking her
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suddenly. When she openedher eyes, she stared intoNorman’s face. He stoodlooming over her, drippingseawater. He held somethinginhishand.“Is thisyours?Itwas blowing across thebeach,”hesaid,holdingastarinhispalm.She smiled. It was hers.
She’d worn stars in her hairthen, a gift from anothersuitor.But thestarlight fadedasshelookedintohiseyes—
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asgreenandwarmastheseaitself—and she knew thenthat she had found herimmortalmate.Their children came soon
after—Ingrid, her firstborn,the hearth to her home, thetwins: sun and sky, FreddieandFreya.She was doing this for
them.She walked out the back
door,closingtheslidingglassdoorsbehindherandcatching
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a rare whiff of honeysucklefrom the breeze. Maybe itwas her garden’s way ofsaying good-bye. She madeher way barefoot across thecoldsandtothewater.Therewas no one around. Shewalked into the freezingdepths and felt strangelywarm. Her magic? Orsomethingelse?Her red dress floated
around her so that sheresembled a giant poppy as
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she trudged ahead until thewater reached herwaist. Shedove headlong into its warmwelcome. The sun on thewaves flashed in her eyes,and she kept swimmingfarther and farther out. Hermuscles grewweary and shewaspanting.Sheturnedaroundandsaw
herhome,thestatelycolonial,one last look before the end.She floated on her back,letting the waves lift her,
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transport her, the sun on herface, a soothing sensation ofwaterandfoam.The sound of the waves
lulled her. Even if she had asudden impulse to turn backto the shore, she had swumtoofar.Shewastired.Joanna felt the sudden
weightofallthelivesshehadlived.She felt the water fill her
lungs.
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Shedidnotfight.Sothiswasdeath.The years did not flash
before her as they say theydo.Shefeltthesunlightonher
face one last time, the coolwater above, and her eyesclosed for the last time asJoanna Beauchamp passedfromthisworldtothenext.
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timeinabottle
salemnorthhamptonpastpresent
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chapterforty-one
FriendoftheFamily
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While Freya was always onher mind, there was nothingIngrid could do to help hersister at the moment. It wasMaggie’s thirteenth birthdayandsheandMattmadeplanstotaketheprecociouschildtothecitytoseeSomnambuliststhat afternoon. The playwasn’t theater exactly butmore likeanexperience—theset occupied five floors of abuilding overlooking theHudson, and the action took
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place simultaneously on allfivefloorswhiletheaudiencewalked through it to piecetogether the narrative. TheTimeshadcalledit“astormy,vertiginous amalgam ofShakespeare’s The TempestandHitchcock’sSpellbound.”Ingrid was touched that shewas now included inMaggie’sbirthdayfestivities.Matthadalreadyarrivedto
pick her up and was waitingfor her in the foyer. Ingrid
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slipped on her black pumpsand walked down the stairsjust as the doorbell rangagain.“I’ll get it,” he said,
unlatchingthelock.“Oh,hey,man.”Heopenedthedoorbutleanedagainstthedoorframe,barringthewayinside.Troy Overbrook stood at
the entrance, a worried lookonhisface.“CanIcomein?”heasked.“We’rerunninglate.Ingrid
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and I were just about toleave,” Matt said flatly.“We’renotgoingtomakethetrain…”“Ingrid?”Troyasked.“I’m
sorry—butit’simportant.”“Matt,couldyou—”Ingrid
asked, motioning for him tomove away. Matt reluctantlymoved to the side so thatTroycouldcomeinside.“Can I talk to you… in
private?” asked Troy,appealingtoIngrid.
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“Whatever you say to her,you can say to me,” saidMatt. He affected apossessive stance and for amoment Ingrid was worriedthathewouldslapheronthebehind again, although to behonestshehadratherenjoyedthat.Ingridnodded.“It’sokay.”“It’s about your family,”
Troysaid.“What doyouknowabout
Ingrid’s family?” Matt
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interrupted.“Matt, see, Troy’s one of
us—”“One of you!” Matt said,
his tone mocking. “Hedoesn’t look like a witch tome,”hemumbled.Troy crossed his arms,
which made his musclesappear more pronounced,biceps and pecs bulgingbeneath the snug navysweater. “Well, I personallyprefer the term warlock,”
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Troysaid.Mattsnorted.“What’s going on, Troy?”
sheasked.“YouknowVal?”“Yeah—he’s one of the
pixies,”Ingridsaid,turningtoMatt so he could keep up.Matt nodded wearily. Heknewallaboutthepixiesandhad booked and releasedthemformanyaminorcrime.Like the Beauchamps, Mattwas grudgingly fond of the
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littleguys.“Well, Val came over to
myplacethismorningandhetold me they’d found it,Freddie’s trident, they foundit somewhere on the yellowbrick road but they couldn’tbringitback,soFreddiewentafter it,with onlyNyphwithhim…”“So we’ve got to go and
rescueFreddie?”“No.Freya.”“Freya?”Ingridasked.
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“The passages are openagain. Val thinks the tridentfixed it maybe—there wassome huge explosion at theend of the world, whichmeans Freddie must havegotten it back somehow.Freddie’s the only one whocanwielditspower.”Ingrid sat down to absorb
the news. “Where’s Freddienow?”“He’s down in the abyss
somewhere. Val said they
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were all going after him,make sure he’s all right.Soundedliketherestofthemfelt pretty guilty that theydidn’t gowith him, but withthe passages open, he shouldbeokay.Heshouldbeabletomakehiswaybackhere.”Shenodded.“Look, we don’t have
much time—we don’t knowhowlongthey’llremainopen—butwehavetogo.”“Go?” Matt asked. “Go
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where?”“Back in time… to save
Freya, of course, and bringherbackhere,”saidTroyasifit were the most obviousthingintheworld.“You’re leaving?” Matt
said,turningtoIngrid.Ingrid stood up and
tightened the belt on hertrench coat. “I have to go.Thiscan’twait.Thepassagesmight close again, and thenwe could lose Freya—
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forever,”shesaid,thinkingofwhat her mother had finallyconfessedtoher.“You’re going with him?”
MattliftedhischinatTroy.Troytriedtomakehimself
as small as possible. Heslumped his shoulders andfiddledwithhishands.IngridpulledMattaside.“I
told you, Troy and I are justfriends,” she whisperedemphatically. She couldn’tbelieve they were quarreling
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right in front of Troy. Shewas mortified, but she didrealize she was putting Mattin an awful position. Shehateddoingthistohim,todayofalldays.Matt’sshouldersslumped.Troy looked at Matt, then
Ingrid. “I’llwait outside. Letme know what you decide,Erda.”TheywatchedTroyexitthe
room, and they both waiteduntiltheyheardthefrontdoor
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closebehindhim.“What did he call you?”
askedMatt.“Erda… it’s my real
name,”shesaid.“Andyounevertoldme?”“I didn’t think it was
important.”“It is to me,” said Matt,
lookinghurt.“Iwanttoknoweverything about you,Ingrid.”“You will,” she said. “I
promise.ButrightnowIhave
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tohelpmysister,Matt.Iwanttoseeheragain.Idon’twanther to die.” Her voicecracked. “You have tounderstand. This isn’t aboutTroy.It’saboutgettingFreyaback.”“Ofcourse—Iknow.I just
—it’s not about Maggie’sbirthday. It’s that—Iwant tohelp you. I want to go withyou, through these passages,orwhatever.AndIknowyouwon’tletme.I’veletyouinto
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mylife,butyouwon’tletmeintoyours.”Theystaredsilentlyateach
other.Ingridrealizedwhathewassayingwastrue.Shehadshut him out of that side ofherlife.“I wish you could,” she
whispered.“But…”“Imightnotbemagic,ora
warlock, or whatever he is,but I am a trained officer ofthe law,” he said, a hint of asmileplayingonhislips.
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“But thenwhowould takeMaggie to the Four Seasonsand the theater?” she said asshehuggedhimtightly.
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chapterforty-two
BlackWidow
Inhersleep,Freyawipedtheantcrawlingacrosshercheek,
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itsticklingofherfacelikethetendrilsof thewinduponherhair. She felt Killian—orJames, as she must call himhere in this lifetime—stirbeside her. They had leftSalem the night before andhad hidden in the woodswhen no one would offerthemshelterforfearthattheywere carrying the pox. Afterwhat happened with Mercy,they could not bear to betogether again. It was too
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dangerous,toorisky.Shewasfar from home, far fromsafety, and was lying on theforest floor next to a manwho was her true love, butthey were in danger. Shesnuggled closer to James asshe dreamed of her home bythesea.Inherdream,shesawher mother floating in theocean. Joanna seemed to besinking into the water—andFreya felt a twinge of fear.She grimaced and heard the
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sound of water breaking ontheshore.Thewavescrashingon the
rocks.No—adifferentnoise…Branches crackling
underfoot…Footsteps!She opened her eyes to
screambutitwastoolate.Theyhadbeenfound!She was yanked by her
wriststoherfeet,woketoanambush. They were
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surrounded by men carryingguns,constablesandmarshalssent by Thomas Putnam toretrievehisproperty.Shewasglad that this time she wasfully clothed, although withthewaythemenwerelookingather,shemightaswellhavebeennaked.“James!” she screamed,
fightingagainst themenwhoheld her too closely, thebettertofeelherbodyagainsttheirs.
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It took thewholegroupofthem to subdue him; Jamesputupanincrediblefight,butlike her, his magic wasuselessinthisinstance,andinthe end therewere toomanyof them and he washandcuffed and bruised, halfof his face swollen from thefight.Shewouldnotcry, shewould not show them howscaredshewas,howdefeated.James glowered silently as amarshal read their arrest
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warrants.“Freya Beauchamp, you
are hereby accused ofadultery and witchcraft,tormenting in spectral formAnn Putnam Senior, AnnPutnam Junior, and MercyLewisinthehouseofThomasPutnam Junior, and alsobewitching to death yourhusband Nathaniel Brooks.James Brewster, you areherebyaccusedofthetheftofa horse, adultery, and the
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demise of Nathaniel Brooksbyconspiracywithawitch.”“Adultery!” Freya said.
“How could we commitadultery when I nevermarried him? And what isthis you say? NathanielBrooksisdead?”“You were married in
proxy,” the marshalexplained. “Shortly beforeMr.Brookswas found in hisdeathbed.”“SoIamawidow.”
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“A rich one,” James saidgrimly.“Too bad you won’t live
longenoughtoenjoyit,”saidone of the constables,laughing.“What happens when I
die?” she asked. “Who getstheland?”“Your former patron, of
course,” the marshal said.Through Freya’s marriage,her husband’s death, and hersubsequent arrest, Thomas
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Putnam would soon becomethe richest landowner inSalemTown.
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chapterforty-three
ForkintheRoad
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“Leave me alone!” SomeonewasshakingFreddiewhenallhe wanted was to sleep. Hishead pounded as if it hadbeenstruckonthesidewithasteelbat,andheheardafaint,annoyingbuzzingsound, likefluorescent lights. A glarepressed against his eyelids.Hecoveredhisheadwithhisarms and tried to shut it allout.What had happened lastnight? Had he tied one onwith Troy at the North Inn
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again?Herolledontohissideand curled into a ball. Hewould retrace his steps laterwhenhecouldthink.“Rise and shine, sunshine
god!”camearumblingvoice.“Getup!”Handspushedat
himfromallsides.“What time is it?” He
groggilyopenedhiseyesandmade out a blur of pixiesaround him. “What are youdoinghere?Goaway!”He turned back onto his
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side and glanced around. Hewasinbedinahospitalwing.The room appeared as stilland colorless as a black-and-white photograph. It wascertainly not the twenty-firstcentury but another eraentirely.Whatwasgoingon?Where was he? This suredidn’t look like anywhere inNorthHampton.Begrudgingly, he pushed
himself into an uprightposition. Rows of black
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metal-framed beds—eachwithtwoplumppillows,crispwhite sheets that illustratedthetermhospitalcorners,anda folded gray blanket—ranalongthelengthof theroom,separated by tall windowsthat flooded the roomwith aglaring white light. Globelights dangled from the highceiling, serving no purposewhatsoever, filled with deadmoths. The gray marblefloorsgleamed, reflecting the
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harsh light. Then there wasthat grating low hum in thebackground, coming fromnowhereinparticular.“Whew!” said Idrick,
twirlinghisgrayfelthat.“Wewere worried there for asecond. Do you needanything,Freddie?”Hisvoicehadanunpleasantecho.Nyph came over and
placed a hand on Freddie’sshoulder. Her hair lookedelectrified. She had black
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smudges all over her face,one white glove, which wasblackened, and her greensatin gown was tattered andtorn, revealing her combatboots.“What happened to you?”
he asked before realizing helooked justasbad—his jeansdirty, his sweatshirt torn. Helifted a sleeve to his nose: itsmelled of flowery fabricsoftener.Everything came back to
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him in that instant. Goingthrough the portal at FairHavendowntheyellowbrickroad to the bottom of theworld. Meeting the serpent.Playing riddles. Getting histrident back. Killing theserpent. The explosion.“Wherearewe?”Irdicksatdownbesidehim.
“A waiting station on theyellow brick road. Sort of anonplace,hence thecolorlessatmosphere.Neither here nor
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there, if you get what Imean.”Kelda sat on Freddie’s
othersideassheattemptedtoopen an overly complicatedplastic red capon a bottle ofwater. “You and Nyph weretaking way too long, so wecame searching for you. Wewent down to Jörmungandr’slairbuttherewasnothingbutapileof snakebones, scales,and ashes. Then we starteddiggingalittleandfoundyou
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twoburiedunderneathallthatrubbish. Good riddance, bytheway.Hewasapest.”“Sowebroughtyouhereto
recover,” Sven said smugly.“You’rewelcome.”“You all right, Nyph?”
Freddieasked.“Yeah,”thelittlepixiesaid
wanly.“I’mokay.”Freddie smiled. “What
aboutthetrident?”“It wasn’t there,” Irdick
replied, shrugging. “We
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looked.”“ButIhadit—Iusedit—”“Yeah, we know, but it
wasn’tthere,man.”Freddie cursed.He needed
fresh air—the hospital wasstuffy and smelled offormaldehyde. He pushed atthe pixies, trying to stretchout. “Open a window,please.”“Don’t!” said Sven. “For
one, you might go into aperpetual slumber. The air is
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filled with the serpent’spoison—hisdyingbreath.Butwedobringsomegoodnews.Whateveryoudiddowntherereopenedthepassagesoftimesomehow. Either that or theFallen, those Blue Bloodvampires,aregettingtheiracttogether finally.As they say,that’s another story, butsomething’s definitely goingoninthepassagesoftime.”“Oh, and we got our
powers back,” added Irdick.
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“Can’tyoufeelit?”Freddiestretched.“Yeah, I
felt itwhenIheldmytridentagain. But right now I justfeel like crap.”He brought ahand to his temple andrubbed.“Ouch!”Kelda handed him the
waterbottle.“Drink!”Freddie sighed, trying to
thinkbeyondtheexcruciatingthumping in his head. Hedrank the water, which wasice cold and delicious. He
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blinked. His headache hadmiraculously vanished. Alittle hydration went a longway. Hangovers and themurderofserpentsseemedtorequirethesameremedy.“So the passages are open
—what are we waiting for?Let’s go get Freya back,” hesaid.“Not so fast,” Sven said.
“Freya’sfine.ValwenttogetThorandErdatofetchher.”Freddieraisedaneyebrow.
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He wondered what Ingrid’scopboyfriendthoughtofthat.“Whileyou’restillmissing
your trident,” Keldareminded. “We need to findit!Thatthing’stoodangeroustoleavearound.”“Destroyedabridge,killed
Jörmungandr, who knowswhat else it will do next,”piped in Irdick,whocouldn’tstop fussing with his hat—twirling it with a flourish,thentossingitupward,where
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ithunginmidair.Hegrabbedthe hat suspended above himand placed it back on hishead.“It can’t have gone far,”
Kelda said. “Probably justwent deeper into, youknow…”Downbelow…Theabyss.Limbo.Freddie remembered the
painting of Balder at FairHaven and realized herewasa chance to save Killian as
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well.“Okaythen,let’s—”Kelda cut him off, placing
a finger to his lips. A noisereminiscent of a sneakerskiddingonabasketballcourtcamefromtheadjacentroom,then heels, two resoundingsets,clackedalongthemarblefloor. “Nurses Fenja andMenja,” she whispered, eyeswide. “The twins make therounds every hundred or soyears. Don’t make eyecontact, or they’ll see you.
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Hide!”Thepixiesscrambledunder
the bed, and Freddie hidunder the sheet, pulling theblanket over him as theclickingheelsapproached.Hehad heard of Fenja andMenja, who were jötnar,snow giants. So now thetwinsroamed thehallsof thehospital waiting station. Hewonderedwhatwouldhappenifhedidmakeeyecontact.Afterthedestructionofthe
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Bofrir bridge, the gods hadbeen scattered, displacedhither and thither in all thecornersof thenineworldsofthe universe, some like hisfamily, the Vanir, had beentrapped in Midgard. Thesetwoseemed to thinkworkingas nurses was far better thanbeing slaves chained to aking’sgrindstone,whichwaspretty much all he knew ofthe sisters’ history.AlthoughtheyhadcleverlyeludedKing
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Fróði by grinding out thestone that produced hishappiness and wealth untilthere was nothing left of itandtheirshacklesfellloose.The door to the hospital
room swung open, and twogiant nurses in whiteuniforms and caps strode inwith clipboards. The sisterslookedleftandright,struttingdown the aisle between therows of beds, heads heldhigh.
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Freddie peeked out fromunder the blankets, but hewas too distracted by thesisters’ formidable cleavageto make eye contact. Hepulledthesheetoverhiseyesas they clipped past. WhenFenja andMenja reached theendoftheroom,oneofthemflipped a switch. The roomwent pitch-black and themaddening hum fromnowhereabruptlystopped.Therewasthesoundofthe
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dooropeningandclosing,andFreddie and the pixies cameup for air. “All clear?” heasked.“Yeah, they’re gone. And
they seem to have takeneverything else with them,”Nyphsaid,annoyed.They were standing in
nothing—the hospital wasgone, as were the beds andthe floor. Freddie lookedaround.Itwasfamiliar.Afterall, he had once been
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imprisoned here for fivethousand years.This was theabyss.“Well,whatarewewaiting
for? Let’s go get my stuffback,”hesaid.
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chapterforty-four
Crucible
“Oh dear! I believe we’vearrived.” Ingrid pulled hersilk cape and petticoat from
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themuck, hopping to a drierspot in her brown leatherlace-up boots. She wasrelieved to seeTroystandingby a stone trough, lookingabout, his dark leathersuitcase in hand. Alongwithhis hammer, he had packedtwoingotsofgoldforthetrip.AspiousandpureasPuritansportended to be, they werenotabovereceivingabribe.A horse nudged her with
his nose, and she patted his
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neck. “What’s the date, Mr.Horse?”Needless to say, thehorsedidnotreply.Troy turned to Ingrid.
“Here,givemeyourbag.”HetookIngrid’sluggageandhiditwithhisbeneathsomebalesof hay. “I don’t think theSalemwitch hunts qualify aspleasurable, but travelingwith you, my dear ‘Mrs.Overbrook,’certainly is!”Hefollowedthiswithawinkandthatfetchingdimpleofhis.
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She narrowed her eyes athim as she straightenedFreya’s gold pendant at herneck, then pulled the largehood of her cape over herhead.Haditbeentoomuchtohope that Troy would notread into her choosing to gowith him as a sign ofaffection? She felt a pangwhen she thought of Mattback there, alone, unable tohelp.The jarring, headachy
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feeling one experiencedcoming out of the passageswas not dissimilar to jet lag,and it did take a fewdays toadjust. Time traveling couldsometimes be moreapproximate than accurate,especially while journeyingbackward. Ingrid hoped theyhadn’tlandedtoofarofftheirmark.Troydustedthehayoffhis
cape, adjusted his high-crowned hat, and they
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stepped into the pale light ofasmallcobblestonealleyway.It was early morning and afishy, rotten scent laced thecool, salty air. Ingridimmediately recognized thatsmellonthebreeze—and thealleyway.They had landed in the
right place. This was SalemTown, and Ingrid had livedhere once before, even hadsome very fondmemories ofthesmallport.
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Thatisuntil…Shefeltherkneesgiveway
as they strolled along thecobblestones.“You all right, Mrs.
Overbrook?” Troy asked.Heplacedahandatherwaist tosteadyherasshewalked.Shenoddedherthanks.She had loved the town
until the marshals came forherandFreya,wrenchingherand her sister from Joanna’sgrasp. Ingrid brought her
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trembling fingers to hertempleandsoughttoshutthememoriesoutastheystrainedtopush theirwayback.Nowitwasamatteroffindingoutif they had arrived at theproper time, before the dateofFreya’shanging.They heard noises
somewhere down the wayand walked out onto EssexStreet,whereacrowdwaited,restlessly peering in onedirection. A craggy-faced
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woman slammed into Ingrid.“Come and buy your witchpoppet! Hang her from anoose!” she sang, carrying abasket of little rag dolls inscarlet bodices withembroidery thread tiedaround their necks. Like thered paragon bodice BridgetBishop wore when sheallegedly came to men as aspecter in the night,smothering and chokingthem, Ingrid remembered
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withastart.Ingrid knew exactly what
day it was now. These earlyrisers had eschewed theirmorning labors for someentertainment.It was Friday, June 10,
1692.The day the first witch
wouldhang.“Bridget Bishop!” Ingrid
whispered.“The cart!” Troy said
gravely.“Itshouldbecoming
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upPrisonLane.Whatcanwedotostopthis,Ingrid?”She shook her head.
“Nothing!” Her heart sank.“It’stoolate!”“Bring the witch bitch!”
someonecried.“Witch bitch!” people
echoed.“Teach the whore witch a
lesson!”“Come and buy your
Bridget Bishop poppet andhang her from the noose!
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Hang her right here!” sangthe street peddler, twirling aBridget doll on her fingerfromthestringat itsneck.Amother bought one for herchild.Ingrid tried to quell the
panic rising in her throat.Freyawasheresomewhere—butwhere?Freyacouldhangany day now.All they coulddowasfindherasquicklyastheycould.The crowd cheered and
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hooted. Feeling faint, Ingridgrabbed Troy’s arm, and hetugged her protectivelyagainst him. The crowdshoved them against a wall.BridgetBishopwastohangateight A.M. at the top ofGallowsHill.Bridget was a proud,
intelligent woman with whatoneofheraccusersdescribedin his deposition as a“smooth, flattering manner.”The poor, doomed woman
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hadbeencarefullyselectedasthefirsttostandtrialbecauseshe had the most damningevidence against her with atainted past and history withthe courts. The judges hadwantedthisfirstwin.This was what Ingrid
knew: Twelve years ago,Bridget had been summonedto court on suspicion ofbewitching some horses andturningintoacat.Thoughshehad been cleared of these
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charges, itdidn’tmatter.Thestain on her reputation hadremained.Plus, shehadbeentocourtformaritalquarreling(her face was bruised),consideredacriminaloffense,and another time for callingher second husband an “olddevil” on the Sabbath. Sheand thehusbandhadpaidforthe offenses by standinggagged back to back for anhour in the market squarewith notices of their crimes
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postedontheirforeheads.At what was to be
Bridget’s very last trial, theafflicted girls—the Salemfoursome: Abigail Williams,Betty Parris, Mercy Lewis,and Ann Putnam Jr.—hadprovided all the drama thejudgeshadneededtosealthedeal. They fell into fits assoon as they were broughtinto the meetinghouse andsaw Bridget. They cried outall the usual: how Bridget’s
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specter did pinch, bite, andchokethem,andinsistedtheysignherbook.Ann, who had begun to
emerge as one of the mostquick-witted,claimedBridgethad wrenched her from herspinning wheel and carriedher on a pole to the river,where she threatened todrownher ifshedidnotsignthe book. Abigail said thatshe saw ghosts appear insidethe meetinghouse. “You
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murdered us!” they cried atBridget. Mercy Lewisconfirmedshesawtheghosts,too.Thegirlshadbeenruthless,
unrelenting. They mirroredBridget’s gestures in anexaggerated way,confounding the woman asthe judges badgered herwithcircuitousquestioning.But Bridget held her own
quite well. She said she hadneverseenthesegirlspriorto
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her examination. She wasfrom Salem Town and hadnever even set foot in thevillage before. Why wouldshe wish harm to completestrangers?Poor Bridget had not one
friend to attest to hercharacter, let alone a defenselawyer. Neighbors testifiedshe was a witch. A manclaimed she had struck hischild with a deadly illnessthatkilledhim.Mensaidher
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form had come to them atnight ina redbodice.Astripsearch by jury membersyielded a “preternatural teat”between Bridget’s “vaginaandanus.”Finally, therewasalso hard evidence: poppetsfound in Bridget’s cellarwalls. Ingrid had oftenwondered if those rag dollshad not been planted tosolidifythecase.
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“Here she comes! Here shecomes!”Ingridcranedherneck.All
shecouldseewerecaps,hats,dirtyclothes,andcapes.Troypushed forward, and thecrowdcededenoughforthemto move to the front. It allunraveled like theveryworstkind of dream, but therewasnowakingfromit.“Theresheis!”“It’sthewitch!”“Witch bitch!” the chant
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took up again. “Hang thewitch!”The procession moved
westward on Essex: men onhorses, magistrates, judges,marshals,constables.Inside the cart Bridget
stood upright in chains,holding up her shaved head,arms crossed over her soiledand torn shift. Her piercingbrown eyeswith dark circlesbeneath them stared outabovethecrowd,herfulllips,
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parched and scabby, movingfaintly. Ingrid could tellBridget had been anattractive, sensual woman,butallofthathadbeenbeatenout of her now. She lookedgaunt,dirty, tired.Sheglareddown at the crowd jeering ather.Ingrid recognized two key
players from her past. Therethey were again: the burly,somber, and formidable Mr.Thomas Putnam, dressed in
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blackuponhishorse,andthesniveling Reverend Parris inhis minister’s collar andfrock, walking behind thecart,Bibleinhand.Then the afflicted girls
appeared. They wereanywhere from twelve toseventeen and, apparently,well enough to be heredespite the “witchcrafts”inflicted “in and upon” theirbodies, as Bridget’s deathwarrant stated. They worked
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the crowd, whisking themintoafuriousfrothingfrenzy,striding close to the cart,mocking the poor, bereftBridget. They sneered. Theysmiled in ecstasy. Ingridremembered them from herown trial in Salem Village,whensheandFreyahadusedthe same futile defense asBridget. Why would theywishanykindofharmtogirlsthey had never met nor seenpriortocourt?
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“She’s praying,” Ingridremarked, observingBridget’s moving lips.“Praying for us to see herinnocence.”Shetuggedatherhood to conceal her tears.Troystaredstoically.Thesunfloodedthestreet.Thecrowdsmelleddirtyandsweaty.Ifitweren’t for Troy to hold onto, Ingrid would havecrumpled.The cart approached, and
Ingridheard thegirls’words.
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Itwasalltheatrics.“Gettingyoursnow, aren’t
you?” said one veryprepossessing girl, whomIngrid gathered was AbigailWilliams, one of theringleaders.An older girl with a fair
complexion—MercyLewis,ithad to be—cried out, “Youlook so very proud now, butwhenyouseethenoose,we’llsee if you look proud then,GoodyBishop!Oh, howyou
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didtauntandtortureme!”“Youwon’tbetorturingus
anymore!” added a thirdyounggirl.AnnPutnam?Ingridfeltachill.They were untouchable.
Monsters.
Ingrid and Troy fellwordlessly into stepwith theprocession following the cartdownEssex.Whatwas thereto do or say? This was their
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history,ahistoryofbloodandmadness. Little girls tellingliesandspreadingevil.Theywalked in a daze, in
shock, like victims emergingfromaviolentaccident.“We need to turn back,”
Troy said. “I’ve seenenough!”Ingrid appeared
hypnotized. She stumbledahead. She was hoping thatshe could help Bridgetsomehow, that she could
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change the course of events,butitwasfutile.“It’s useless,” Troy
insisted,buthecouldn’tverywell leave her here, so hecontinuedbyherside.OnEssexthedarkwooden
houses stood near oneanother,butthecrowdturnednorthonBostonRoad,wherethehousesgrew fartherapartand sparse, giving way tolargerestates.Theycontinuedwalkingforabouthalfamile.
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Ahead,inthewaterymorninglight, Bridget gazed out, tothe right at the fields andorchards and then NorthRiver, to the left at themarshland and South River.She avoided looking straightahead, where toweringGallowsHillcameintoview.Without noticing, IngridgrabbedTroy’sarm.Astheymadetheirwayup
the hill, the cart halted. Theascent was too steep and
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rocky to go any farther.Bridget was carried off thecart in her chains, thenshoved forward and made towalktherestofthewaytothetop. The girls and the crowdmocked her as she struggledupthehill.“I am clear! You are the
guilty ones, and you willsuffer for this!” Bridget saidbeforeshewasmadetoclimbthe ladder tipped against theoaktree.
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Thepeopleonlyjeeredandshouted back. Theexecutioner climbed upbehind her, then placed thethin white cotton hood overherface.ReverendParrisreadaloud about fire andbrimstone.Therewasnopityhere.Ingrid buried her face
against Troy, barely able towatch,recallinghowtheropehadfeltaroundherneck.Sherecited a calming spell for
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Bridget. That was all shecould do. The girls and thecrowd grew incensed andwild. There were cries oftriumph and jubilation, butalso screams of fear. At theback of the crowd coupleskissed and groped at eachother when they thought noone was looking. Hysteria.Sex.Death.The executioner pushed
Bridget off the ladder, andsheswungforward.Shegave
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afaintyelp,stoppedshortbythenoose,andadeadsilencefell over the crowd. Thecrowd froze as if startled bythe horror of the culminationoftheiractions,asifsuddenlyawareofthebrutalreality.The only sounds were of
Bridget gargling as shedangled, her arms and handsfluttering up and down herbody.Beneaththediaphanoushood, Ingrid saw her facecontort, her lips swell, her
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eyes bulge and redden. Atrickle of blood seepedthrough the cloth at hermouth,andshewentstiff.Ingrid turned her head
away.
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chapterforty-five
TheManinWhite
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Ithadbeenaweeksincetheircapture.FreyaandJameshadbeen taken to the Bostonprisonandplaced in separatecells.Freyahuddledagainstawall, pressing her skirt overher nose and mouth. Theoverwhelming scent ofhuman waste made it nearlyimpossible to breathe. Shewas placed in the cell withwomen who admitted tocovenanting with the devil.Bynow,manyhadconfessed,
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havingbeentoldthatdoingsoas well as naming otherwitches would spare themfromahanging.Shehadn’tbeenthereaday
andyet it felt likeaneternityalready.Thewomenwhohadconfessed, unlike those whohad clung to their innocence,had not been shaved fromhead to foot to be searchedforwitch’steats.Nordidtheywear manacles meant totether their specters.But like
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all the prisoners, they hadwasted away to skin andbones. Most had barteredtheir clothes for additionalfood from the gaoler. Theyshuffled about in their dirtythin shifts and satapathetically on the rushesscattered on the stone floor,their eyes large and vacant.Some stood, clasping at thebars,callingouttoahusband,child, or friend in anothernearbycell.
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Freya called to James butthere was no answer. Shetriedagainandwasorderedtobesilent,butregardlessoftheharsh stares of hercompanions, Freya keptcalling until her voice hadturned toohoarse tocontinueand now she had no energyleft.There were whimpers and
whisperedprayersallaround.The ill cried out in agony.The dying moaned. She
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closed her eyes, turning herhead to the wall. She hadbeen whimpering as well,althoughshewasunawareofit until now. She hushedherself, slowed her breath,and sought to find a silencewithin.Someoneplacedahandon
her shoulder. She jumped.Through a blur of tears, shestared at the woman in thedimness.Ittooktimetoparseoutherfeaturesandrecognize
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them;thewoman’sskin,oncelovely and creamy brown,was now sallow, dry, ashy.She looked years older, herblack hair peppered withgray, her plump pretty facethinned, the spark in her eyeextinguished.Dressedinrags,she stared at Freya withcrusty,wateringeyes.“Tituba!”Freyawhispered.
“Whyareyouhere?”Then she remembered—
the girls, the accusations, the
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trials… it was all happeningagain. Titubawas one of thefirstvictims.“I ammost sorry!” Tituba
rasped.“Hecametome!Thetall man with the white hat.He gave me a pin to let myblood,andIsignedthebook.He made me do it… I ammost sorry!” There wassomething crazed in her eye.“The demon had come! Heappearedtome—hemademedoit!”
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The poor woman wasterrified of something orsomeone. Who? Was it Mr.Putnamorthereverend?Whowas the tallman in thewhitehat? Perhaps Tituba had losthermind.“Shh! Shh!” said Freya,
rocking thewoman gently tosleep.SheleftTitubalyingonthefloor.A feeble light poured into
the corridor beyond the bars:the gaolerwas coming down
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withrationsofrancidbiscuitsand water. Freya’s bellygrumbled.Someone called her name,
andwhenshelookedthroughthe bars, there was a manstanding there. He was inshackles.“Nate!” she said. “What
areyoudoinghere?”“I helped James get you
away, so they’vechargedmewith conspiring with awitch.” He bowed his head.
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“I’msorryaboutmyuncle—Icouldn’t stop him… it wasPutnam’s idea from thebeginning. He put it in hishead.IlentJamesmoneyandtold him to take you as faraway from here as possible.I’m sorry, I didn’t knowMercywouldfindyou…”“You helped us? Why?
After what I did to you—when I sent you away,” shesaid, remembering theirprevious encounter in a
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differentlife.She had fallen for him
when he had called himselfBran Gardiner, but he hadbetrayedher.Itwasallatrickto get her to love him, toclaimherforhisown.ButshelovedKillian,hadchosenhimoverBran,asshehadintheirancient past. In retaliationBran had brought death anddisease to North Hampton,releasing the doom of thegods, and she had banished
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himfromherheartforever,orsoshehadbelieved.“Isn’t it obvious?” He
looked up at her, and shecouldseehim—trulyseehim—the mischief in his eyes,the affection in them, thewildness that had alwaysdrawn her to him… to Loki.“I love you, Freya. I alwayshaveandIalwayswill.”
His words stirred the magic
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inside of her, and somehow,shewasoutoftheugly,filthyprison, and shewas standinginthewoods,intheforestsofAsgard, at the beginning oftime,andshewasyoungandbeautiful, and alone. Shelooked up at the stars, howbright they were, flashing inthe darkness, and she waswaitingforherlove.Therehewas,thebeautiful
boy she had given her heartto.HisnamewasBalder,and
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this was before, beforeeverything,beforethepoison,before the breaking of theworlds,beforeSalem,solongbefore, when they were justspirits, young, and alive, andimmortal,andbeautiful.Hekissedherthen,andshe
was all joy, and love, andtheir clothing fell away,forgotten on the grass, andshewrappedherarmsaroundhis strong back, and hismouth was on her breasts,
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and her hands were on him,and his body was tense, andhot, and they were slipperyand ecstatic… and then… inthe middle of theirlovemaking…Shecould feel the eyeson
her.Anotherpairofeyes.But they were not eyes of
hate,noteyesofjealousy…Butoflove.She opened her eyes and
there he was, Loki, standing
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in the shadows, watchingthem… as Killian wouldwatch her one day, whenBran took her in his bed…one of them, always in theshadows,watching,whileshewasinhisbrother’sarms…One of them outside the
circle…While two were joined
together…When it had happened so
longago,during thedawnofthe universe, Freya had
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stopped and screamed, andsent him away, and thepoisonous jealousy in hisheart had festered, andcenturies later Loki wouldtake his revenge… butperhaps… perhaps there wasanother way… perhaps itcouldsavethemeven…fromthis…She looked deep into
Balder’s eyes. “My love…wearenotalone,”shesaid.Balder continued to kiss
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her—giving her his blessing,she did not know—but sheknew he would not stop herfrom doing what she must,what she thoughtmight savethemall…She motioned to Loki in
the trees. She would takeawaythehurtinhiseyes.Shewould replace jealousy andanger and centuries of ruinand revenge with love. Shewas love. Shewas love. Shewaslove.Shelovedhim.She
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had always loved him. Sheput out her hand andmotioned tohim.“My love,”shecalled.“Joinus…”
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chapterforty-six
DowntheRabbitHole
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Theyhadleft thewaystationa long time ago and hadalready passed several levelsof Limbo, but Freddie couldno longer recall how many,exactly. The geography ofHelheimhadeludedhimevenas a resident. All he knewwasthattheywerewaydownbelow, and it was gettingcolder by the second. Heshivered in the cold dampofthe stairwell, tugging thehood of his gray sweatshirt
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over his head. The pixiesfollowed him down theendless flights, grumbling alltheway.Lights buzzed, flickering
off and on. Water trickledalong the puckering orange-and-yellowtrompel’oeilprintof the 1970s wallpaper.Betweenlevels,thestairwayschanged decor, sometimeslavish but always with afaded kind of splendor—broken chandeliers, dusty
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candelabras, peeling velvet-flocked wallpaper—suggesting not only aprolonged period of neglectbut hardship, even ruination.Most likely,Freddieguessed,this dilapidation had resultedfrom the destruction of theBofrirbridge.He stopped on a landing,
turning to the pixies behindhim. “Why did you say Iwasn’tsupposedtomakeeyecontactwithFenjaandMenja
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whenwewere in thewaitingstation?”Kelda grabbed the rusty
chrome banister beaded withmoisture. She took a breath.“You know what, Freddie, Ireally think we should goback. Maybe your tridentisn’tdownthere.”“Yeah,” agreed Nyph.
“Let’s go back, you don’tneed itanyway.”Shehuggedher tattered dress, her teethclattering in an exaggerated
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way. “We aren’t properlydressed. It’s freezing. Wereallyshouldgoback.”Irdickswiftlysliddownthe
banister while Sven hoppedonto the landing. “Stop yourkvetching! We’re almostthere. It’s just a few morelevelsdown,”Svensaid.“We’ve come this far,”
saidFreddie.“They’reright.”He looked at the girlsempatheticallyandshrugged.ThegirlsgloweredatSven
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and Irdick, then turned toeachother,sighinghelplessly.Kelda took off her jacket,offering it to Nyph, whodonnedit.“I still want to know why
we aren’t supposed to makeeyecontact,”Freddiesaid.Sven gave Freddie a little
shove toward the steps. “Cuibono? It’s nothing. Keepgoing.”“Excuseme?”Freddiewas
ready to smack Sven right
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then.Irdickrightedthehatonhis
head. “If Fenja and Menjamade eye contact with you,they would have fallen inlove. That’s all. You’d havetwosistersnowgiantsateachother’s throats, fighting foryourattention.”“Not fun, not good,”
concluded Sven. “Now let’sgo!”Theycontinueddownward,
and it became even colder
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anddarker.
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chapterforty-seven
AppointmentwithDeath
So this was death. It wasn’t
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terrible really, just sort ofgray and dim, like she hadstepped into an old black-and-white movie. She haddied in mid-world and hadawoken in the twilightof theglom. A fan whirred noisily,barely stirring the stagnantair.IthadtakenJoannahoursto get to this particularwaiting room, one of manyinside her sister Helda’sbyzantine offices, housed inan unremarkable gray
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skyscraper in Tartarus, thecapitalofHell.Helda’s trollshadostensiblysentJoannaona wild-goose chasethroughout the building. Butthis time, having arrived onthe top floor, Joannaglimpsed the plaque on thereceptionist’s desk andbelieved she had finallygottenmuchclosertofindinghersister.The plaque read MRS.
DELILAH DELAY. Joanna
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was familiar with the name.She was looking at Helda’spersonalmessenger of death,but scarcely had she begunaddressing thewoman,whenshe foundherself in aheatedargument. Mrs. Delay nowglared at her from behindthick,blearycat-eyedglasseswith dull rhinestones. Joannaglared wordlessly back. Astaring contest had begunduringwhich Joanna becamealltooawareofanunpleasant
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odor.When she had first
approached Mrs. Delay, shehad gleaned from her deskthat thereceptionistwasonastrange mono-food diet.Among the towers of foldersandpaperssatstacksofcans,eachwith aplainwhite labelthat said all of twowords inblack:TUNAFISH.“Yes?” said Mrs. Delay,
continuingtoleeratherfromaboveherglasses.
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“I said, ‘I am JoannaBeauchamp!’”Mrs. Delay harrumphed
vociferously.“Iknow.”“Otherwise known as
Skadi…Helda’ssister?”“Name-dropping isn’t
going to help you, ma’am.”Mrs. Delay ploddinglygrabbed a folder, opened it,then began running a pudgyfingeralongitslines.“I want an appointment
withmysister!”
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It was clear Mrs. Delaywas losing her patiencebecause she then spoke asslowly as one could: “I’vealready told you, I can onlygiveyouanappointmentwithHelda’sreceptionist.”Now they were going in
circles. “Butyou areHelda’sreceptionist!”Mrs. Delay took a deep
breath, thena longexhale.“Iam the receptionist to thereceptionistofHelda.”
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“No, you’re not!” saidJoanna.HereMrs. Delay glared at
her,but Joannacould tell thewoman was laughing on theinside. It wasn’t funny. Thereceptionist searched forsomething on her cluttereddesk. “Just have a seat.Someone will be with youshortly.”Joanna knew what shortly
meant in theeternaldwellingplace,anditcertainlydidnot
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mean soon. She glowered atthewoman.“We have a lot of work
here,ma’am,andbelieveitornot, we’re understaffed.”With her long, glossy blackGoth nails, Mrs. Delayexcavatedagrimycanopenerfrom beneath a pile ofmagazines.Joanna thought it best to
try another tack—perhapssome friendly conversationmight loosen up this Mrs.
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Delay. “I just haveonemorequestion…well,arathersillyoneifyoudon’tmind?”The matronly emissary of
death peered up at herwithout expression. “Yes?”shedroned.Joanna playfully looked at
her sideways with a smile.“On my way over, in thesquare, I couldn’t help butnotice that some festivepreparationswereunderway.Could you possibly tell me
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about the upcoming fete?”Shedidn’twant to insult thiswoman’s city, but it wouldhave been more apropos tosay gloomy preparations,because everything in theglom, the twilightworld,hada glum air. It would,however, be impolite tosuggest this. In the square,trolls were stringing upgarlands of desiccatedflowers and dim twinklinglights in the black trees
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around the wading pond,where a lone black swanfloated sullenlyon thewater.Pavilions as well as a fancygazebo were also beingerected.Mrs. Delay gave another
tuna-scented sigh. “This isn’tthe tourism office. For that,you’ll have to go downstairsto the sixth floor, but thenyou’ll have to go throughwhatever rigmaroleyouwentthrough to get here again.
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And I’m being kind by eventellingyouthat.”Sheworkedon opening a can of tuna, achallengewithherlongnails.“Yes, you are,” Joanna
acknowledged. “I certainlydon’t want to go through allthat. Very nice of you!” Shegave a languid smile. “Oh,comeon,Mrs.Delay…Can’tyoutellme?”She gave another sigh.
“WillyouleavemealoneifIdo?”
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Joanna promised shewould. She could tell thewomanjustwantedtoeathertunafishlunchinpeace.Mrs. Delay swiveled
around in her squeaky chair.Everyone in the cubiclesbehind her seemed to beminding their own business,clacking away on keyboards.Sheleanedforward,herlargebosom pressing into thepapers on her desk as shewhispered, “Those
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preparations are for thearrival of the goddess oflove.”Ittookalittlewhileforthis
tosinkin.ThenJoannacouldsee it dawn on Mrs. Delaythat she realized shehad justmade a gross blunder. No,Mrs. Delay shouldn’t havetoldJoannathattheupcomingfete was for welcoming herdaughter Freya to theunderworld.Joanna’s face turned
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scarlet.“Iwanttospeakwithmysisternow!”
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chapterforty-eight
AlphaGirls
At the crack of dawn on theMonday following Bridget
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Bishop’s hanging, a smallhorse-drawn carriage carriedIngridandTroyfromtheportof Salem Town to SalemVillage. They bumped alongthe road, Troy at the reins,their chestnut stallion,Courage,movingheadlongatagallop.Ingrid’scapeflewinthe wind. The light grewbrighter, the sky bluer as thesunrosehigher.Ithadtakentoolongtoget
a fair price for Troy’s gold
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and buy Courage and thecarriage. The townspeoplehadsentthemfromoneshadyperson to the next. Finallythey had come across anhonestman,aspicemerchantwith a gold tooth, who hadwarned them to stay as faraway from the backwardvillageastheycould.Ingrid glanced at Troy,
who was still pale looking.Bridget’shanginghadshakenthemtothecore,hadbrought
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back their recollections ofthis terrible time—and nowFreya was cursed to endurethe same fate at the noose’send unless they could findher. The horse unexpectedlydrewtoahalt.Troy shook the reins but
Courage let out a sigh,refusingtogoanyfarther.Thenoiseofcicadasbegan
toswellinthetreesasitgrewwarmer. There were threetypes of mating calls, Ingrid
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knew. One resembled thesound of a ghost, another acaterwaul, a third a deathrattle. This was a stridentdeathrattle.“Comeon,boy,”she said to the horse. “Let’snotbescaredofafewbugs.”Troy jumped down from
the wagon and pulled thereins until he finallyconcededtotrudgealong.A few farms appeared
alongthewayamongthelushmeadows and trees. Cows,
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sheep, goats, and horsesgrazed in the fields. Whenthey saw houses clusteredtogether,theyknewtheywerecloser to the village proper.There were girls everywhere—standing in the fields,grouped along the road,peeking out the windows—girls as young as five and asoldasseventeen.Somestaredat themblankly,whileothershissedlikeangrymonkeys.Inthe practice field by
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Ingersoll’s Inn, a few girlscrawled and flailed about inthe grass. Girls walkeddesultorilyinthesquare,theirarms outstretched, their gaitscontorted.A few villagers tried to
help, while others onlywatched. Ingrid saw threemenwearingtallhatsholdingone girl down and caressingher chest and limbs to calmher. Ingrid shuddered andlookedaway.
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Hysteria.Madness.Evil.She remembered it all too
well.But Ingridnoticedmostof
the villagers carried on withtheir lives, paying littlemindto the girls around them.They fed their chickens andcorralledthehogs,inuredtoitall. They looked up toglimpseatIngridandTroyastheypassed,butreturnedtheirattentionbacktotheirchores.The hinterland folk had
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grown used to strangersarriving for the proceedingsat the meetinghouse. Thesessions had becomeincreasingly crowded, theband of afflicted girlsgrowingsolargethatonlyitsmost famous members—thestarsof theshowso to speak—the original accusers,Abby, Mercy, and Ann—were admitted inside to takepart in the examinations andeventually the oyer and
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terminer trials. Little BettyParris had been sent away tostay with relatives in thehopes her fits might abate:her father believed she wastoosensitiveachildtoremainin the mayhem. The otherafflicted girls waited outsidethe meetinghouse duringproceedings, mimicking thecriesand lamentsof thegirlsallowedtotestifyinside.Queenbeesandwannabes,
Ingrid thought as she
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observed the girls pullingtheir faces and spinning incircles. The witch hunt hadbecome a craze, a fad, ateenage trend, and theywereall hankering to be victims.Certainly having fits waseasier than washing soiledlaundryinthecoldriver.A girl of about sixteen
years of age, dressed in avivid green bodice andyellow blouse, stepped infront of the carriage. Troy
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tugged hard on Courage’sreins. The girl faced them,pulled off her cap, and flungher head to and fro.Her buncame loose and her hairwhippedaroundherface.Shestared at them, eyes glinting.“She tells me I must rip offmycapand twirlmyheadorthedevilwillcutmythroat!”she screamed. After, sheskippedawaytowardthefieldby thewatchhouse,danglingher cap, looking perfectly
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merry.“And welcome to Salem
Village to you, too,” saidTroy.“They’re running rampant,
aren’t they?”Ingridsaid,stillincredulous. She hadforgottenwhatitwaslike,fora moment had forgotten thatshe had lived through italready. She had been ayoung witch in Salem onceand had been hanged for thecrime, and here it was again
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—as terrible and banal asever.Aterribleprankthathadstartedasalie,asparkwhoseflameshad takenmany lives,and now had come for hersister’sonceandforall.Two girls approached the
wagonon Ingrid’s side.Troytapped her, nodding at them.When she turned, sherecognized two of the girlswho had been followingBridget Bishop’s cart a fewdays ago. They seemed
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perfectly natural and normal,neat and well dressed,although they stared at herwith a blatant curiosity.Ingrid noted AbigailWilliams’s arresting beauty,the dark brows and eyes, theswath of glossy hair tuckedinsideofhercap.The older one, Mercy
Lewis, moved in closer.“Who are you, missus?” sheasked. This one was blondandfair,herlashesaspaleas
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herskin.Sheranahandoverher forehead, and Ingrid sawthat it was scarred andmangled.“What is happening here
today?”Ingridreturned.Mercycockedherheadand
crossed her arms, givingIngrid a thorough once-over.“Iaskedyoufirst.”Ingrid returned a pleasant
smile. “Why, if you answerme first, since I am yourelder, I would be happy to
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reply.”“Nothingishappeninghere
today,”Mercysaid.“Notoneexaminationor trial.A judgehasquit,andtheyareseekinga replacement.” She soundedbored. “Pray tell us,who areyou?”Impudent girl. Ingrid hid
herirritationandsmiled.If itwere a different century, thisgirlwouldbechewinggumorsmoking a cigarette andblowing smoke in Ingrid’s
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face. Abigail hedged in. Shestaredat Ingrid inaway thatmade her feel naked anduncomfortable.“Thank you for that!”
Ingrid acknowledged. “I amMrs. Overbrook, and this isthegreatAdmiralOverbrook,whofoughtinEngland.”Troysmiled,raisinghishat,whichhad obscured his face untilnow.Thegirls stared, caughtoff guard by Troy’s goodlooks. Ingrid cleared her
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throattogettheirattention.“Wehavecomealltheway
from Boston, where AdmiralOverbrook,myhusband, is asuccessful barrister and hashisownfirm.”Shesmiledforeffect.“Wearepresentlyherefor my younger sister, whovanishedseveralmonthsago.We have been terriblyworried and searching thecountry far and widewhenever we can. We fearsomethingterriblemighthave
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happenedtoourdeargirl.Weare, well… we are well-to-do…”Ingridcoughed,feelinguncomfortable adding thislast bit, but she knew that inPuritan eyes if you weresuccessful and rich, it meantGod smiled favorably uponyou—you were among theelected and a seat in heavenwaited for you with yourname on it. “And we’rewilling to spend whatever ittakes to find her,” Ingrid
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continued.That should sparktheirinterest.“What is the missing
maid’sname?”askedAbigail,wideninghereyes.“Why don’t you tell me
yoursfirst,”repliedIngrid.“Why, I am Abigail
WilliamsbutyoumaycallmeAbby.” Just as Ingrid hadguessed. Abigail smilednervously, then bit herraspberrylips.“Delighted!” Ingrid
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reached a hand out of thecarriage,whichAbbyshook.The other girl, appearing
envious, butted in. “I’mMercyLewis.”IngridshookMercy’shand
while Troy minded his ownbusiness, keeping a somberface. Ingrid was grateful tohim for letting her handlethis. “My sister’s name isFreyaBeauchamp.”The girls gasped at the
name, and Ingrid gasped in
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response, bringing a hand toher mouth. “What is wrong?WhatdoyouknowofFreya?Isshe…?”“Oh, no, nothing bad has
happened to SisterBeauchamp, Mrs.Overbrook!” said Abigail,blushing.“Notyet!”“Notyet!Whatonearthdo
youmean?”Mercy leaned against the
side of the carriage. “Why,Freya is a rich little widow
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now!” She laughed. “Shedoesn’tevenknowitbecause—well,itissaid—sheranoffwith Mr. Brewster.” Sheraised her eyebrows. “Theold,ailingMr.Brookswassodistraught upon learning ofher flight, he died on thespot!”Ingrid shook her head in
wonder. This was confusingbut hopeful. The girlsexplainedmoreclearly,albeitin a rush. They glanced
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around distractedly andpeered down the road as iftheywereexpectingotherstoenter the village as well.Someof thegirls in their fitswandered by, eavesdroppingon their conversation, andwhentheydid,theynoddedatMercy and Abigail withdeference, or perhaps fear.Mercy and Abigail wereclearly their leaders—and theambassadors.From the two, Ingrid
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learnedthatFreyahadshownup in the village withoutmemory save her name andageayearago.Shehadbeenemployed in the Putnamhousehold whereMercy alsoworked, and Mr. ThomasPutnamhadarrangedFreya’smarriage to the wealthywidower Mr. Brooks. Freyadisappearedshortlyafter,andwhen Mr. Putnam apprisedthe older Brooks of hisbride’s absconding, he had
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diedfromshock.Ingrid pressed the girls
further as to her sister’swhereabouts. But at thatmoment, a group of mensolemnly exited theparsonage, and the girlsturned mum. Ingridrecognized the pastor, Mr.Parris, in his collar, whonodded at the girls. She didnot see Mr. Putnam amongthe group. Themen, perhapsmagistrates—they looked
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self-important—seemedanxious. They peered atIngridandTroysuspiciously,buttheydidnot,surprisingly,summonthegirls.Ingridcontinued.“Wewill
behere fora littlewhile.Wewould like to look into allyou have told us and plan tostay at Ingersoll’s Inn for afew days. We would verymuch like an interview withMr. Putnam.” She addressedMercy. “Do you think you
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couldarrangethat?”“Mr. Putnam is a busy
man. Certainly not today,”replied Mercy. “However, IdosupposeIcantellhimyouwouldliketoseehim.”As the men talked outside
theparsonage,theycontinuedto glance over at Ingrid andTroy conversing with thegirls.Thereverendthenmadea gesture to call theyoungsters.“We must go!” said
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Abigail,curtsying.“Myuncleneeds us. I believe it wouldbe best if you were on yourway.SisterFreyaisnothere.SheisnotinSalemVillage.”Troytiltedhishat.“Oh,we
plantostay!”“Do you know where she
might be? Where she couldhavegone?”Mercy smirked. “They say
she is hiding in the woodswith the young JamesBrewster—althoughsomesay
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she was also seen with hisfriend Nate Brooks. Orperhapssheiswiththetwoofthem, together.” The girlsneeredandIngridfeltachill.JamesBrewster.NateBrooks.Theseweretheothertwonewnames from the book. TheyhadbeenhangedwithFreya.Oh, Freya, Ingrid thought.
What happened here? Whowerethoseboys?Abigail tugged at Mercy’s
sleeve,andtheybothlowered
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their heads and brisklywalked off to join the pastorandthemen.Ingrid and Troy watched
from the carriage as Parrisand the men questioned thegirls. They obviously hadn’tbeenschooledinsubtletyandkept staring outright. It wasexactly what Ingrid wanted.The girls were probablyrepeating verbatim what shehadtoldthem.Shewantedtoinstill a little fear in them—
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let themknowthat theymustturn Freya over to herwealthyfamily.“I think it worked,” said
Troy.“Yes, we stirred the pot.
Let’s hope they take carebefore they think to lay ahandonherhead.”“Shall we search the
woods?”Ingrid nodded. Freya,
whereareyou?
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chapterforty-nine
Nemesis
Limbo had an institutionallook, like a boarding-schooldorm or a vaguely stylish
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Swedish prison. Freddie andthe pixies tiptoed down thebrightly lit hallways thatsmelled of TV dinners. Theblond wood floors gleamed.Identical Ikea closets—tostore the obligatory whiteclothingworn on the level—lined thewalls between eachcell. The sameness of it allwas what became so utterlymind-numbing over time,Freddieremembered.Theyknockedsoftlyat the
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closed cell doors to askwhomight be inside and cameupon the brave Sigurd, agifted trumpet player whosefatherdiedinbattleatOdin’shands, in one, then Brock, amischievous long-nosed,crooked-bodied dwarf, inanother. There wasn’t timefor conversation as much asthese twowanted to chat, sotheymovedon.No one had seen the
trident.
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The place resounded withsilence, most of the cellsvacant,thedoorsswungwideopen. Inside each, furniturecould be reconfigured toexpressindividualitybutonlyin limitedvariations:asinglebed, a blond desk, a halogenlamp, and a modish whiteplasticchair.On each landing, Freddie
found the laundry nook andshower room—narrow stallswithnodoorsforprivacyand
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a row of small steel sinks—empty. Even the quarters forthe wardens appearedunoccupied.Theymadetheirwaytothe
remaining floor in thegroaningelevatorbutfounditdeserted. Freddie’s celllookedprettymuchashehadleft it: his deck of cards laidout in anunfinishedgameofsolitaire on the desk, the bedunmade, a rabbit-eartelevision flickering with
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black-and-whitestatic.Nothing. No trident. No
Killianeither.“Well, then I suppose we
mustgolower.Allthewaytothebottomoftheuniverse, ifwemust,”saidSven.“Guess so!” returned
Freddie.“No!”yelpedNyph,butthe
other pixies shut her downwithalook.
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TheyhoppedintotheelevatorandpressedBforbottom.Thedoors shut ominously, andFreddieimmediatelybegantosweat, enclosed in what hecouldn’t help but thinkresembled a hermeticallysealedsteelcoffin.Hepushedoffhishoodandtuggedattheneck of his sweatshirt tobreathebetter.Whenhe triedpressing the buttons thatcorresponded to the floorsbeforethebottomlevel,none
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worked, which was all themoredisconcerting.The elevator creaked
downward and his earspopped. The ride went onforever, growing hot,claustrophobic, terrifying,especiallywhentheycametoa sudden dead halt and thelightswentout, leaving themin complete darkness. Thishappened more than once,and even so it didn’t makeFreddie feel any more
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optimistic that they wouldcontinue descending. Itseemedaneternityeachtime,during which Freddie musedabout how they wouldsuffocateandperishhere.Buthewas too afraid tomentionit for fear he might jinx theride altogether. Then thelightswould flicker back on,the suspended metal boxgroaning from above, and itwould begin to move downagain.
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As they descended fartherinto the bowels of theuniverse, Nyph and Kelda,huddled together, fell asleepin a corner. Freddie, Sven,andIrdicksolemnlystaredupat the numbers above thedoor, waiting for the next toilluminatewithading,whichtook forever given the greatdistance between each floor.Finally, the doors openedontoB.As Freddie watched Sven
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and Irdick yank Nyph andKelda, he thought the girls’reluctance to get out of theelevator odd given thenightmarishridetheyhadjustendured. Once all were out,the doors shut, and theelevator traveled backupward, and Freddie pressedthe return button, hopingHell’s handbasket would bebackbythetimetheylocatedKillian.
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The very bottom of theuniverse was one long whiteroom connected to anotherlongwhite room. Itwasbareand smelled of disinfectant.Behind him, the pixieswhispered, inthemidstofanargument. He turned around,scowlingatthem.“What’s gotten into you
two?” he said to Kelda andNyph. They looked on thevergeoftears.“We’re so sorryFreddie…
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hemadeusdoit,”saidNyph.Irdickbegantryingtoquiet
her,ahandoverhermouthasshe squirmed and widenedhereyes.Freddie shook his head.
“What are you talkingabout?” He had an awfulfeeling. There had beensomething nagging at himever since they had enteredthe abyss, but he had beenavoiding giving it credence.“Guys, leave them alone!
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What is wrong with you?”Still,IrdickcontinuedholdingahandoverNyph’smouth.“Hmmph!”shesaid,horror
inhereyes.Meanwhile, Kelda was
struggling to wriggle out ofSven’s grasp. “We’re reallysorry, Freddie! We didn’thave a choice!” She finallysucceeded in extracting herarm from Sven’s hold andseemed to be pointing atsomething above Freddie’s
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shoulder.“Welcome home, Fryr,” a
velvety and sinister voicerumbledbehindhim.
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chapterfifty
Freya’sDiary
When Ingrid and Troyreturned from the woods anhour later, the village had
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turned eerily silent. All theafflicted girls wanderingoutside had vanished, doorsandwindowsshuttight.Theychecked into the inn. Mrs.Ingersoll was elusive andtaciturn when Ingridquestioned the quiet. Thewoman said the village wasobserving a day of silenceandprayer.TroygaveIngridalook.“It
wasn’t silent before, an houragowhenwearrived!”
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At that Mrs. Ingersolldecided to observe thesilence.Shefrowned, left theroom, and returned with thebread, fruit, and cheese theyhad requested, gesturing forthemtobringittotheirroom.
“I vote for a nap,” saidTroyfrom the bed, hands claspedbehind his neck as hewatchedIngridpacethefloor.Shewas tired, but the bed
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was too small, and therewassomuchofTroyintheroom.“Mrs.Overbrook,”hesaid.
“You must rest.” He pattedthespotbesidehim.She came over and sat
down. She lay on her side,herbacktohis,carefulnottotouch him, awkward anduncomfortable in her tightandcumbersomeclothes.Thebed creaked as Troy turnedtoward her. “Aren’t yougoingtotakethatheavything
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off?”“No.It’sanap.Justloosen
thelacesforme,wouldyou?”When he finished pulling
at the laces,he restedahandon her back, an invitation, aquestion. “It’s been a longtime, Erda,” he whispered.“I’vemissedyou.”She inhaled and turned to
him, and put a hand on hisface, as if seeing her friendfor thefirst time.Theyhadahistory,shehadtoldHudson,
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and so they did. The god ofthunder had been her firstsuitor, and she had spurnedhim, but she had kissed himonce before sending himaway, and she rememberedthatkissalittletoowellatthemoment. “I can’t,” she said.“IloveMatt.”“IknewifIdidn’tfindyou
soonyouwouldfindaloveofyour own.” Troy sighed.“You lied to me, you know,when you sentme away you
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saidyouwouldnevermarry.”“Iamstillunmarried,” she
saidgently.“You’ll marry him, that
mortal,”Troysaid,apetulanttoneinhisvoice.“Iknowyouwill. I can see it. You’llmarry him and make littlehalfgods,andhewilldieandyou will mourn him foreverand still you will not haveme.” He looked up at theceiling. “Are you sure youwant that?” he said bluntly.
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“Mortals…”She remained silent.
Everything he was sayingwasright.LovingMattwouldonly lead to an immortallifetime of pain. Was thatwhat shewanted? To chooselove and pain? She sawherself standing at Matt’sfuneral.Hewouldbeoldandgray and she would be thesame,onlyafewgrayhairstofool the mortals, when intruth she would be ageless
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andheartbrokenforever.Whenherewas a friend, a
friend from home, a friendwho knew and understoodeverything about her and herfamily. They could betogether for eternity. Thorand Erda. Thunder andhearth. She would tame thewrathful god, build him ahome, a fire, bring him theimmortalchildrenhecraved.A future lay before her—
she could see what could
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happen if she chose it—hewouldkissherandshewouldkiss him back, and then hewould pull her against him,sliphishandinsidethebodicehehadjustloosened,hishandon her skin would make hershiver. It could be done. Itwassoeasy.Perhapsthiswaswhat she was waiting for allherimmortallife.Then the vision faded as
sherememberedMatt’ssweetsmileandhisbravery.Hewas
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flawed, mortal, weak incomparison toTroy…buthewashers.“No,” she said aloud. “I
meanyes.ItiswhatIwant.Iwant Matt. I love him. I’msorry, Troy, but you and I—we were never meant to be.You know that. You onlychasemebecauseyouknowIwillsayno.”Shesmiled.Hesmiledbackandkissed
her forehead. “Fine, have ityour way. But I can hold a
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torchforalongtime,justyouwaitandsee.”Someone knocked, and
they exchanged a startledlook.“A moment please,” Troy
called as he helped Ingridback into her clothes. Thiswas the visit they had beenexpecting:Mr.Putnam.Ingrid fixed her lace cap
and tucked her loose strandsofhairinsideit,andansweredthedoor.“Abby!”
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Abigail Williams rushedin, her cheeks flushed. Shecurtsied,thenstraightenedherapron. “I’m sorry to botheryou, ma’am. I would havecome sooner, but I had tosneak out of the parsonage.Myunclehasorderedsilenceand prayer for the remainderoftheday.TheybelieveIamstillinmyroom.”“Why have you come?
Whatdoyouhave to tellus?IsitaboutFreya?”
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Abbynodded.“Yes.IhaveinjuredherIamafraid,andIhave come tomake penance.IamsoveryfondofFreya.Idid not think it would cometothis.Butithas.Myuncleisveryangry—hefoundthis—”She thrust a black booktowardIngrid.“Whatisit?”“Freya’sdiary.”Ingridscannedthepages.It
was all there, written inFreya’s recognizable and
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pretty handwriting. It waspractically a confession,detailing her practice ofmagic and witchcraft, andmeeting young men in thewoods.Asiftheyneededanymore proof. “Who has seenthis?”“Mr. Putnam, my uncle, a
fewmagistrates…”“And?”“That’swhatIcametotell
you. Freya and her friendsJames Brewster and Nate
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Brooks are being held inprisoninBoston.Tomorrowafewofus are to travel to thecityfortheexaminations.”“Examinations?”“To prove Freya is a
witch.” Abby told them thatMr. Putnam and her unclehad arranged with themagistrates of the court ofoyer and terminer for aspecialtribunaltotakecareofthe highly dangeroustriumvirate, who were
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believed to be the leaders ofthewitchesinSalemVillage.After the examinations, thethreewouldbebroughttothevillageforaspecialsessionofthe court, conducted à huisclos, without the public’sknowledge. The next witchtrialsweren’t scheduled untilJune 29, but this one, of thegreatest urgency,was to takeplacebefore,onJune13.Mr.Putnamhadpersuaded
Governor Sir William Phips
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that this would bring an endto the torments of theafflicted.Thesoonerthethreehanged, the safer theinhabitants of Salem Villageand its surrounding regionswouldbe.“And the richer Mr.
Putnam will be,” Ingridadded,whenAbby explainedthat upon Freya’s death herholdings from her deceasedhusband would go to Mr.Putnam,herpatron.
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“Which is why you, too,are in danger here,” Abbysaid. “You would jeopardizeMr.Putnam’splans.Anditissaid that Mr. Brooks diedunder suspiciouscircumstances.Mr.Putnamisvery powerful, Mrs.Overbrook.”“I see.” Ingrid placed a
hand on the young girl’sshoulder.“Donotworry,”shesaid. “Wewill go toBoston.Youhavedonetherightthing
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comingtous,Abby.Bestyourun off before your unclefindsyouaremissing.”Abigail nodded. “And you
will help Freya? I could notbearitif—”SheheldIngrid’shandsindesperation.“Wewill leave for Boston
immediately,” she said,feelingsorryforAbby.WhentheyhadclaspedhandsIngridhad been able to tap intoAbigail’slifeline.Shesawtheyears of loneliness,
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desolation, remorse, illness,andmiseryaheadofher.Thewitches were not the onlyvictimsofSalem.
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chapterfifty-one
IntheLandoftheBlind…theOne-EyedMan
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IsKing
Freddie blinked at the tallfigure standing at the end ofthe hallway, holding hisgoldentrident.Themanworea tall white hat and a blackpatch over the eye he had
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sacrificedforhiswife’shand—although the tales varied,some claiming the eye hadbeen sacrificed at Mimir’sspring in exchange forwisdomoftheages.“Odin?” Freddie
whispered.“Isitreallyyou?”Odin. The most powerful
godoftheirkind.TheheadoftheWhiteCouncil.NotLoki,whom Freddie had beenexpecting all along, butLoki’sfather.
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Odin’s two ravensperchedon his shoulders—hisfamiliars Huginn andMuninn, Thought andMemory.Tall, handsome, and
charismatic, Odin possessedthesamedazzlinggreeneyesas his boys, known inMidgard as Bran andKillianGardiner. His hair, oncestreaked with gold and fire,was as white as the hat hewore. At his feet curled and
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crouchedhiswolvesGeriandFreki, or Greedy and Fierce.His eight-foot-tall steed,Sleipnir, was the only onemissing, and Freddiewondered if the horse waswaiting for his mastersomewhere in the void. Henoted that Odin’s infalliblesword, Gungnir, hung in ascabbard by his hip, and thehand that rested on its hiltbore the ring of ancientdragon bone that allowed its
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bearer to travel betweenworldsandtime.FreyahadtoldFreddiethat
Loki had stolen Odin’s ringand that it had crumbled inher fingers—but there itwas,whole and unharmed ofcourse.NoonecoulddestroyOdin’sring.What was Odin doing
downhere in thedarknessoftheabyss?Washe…waitingfor him? For Freddie? Butwhy?
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“We’re so sorry,Freddie!”Nyphwailed.“He threatened us!” said
Kelda self-righteously,stridinguptoFreddie.SvenandIrdickshrugged.Nyphyankedonhissleeve.
“He said he would send usstraight toHelda ifwedidn’tdo as he told. He’s the onewho made us steal yourtridentsohecoulddestroythebridge, and later hemade usplantitontheDragonsothat
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itwouldgiveKillianthemarkon his back. He was behindeverything.Andhetoldustobring you here. We didn’twanttobuthescaredus!”“We’re too young to die!”
saidKelda.“Sorry, man,” mumbled
Sven, while Irdick lookedmournful.Freddie turned to Odin.
“Whataretheytalkingabout?Whyareyouhere?Whyhaveyoubroughtmehere?”
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“Welcome, my friend.”Odin smiled, flashing hisblazingwhite teeth. “Back towhere you belong,” he said,wagging a finger. “Naughtyboy. You don’t think youescaped on your own, didyou?”“Actually…” Freddie said,
backing away and collidinginto a wall that hadn’t beenthere before. He stumbled,and Odin laughed raucously,throwing back his head, and
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his ravens alighted from hisshoulderstoflapdramaticallythroughtheemptyspace.Odinheldupthehandwith
the ring, wriggling thefingers. “Don’t even try.There is no escape this time.So you noticed I have thisback. Did you and yourfamily really think Loki wasbehind it all? I suppose Icould see how you wouldthink that, since he was theonewhounleashedRagnorak
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and poisoned the Tree ofLife. But his powers aremuch tooweak to be able toblock the passages and takeaway that hot little sister ofyours.Oh,no.He’sjustagodwitha touchofMunchausen.Poorkid.”Heshookhishead.“Likes to stir things up, thenfix them.Enjoys the sport ofit and the attention. An easymark, plus he never did getover Freya. He loved her,poor delusional fool, which
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madehimusefulforatime.”“So the bridge—that was
you,too?”saidFreddie.Despitehisage,Odinhada
youthful, blithe quality, aswagger even as he stood.“Yes, yes, I destroyed thebridge,setyouandLokiup—thatsonofminewasgettingalittle too mischievous, shallwe say, and needed to betaughta lesson,soIcasthimto the frozen depths andlocked you up in Limbo. Of
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course I let him out after awhile—can’t have my ownboy locked away forevernow, could I?—but you…you escaped somehow.You’re a hard lot to control,the Vanir.” He snickered tohimself.“Butwhy?”Freddieasked.
“I don’t understand.” Odinwasn’t their enemy. He wasfeared but known as abenevolent, magnanimousgod.
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“Whynot?”Odin yawned,looked down at his sword,and clasped the handle,drawingitfromitsscabbard.Freddieneededmore time.
He couldn’t fight Odin, notwithouthistrident.Heneededto come up with a means ofescape. He supposed he hadthe pixies on his side, butonce again they had proventhemselves utterly useless.“Why did you do this?Destroy the bridge and
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destroymyfamily?”BeforeOdincouldreply,a
harsh light lit the room,revealing every smudge onthewalls and the dust in thecorners. Odin shielded hisgoodeye.“I know why!” said
Norman, rushing into thegallery,accompaniedbyVal.“Oh, what a bore!”
remarkedOdin, removinghishand but appearing tostruggle with the glare. He
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planted the tip of his swordonthegroundandtwirledit.“Dad!”Freddiegaveasigh
of relief. “How did you gethere?”“Well, I was looking for
yourmotheratfirst,”Normanexplained. “Then I ran intothis littleguy,whoconfessedeverything and brought meheretohelp.”Val nodded. “We’re sorry,
Freddie. Odin wiped ourmemories and then he
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threatenedus.”“Yeah, your friends
already told me,” Freddiesaid.“Stand back, son, this is
notyourfightbutmine,”saidNorman. “He destroyed theBofrir to hoard all of thegods’powers.TheVanirhadbecome too powerful, so hedecidedtostopusandpunishhis sons,whohad grown toorebelliousandhardtocontrol.He certainly doesn’t
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discriminate. No nepotismthere,eh,Odin?”Odin smirked. “I try to be
fair.”“But that’s not the whole
story, is it, old friend?” saidNorman. “This is about youandme,isn’tit?”“Why I suppose it is,
Nord.”Freddie looked to Odin,
thenhisfather.“What’sgoingon?You’velostme,Dad.”“An old grudge. It’s all
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very petty, really,” Normansaid. “Odin didn’t lose hiseye forFrigg’shand,nordidhegiveituptogainwisdom.Since as you can see he hasnone. No. This is a personalstory…”A long time ago, at the
dawn of the worlds, Nord,god of the sea, fished alongthe shores of Asgard. Thereon the beach, he spied agoddess more beautiful thanthesun.Shehadfallenasleep
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in the sand in the shade of alarge rock: Joanna, or Skadi,the goddess of earth, mothergoddess.NosoonerhadNordlaideyesonherthanheknewshe would be his immortalmate,hisloveforalleternity.Andwhen she lookedat himheknewshefeltthesame.But another had already
claimed her, not just anothergod but the very ruler ofAsgard, Odin himself. WhenOdin learned he had a rival,
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hechallengedNordtoaduel.As immortals, theobjectwasto deprive the other ofsomething vital. He who didso would win the goddess’shand.Itwasafairfight,andOdin
losthiseyetoNord,whowonboth the battle and thegoddess.Norman stepped forward,
unfurling his fisherman’sblack net. “I’m sorry I wonher hand, Odin old pal, but
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really—destroying thebridge? Destroying myfamily?” Norman said. “Itstopshere.Itstopsnow.”“It’s too late,” returned
Odin. “Your daughter isdead.” He smiled, studyinghissword.“Hersisterandmyinsubordinate sons, Bran andKillian, will join her in theunderworld soon enough,along with your silly wife,while you and your ownrecalcitrant son rot in this
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abyss.”“Val!”orderedNorman.Val lifted a mirror,
catchingthelight,directingitinto Odin’s one good butsensitive eye, so that thegodhad to crouch and lift hishandstoprotecthissight.Odin screamed and fell to
theground.“I believe this is ours,”
Norman said, takingFreddie’s trident andwrapping his rival in the
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fishingnet.
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chapterfifty-two
GooseChasing
By the time Ingrid and Troyarrived at the jailhouse in
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Boston, Freya, Nate, andJameswerelonggone.“Looking for them, are
you?” the gaoler asked. “Imightknowathingortwoastotheirwhereabouts,”hesaidwithanexpectantlook.Ingrid nudged Troy, who
removed a velvet pouch ofgold. Troy glared at theshifty-looking man as heplaceditinhispalm.The gaoler, his tongue
finally loosened, informed
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them that an examination ofthree prisoners had beenconductedthenightbeforeinBostonataprivatehomeofamagistrate, prominentministers and officialspresent.Thegovernorhimselfhad been in attendance.Along with two constables,the gaoler had delivered thethree accused and remainedin the room where theexaminations took place tokeepaneyeontheprisoners,
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then transport them back tothejailhouseafterward.Thus,the gaoler had overheard allthe testimony against theallegedlywickedthreesome.Being of the utmost
urgency, these examinationshadtakenprecedenceoverallothers, conducted on thatholiest of days, the Sabbath,so that the trio’s trials couldbe expedited. If enoughevidence against them weregathered here, the three
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wouldbetriedonMondayinthecourtofoyerandterminerinSalemVillage.The triumvirate, Freya
Beauchamp, NathanielBrooks, and JamesBrewster,were believed to be theleaders of the witches inSalem Village, thoseresponsible for spreadingbewitchments across NewEngland.Mr.ThomasPutnamhad filed the complaints andgone so far as appealing to
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the governor for speed andvigor in convicting all three.Itappearedhehadconvincedthose in thehighestpositionsof authority that the soonerthese three were brought tojustice, the sooner the blightwould reach a swift andconclusiveend.When Ingrid and Troy
questioned the man further,hetoldthemthatMr.ThomasPutnamandReverendSamuelParris had been present to
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give depositions. Mrs. AnnPutnam Sr. and the afflictedgirlsalso testifiedagainst thelethal three, whom they hadwitnessed sharing covenantwith the Prince of Darkness.Mercy testified that Freyawas chiefly responsible forthe evil hand besetting thevillage. Sobbing, the maidconfessed she would havedenounced her sooner, butshe had been silenced withthreats of being drowned or
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decapitated.With a leer, the gaoler
described the rituals theafflicted testified they hadbeen made to endure in theforest outside SalemVillage,where they had been givenwine for blood to drink andordered to dance in themoonlightwithouta stitchofclothing.“Thosethreearethedevilitself,”hesaid.When Mercy was brought
into thepresenceof the three
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accused, she commenced toshake and mumble and tossher head around wildly. Thejudge requested Mercy toplace a hand on FreyaBeauchamp, and when shedid, the girl’s fits stoppedimmediately, which meantthat theevilhadflowedbackintothewitch.ThetouchtestwassolidevidenceFreyawasguiltyascharged.Once JudgeStoughtonhad
gathered sufficient evidence
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against the accused, thegaolerbrought the trio to theprisoninSalemTown.There,theyweremanacled,chained,and placed in cells for thenight. Today they would betransported to the village tostandtrial.Thistrialwouldbeheld at an undisclosedlocation,keptunderwrapssoasnottocreateastirandkeepthevillageundercontrol.“EverythingAbbysaidwas
true, only the examinations
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had already taken place. Shelied to us sowe’d leave andnotstopthetrial,”saidIngrid,deflated.Shehadbelieved inAbby’s sympathy, but thelittlegirlwasalyingmonster.Troy shookhis head as he
walked to Courage and gavehimapatontheneck,aseventhe horse seemed pained byallthis.“We must hurry, perhaps
there is time yet.” Shemounted the carriage and
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tookaseat,fixingherskirts.Troyclimbedinbesideher.
They decided the next bestcourse of actionwould be toheadstraighttoSalemTown,where they would attempt tobuy Freya’s freedom. TheyplannedtotellMr.Putnamhecould keep Mr. Brooks’smoney, and more besides.Thesunhadalreadybeguntodip, flooding the cobblestonestreetwithagoldenlight.Bynow, the secret trial in the
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village was long over. Allthreewouldhavebeen foundguilty. They would mostlikely be back at the SalemTownprison tobeheld thereuntil the next hanging atGallowsHill.Troy shook the reins, and
Courage took off at a trot.“So, ifIgathercorrectly,”hesaid,“asweweredrivingintoSalem Village from SalemTown thismorning, the threeaccused were being shuttled
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along that same road. Butwere they ahead of us orbehindus?Doyouthinktheycould have already been inthevillagewhenwearrived?”In her mind’s eye, Ingrid
combedthroughtheeventsoftheir arrival in the village.Theatmospherehadcertainlybeen bizarre. Sheremembered howMercy andAbby had suddenly crept onthem. In hindsight, it wasclear thegirlshadbeenantsy
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and looking for away to getthem to leave. They hadglancedoutattheentranceofthe village several times.Theyhadbeensoclose!TheyhadfallenforAbby’sliesandhadgoneaway.Ingrid remembered the
men coming out of theparsonage: somber, fretting,shifting on their feet, lettingthegirls talk toherandTroyfor a bit. The men hadseemed nervous and
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impatient. She recalled howthey had inspected her andTroy but also looked in thedirection of the road that ledinto the village. They musthavebeenwaitingforthecartthatwouldbetransportingtheprisonersbacktothevillage.By the time she and Troy
had returned from checkingthewoods, the village was aghost town. By then surelyFreya, Nate, and James hadalready been brought to the
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secret location for their trial—maybe Mr. Putnam’shouse. His farm seemedlikely,beingon theoutskirts,twomilesfromthecenter.They headed toward the
Putnam farm. Ingrid worriedthe pendant at her neck asthey drove onward, windingout of Boston. Her thoughtsturnedtoAbby.Whyhadthegirl lied to facilitate thisPutnam coup? SomehowFreya had managed to
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entangle herself with twoveryangrygirlsandnowwasthe recipient of their wrath,which coincided perfectlywith Thomas Putnam’sagenda.Troy reached over and
squeezed Ingrid’s knee. Hesmiled—or perhaps it wasmore a flinch. “We’ll findher,Ipromise,”hesaid.
When entering Salem Town,
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it is impossible not to seeGallows Hill. It risesominously on the horizon asone swerves into the portalong the peninsula thateventually forks into twofingers reaching into SalemSound. As the carriageapproached, beneath astrawberry moon, the duskyskywastingedpink.At the hill’s summit, a
smallcrowdhadgathered, itsdark, amorphous silhouette
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shifting slowly. People weretilting their heads upward towatchasabodydangledfromthebranchesofthesprawlingoak: a girl whose skirtsbillowedinthebreeze.Freya Beauchamp was
hangedonMonday, June13,1692. In the twenty-firstcentury, her name appearedpermanently on the pages ofhistorybooks.Ingrid screamed as Troy
pulled at the reins and
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Courage neighed, rearing onhishindlegs.
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chapterfifty-three
TheDeathofSpring
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Freyawasdead.Shehadbeenhanged in Salem. When shearrivedintheunderworldshestill had a shimmer to herskin, an apricot flush andpinknessinherlips,abouncein her curls. She ascended tothe top floor of the grayskyscraperdressedinthegarbshe had been hanged in savefor her cap, which she hadripped from her head beforethenoosewasslippedoverit.She had refused to wear the
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cottonmaskforthehangman.She wanted everyonewatching to see her face asshedied;shewanted themtobe aware of the monstrosityoftheircrime.As the elevator rose, she
unfastened the bow of herapron, removed her bodice,and steppedoutof theheavyskirt and petticoats, kickingall of it into a corner.Smiling, she stood in herplain shift, which she had
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embroidered herself withcolorful flowers. She waitedtoreachthetopfloor.The receptionistpointed to
Helda’s office, hardly liftingher gaze. As Freyaapproached the door, sheheard music. She recognizedthe abrupt changes in themovement’s dynamics, thesilverynotesoftheviolinandcellos,thethrillingcrescendo:Vivaldi’sFourSeasons. Thiswas “Spring,” her very own
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concerto, airy butunequivocally sexy anddramatic. She opened thedoor when no one answeredherknock.The music, louder inside,
washedoverher.“Aunt Helda? Hello?”
Freyacalled.The Vivaldi concerto
ended, and the room wentsilent. Then Freya heardmuttering, and someonestepped out of the broom
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closet.Freya started. “Mom?”she
said, stunned. “What are youdoinghere?”Immediatelysheunderstood. Her mother wasintheunderworld.Asoulforasoul.Alifefor
a life. Death for death. ThatwastheruleofHelda’sbook.“No!”insistedFreya.“You
can’t!Thisismyfate!”Joanna released her sweet
girl.ShepushedFreya’scurlsoutofherface,kissedhergirl
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on the cheek, the brow. “Ithas already been done,darling.” She took Freya bythe hand, guiding her toHelda’s desk. She begansearchingamongthestacksofmessy papers until she cameupon a thick black ledger,whosepithytitlereadBOOKOF THE DEAD in fadinggoldleaf.Sheopenedit,ranafinger down the column oflatest entries, and pointed toher name engraved on the
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currentline.“Mothers arenot supposed
to outlive their daughters,”Joannasaid.Freya shook her head
adamantly.“Mom,no!”“I’ll always be with you,
mydear.” Joannacuppedherdaughter’s face in her palms.“Always!”Joanna felt her heart fill
with love for her girl. Hereshewasatlast—stillsoalive,stunning in her little shift,
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likeVivaldi’s“Spring”itself.Therewere sounds outside
inthelobby—thereceptionistprotesting—and when thedoor opened, Joanna couldnot believe her eyes.“Norman!” she said. “Whatare you doing here?” Heseemed to bewith some sortof prisoner trapped in afishingnet.“IsthatOdin?”“Yes.It’salongstory.”He
smiled.“Buthowdidyougethere?
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Thisfardownintheglom?”He moved toward her.
“Don’t you know?” Tearsbrimmed in his eyes, thecolor of a tempestuous sea.He had seen her out on thebeach that day and hadfollowed her into the water.“Whereveryougo,Igo.”Joanna was speechless,
befuddled, seeing that stormwithinhim.“But…youcan’t!Youdon’tbelonghere…Youcan’t stay! You love mid-
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world!”He smiled. “So do you!
But I love you and ourchildrenmore.”Joanna fell into his arms,
sobbing. “I thought I wouldneverseeyouagain.”Norman smiled. “Wehave
alifetimetogether,here.”“Freddie!” Freya yelped,
spying her twin behind herfather. “You’re here, too?Whathappened?”“Thepath toHell ispaved
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with good intentions.”Freddiesmiled.Hehadkilledtheserpent,butitappearedhehad killed himself as well.Helheim demanded a death,so his father had given himhis.He and his twinwere soalikeitwasridiculous.“Come on, sis, let’s go
home,” he said, steering hergently away from theirparents before everyone gottoo sadorhysterical.Freddiehatedsayinggood-bye.
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chapterfifty-four
TheLoveofaLifetime
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Ingrid and Troy returned tothe North Hampton shoresthrough the passages of timeat the same moment FreyaandFreddieburstthroughtheportal from the underworld.Ingridcriedasshehuggedhersister.“Buthow?”“We’ll explain later…”
Freya said, smiling wistfullyasFreddiehuggedthetwoofthem close. She didn’t wantto tell Ingrid aboutwhat hadhappenedtotheirparentsjust
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yet,didn’twanttotellhertheextentoftheirloss.“ButdidItakeawrongturnintheglomoristhatreallywhoIthinkitis?”“Yeah, hey, Freya,” Troy
said.Freya lookedat Ingridand
Troywithacurioussmile,butIngridshookherhead.“No—it’sokay.We’rejust
friends,”shesaidfirmly.Sheput her hands on her sister’sshoulders. “I’m so glad
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you’rehome.”“I’mherebecauseofyou.”
Freyasmiled.“AndKillian?”“Idon’tknow,”Freyasaid,
her smile fading a little. “HewaswithmeinSalem…withBran, too… but I think it’sokay.” She thought of thatdream she’d had of the veryfirsttimeshehadencounteredbothofthem.Theyhadmademagic thatnight, the threeofthem. “I think I’ll see them
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soonenough.”They said their good-byes
toTroy.“Coming, Ingrid?” Freddie
askedasheandFreya turnedtoheadhome.“Notjustyet,”shesaid.Ingridsaidgood-byetoher
familyandmadeherwaytoafamiliar, architecturallymodern house in the hills.Matt was in bed when sheslippedinsidehisroom.“How’d you get in?” he
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askedsleepily.“Magic,” she whispered.
Her powers had returned infull force, and she could feelthe strength returning to herbody, how electrified all hersenseswere,howalert,but itwas not just magic that wasmakingherfeelthisway,sheknew.“So, is everything okay?”
heasked.“Yeah—I think so. As
much as it canbe,” she said.
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Freya didn’t have to tell her.Sheknewassoonasshesawtheir faces that somethingterrible had happened, andshe could guess that itinvolvedNormanandJoanna.Inhergrief,Ingridfoundshecouldonlyfindcomfortinthearmsofthemansheloved.“When you left with him,
partofmethoughtyoumightnevercomebacktome.”“Matt,”shesaid.“I’mhere
now.”
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He reached up and pushedher hair out of her face anddidn’t answer. There wasnothing to say.He knew sheknew what he wanted, whatthey both wanted, when itcamedownto it.Nowitwasjust the two of them, alone,together,inbed…She stared back at him,
wondering when he wasgoing to kiss her. What washe waiting for? Her heartpoundedthroughherchest,or
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feltasifitdid.Shewastiredofbeingshy,
sosheloweredherfacetohisandkissedhim, throwingherarmsaroundhimasshehikedup her skirt and straddledhim, their kisses growingdeeper and more breathless,and his hand inching everupward. She bit his lips andbegantokisshisneck,tracinghisjaw,ashewrithedbeneathher, groaning softly. Mattstruggled with the zipper on
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herskirtuntilhegaveupandit bunched against her waist,while Ingrid couldn’tunbutton his pajamas fastenough.He pulled her blouse over
herheadandpulleddownherbra, and he was kissing her,kissing her all over, and itwas her turn to moan. Thiswas as far as they usuallywent, as much as she woulddare,but this timesheclosedher eyes and reached down,
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slipping her hand under hisboxers. She trembled fromdesire, from wanting him somuch.Shewantedhiminsideher…now.He groaned louder,
breathingheavilyintoherear,holding her above him, andhe whispered, “Are yousure?”In answer, she lowered
herself uponhim, takinghiminsideher,gaspingatthepainas he broke through her
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slowly, so slowly, and thenall at once, and she cried inpain and pleasure of beingfilled,andherhandswereonhisshouldersandhiswereonher back, holding her as sherocked on top of him, untilshecouldtakehisfulllength.He bit her shoulder andflipped her on her back, asurprise attack, and hewithdrew, only to slam backinside her, and this time shegasped.
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“Oh!”“AmIhurtingyou?”She shook her head and
wrapped her legs tighteraround his torso, thinking,This, this, this, this iswhat Ihave wanted—have neededfor so long—this… And hewas rocking against her,tenderly, then so fast, andhard,andshewanteditharderand faster, and then he waspulling her up to him again,so that she rocked on top of
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him, and then she wasnothing but sensation andstars and she was lost, andcresting, and then a wave,crashingon thebeach, and itwas all white bright andpleasure, and Matt wasgroaning and roaring, andcalling her name, crying outhis love as he came insideher.And they were shaking,
stillshaking…Why had she waited this
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long?Because she had been
waitingforhim…They fell back on the bed,
panting, slick and tingling,twitching like fish on deck.Ingrid rested her head on hischest. Matt sighed. “Mmm.I’m glad you’re back. Neverleave me again, Ingrid,” hewhispered in her ear as theydriftedofftosleep.
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ThenextdayIngridwokeupto the feel of his kisses, andsoon they were right backwhere they started. It wasevensweeterthesecondtime.Afterward they wandered tothekitcheninadaze,lookingfor breakfast. There was apackageoffrozenbliniandatin of caviar in the fridge.Mattdidn’trememberbuyingeither.Amiracle—ormagic?Itdidn’tmatter.Theyatetheirmeal, naked, standing at the
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counter, with crème fraîcheand champagne. Theycouldn’t stop touching eachother.Heranhishandsalongherslim,strongarms.She put her head on his
shoulder,content.The joy was worth the
pain.
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northhampton
thepresenteaster
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chapterfifty-five
LeftBehind
Inside her Mini, Freya sangalong to Dan Auerbach’s
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wistful “Goin’Home”as shedroveupawindinghill.Likethe narrator in the song, shehad spent too much timeaway.Itwasgoodtobebackin North Hampton this lastmonth.Shehadcomehome.She found comfort in the
warm embrace of thefamiliar. But herhomecoming was bittersweetand incomplete. She beltedthe words, glancing out the
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window, trying to convinceherself she’d done the rightthing.This area, on the outskirts
of North Hampton—hilly,woodsy, open in spots—offered a view of the oceanand Gardiners Island. It wasperfect, she thought. Springhad arrived, bright andbeautiful as her mother’sgarden.Freyaparkedthecaronthe
side of the road, grabbed the
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flowers andabottleofwaterfrom the passenger seat. Shesquared her shoulders as shestood before the openedwrought-iron gates, took hertime strolling up the shadytree-lined path. A warm,moist breeze caressed hercheeks and bare limbs.Winter had finally gone.Thegrasswaslush,avividgreen,thecypressescreaked,andtheoakswhispered. Therewas apeacefulhush.
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She wasn’t sure what hadhappened to Nate Brooks orJames Brewster, but theirnameswerenolongeramongthe names of those who hadbeen hanged during theSalemwitch trials.Somehowthey had escaped the noose,andforthatshewasglad.Shehad a feeling she would seethemagainsoon.But she was not thinking
about the boys today. Shesaw there were a few other
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visitors, walking along thetwining paths or standing atthe grave of a loved one.Someofthetombstonesdatedtothelate1800s.Therewereangels,cherubs(forchildren),elaborate crosses, stoicmausoleums, and simplepink, gray, andwhitemarblestones.Thecemeteryhungonthe hill overlooking the sea,and at a far end one couldglimpse down and seeJoanna’s house in the
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distance along the shore. Itwas near this spot, in theshade of three leaningevergreens, that thebodiesofJoanna and NormanBeauchamp had been buriedside by side. They had beenfound in the sea, the two ofthem drowned, their armsaround each other, and hadbeen buried in the samecoffin.Freya removed the dead
flowers from the urn by the
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headstoneandrefilled itwithwater. She replaced the oldwithnewyellowroses,whichmeant she missed them. Sheknelt on thegrass in front oftheirgrave.The Beauchamp children
had ordered the simplest ofmarkersfortheirparents,andknowingJoanna’sdistasteforepithets had forgone them.“How can one even begin toencapsulate oneself in asingle, pithy sentence?” their
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motherhadoncesaid.Butthesiblings had added a littletouch: beneath JOANNABEAUCHAMPwasengravedGODDESS OF THEEARTH; beneath NORMANBEAUCHAMP, GOD OFTHESEA.Freyapressedherhands in
the grass on her parents’grave. She knew they werecontent now that they weretogether in the underworld.Theyhadpromisedtovisitin
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her dreams, but so far, shehadnotseenherparents.Shewondered when she everwould again. Her memoriesoftheunderworldhadalreadybegunfading.She felt a hand on her
shoulder, and when sheturned she saw her twin, hergrief mirrored in his eyes.Ingrid was with him. “Sorrywe’re late,”her sister said asshe added their flowers toFreya’s.Thesiblingshuddled
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in,holdingontooneanother.They only had each othernow.Theywereorphans,buttheywerestillafamily.Morethananeedforwords
wastheneedtojusthangon.
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chapterfifty-six
OneWeddingamongtheFunerals
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ItwasMay.Thebridesmaids’dresses rippled against theirlegs in the wind, and theirhairflewagainsttheircheeks.They held bouquets ofviolets, asters, and irises,while the ocean wavescrashed majestically behindthem.IngridandHudsonhaddecided on no awful pastels,no embarrassing peach orcitron. Instead, the dresseswerearich,darkoceanblue.Ingrid beamed, not
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realizing that Freya hadmanaged to change herneckline so that it curved alittle lower than the designerhad intended. Tabitha stoodnext to Freya, lookingespecially svelte, just a fewweeksaftergivingbirth.The ceremony was being
held on the beach below theterrace of the Frenchrestaurant La Plage, wherethe reception would takeplace afterward. Despite the
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wind, it was a beautifulsummer day, dramatic whiteclouds billowing across ablue, blue sky. The NorthHamptonGoldenStringTrio,sisters wearing little whiteblossoms in their hair, beganto play Schubert’s“Serenade.”Ingrid felt a bit overcome
bythestatelybeautyofitall,the joy and gravity that theywere about towitness. Freyawinked at her, and Ingrid
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instinctively searched for herparents’ faces among theseated guests before sherealizedhermistake.Shekeptdoing that—wishfulforgetfulness. With eachinstance came the dreadfulrealization all over again, nolesspainful.The guests quieted,
shushing each other. Thehandsome young mayor ofNorthHampton,JustinFrond,stepped forth and everyone
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turnedexpectantlytowardtheshore. Ingrid felt her eyesbrim with tears as Scottwalked down the aisle withhisparents.Hisfatherhadthesamebroadshoulders,andhehadhismother’ssweetsmile.She turned back to the
audience, where Freya andFreddie were sitting withMatt. She gave him afluttering wave, and thesunlight caught herengagement ring, sending a
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dazzlinglightintothecrowd.She flushed with pleasure atthe small but lovely ring onherfinger.They would be married in
the fall. Their time togetherwouldbeshort,brutallyshort,incontrasttothelonglifeshehad ahead of her, but Ingridhadlearnedthattherewasnojoy without sorrow, and thatshewouldbeabletobearthepain of losing him if shecould have the joy of being
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his wife for however longtheyhad together.Shewouldnot worry about the future,but live in the present. Ababy, she wanted a baby sobadly.Someonenew to love,someone to fill the ache inherheartfromthelossofherparents.Thepassagesoftimemarchedforward.Itwastimefornewlife,newloves.Ingridstudiedthecrowd.It
seemed the entire little townsat on the beach. Even the
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most awful and repellentBlake Aland had somehowlandedontheguestlist.Howhad that happened? Shewould have to ask Hudsononce he was married. Shespotted Freya’s boss, Sal.Freddie’s girlfriend, Kristy,with her kids, Max andHannah. Gracella, Hector,and Tyler were there, too,since Gracella worked forScott part-time. Maggie satwith her father and mother.
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Ingrid had asked Hudson ifshecouldinvitebothofthem.“Bring it on!” he had said.Marizahadvisitedthelibrarythe other week, to bring acoffeecakeandcondolences.She had told Ingrid how shehad lost her parents to a caraccident when she was ateenager. “No oneunderstands what it’s like tobe an orphan, even whenyou’regrown.It’sveryhard.”Ever since then, the two had
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become friends.Mariza evenintroduced her to herboyfriend, a banker from thecity.Themusicswelled.Freddie
caught Ingrid’s eye and gaveherasmileanda littlewave.He had a new ring on hisfingeraswell.Mattmotionedto her with a nod, andwhenshe looked Hudson waswalking down the aisle,dressed in a dashing linensuit, walking hand in hand
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with his mother. Mrs.Rafferty wore a transparentpale pink kerchief to matchherpinkChanelsuitoverherblondcoif.A sudden gust of wind
swept across the beach, sothat Mrs. Rafferty had toplaceahandtoholdontoherscarf, and a few petals fromIngrid’sbouquetflewintothecrowd, landing on Freya’sandFreddie’sshoulders.Mother, Freya mouthed.
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Ingrid agreed. It had to be.She’dlovedpeonies.Hudson took his place
across from Scott, MayorFrondstandingbetweenthemwithahugegrin.Little Tyler, looking
somber and grown-up in hisblacksuit,walkedupwiththeringsonapillow.Ingridsmiled.Tyler had been accepted
into the Carlyle School offthewaiting list, and Joanna’s
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will had provided for hiseducation.Hermotherwouldhave been pleased. Ingridkept the envelope from hermother in her purse like atalisman.Joanna’slastwords.Joanna’s instructions.Everything orderly andpractical.Ingridhad inheritedthe house. “I think you willneed it, my dear, for yourchildren.” How did Motherknow? Ingrid could see intothe future, but she had never
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beenabletopredictherown.Finally, the last strains of
Schubert fadedas the triosetdown their violins. Hudsonand Scott held hands.MayorFrond cleared his throat andbeganthemarriagerites.
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chapterfifty-seven
TheLongestJourneysBeginwithaSingleStep
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Kristy turned toFreddiewitharuefulsmile.Itwasthedayafter the Wedding of theSeason, which is whateveryone in North Hamptonwas calling Scott andHudson’snuptials.TheNorthInnbartendersweresittingonthe topofa sanddune, some
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distance apart, out on thelittlebeachatthebackofherplace.Freddie staredout, playing
withtheringonhisfinger.Hetwirled it around as hewatched the waves. Finally,Kristyspoke.“Wehadanicerun, didn’t we? I can’t sayI’mnotsad.”“Me neither.” Freddie
winced.Kristy’s ex hadn’t brought
Max and Hannah back yet.
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They still had a little time.The sun had begun to set,silver and blue streaksrunning through pink andorange. It had grown chilly,and she shivered in heroversize sweatshirt. Freddiewantedtotughertohim,holdher, reassure her, tell her itwould all be okay, but heknew it wouldn’t beappropriate.After all, he had just
brokenupwithher.
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He was leaving tonight.Leaving North Hampton. Hewas going away for a whilewithhisoldpalTroy.Freddie wasn’t ready to
settle down, no matter whathis heart told him now. Hewasn’treadytobeahusbandor a father. He had beencutting ties all morning.Tragedyhadawayofputtingitallintoperspective.Hehadgiven hismarriagewithGertan earnest shot but it was
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over. The contract was nullandvoid.Hewasa freemanagain. She had been weepyand apologetic, but he hadalready been down that roadwithherbefore,andheknewwhere it led.Maybe one daythey would find each otheragain—it happened that waywith their kind.Hewouldbeglad for it, even; perhaps bythenhewouldbeready.“I’m really sorry,” he told
Kristy. He meant it, but he
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couldn’tstay.Kristy nodded. “I knew
you wouldn’t stay. It’s allright. Like I said, we had agoodrun.”He had spent too much
time inLimbo, five thousandyears,andheneededtoroamfree, there were nine worldsin the universe, and he wasintentonexploringeachone.He had wasted too muchvaluable time on nothing—videogamesandlivingonline
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—it was time to live hislives…“You’remakingthiseasy,”
hesaid.Shelaughedsoftly.“Yeah!
Maybetooeasy,Freddie.”Freddielookeddownatthe
ringonhis finger.After theyhaddefeatedOdin, his fatherhadgivenhim the ring.“Thenine worlds are yours, myson.” Freddie had taken thering made of ancient dragonbone and used it to travel to
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theunderworld,wherehehadbeenable to saygood-bye tohismotheronelasttime.Withthetridentreturnedto
its rightful owner and thepassages of time flowingonce more in the rightdirection,theBofrirhadbeenrestored as if it had neverbeen destroyed. The bridgebetweenMidgardandAsgardstood once more, and Odinwould stand trial with theWhite Council. Even the
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pixies had returned toÁlfheim.Freddiemissedthemalittle.PerhapsheandTroywould
visitthemontheirjourney.
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chapterfifty-eight
TheLovesofHerLife
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Jeans. Freya had acquired aspecial appreciation for jeanssinceherreturntothetwenty-first century, especially thekind that hugged like asecond skin, that she couldrun and jump in. She waswearing her favorite pairalongwithatightblacktank,motorcycle boots, and abuttery black leather zip-upjacket.She was back at work.
Kristy had taken the day off,
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and Freddie had already lefttown. She was alone. Whenshewalkedin,thestalesmellof liquor and beer filled herwith affection. She leanedagainst the counter. EltonJohn’s “The Bitch Is Back”pounded through thespeakers.The place was strangely
dead fora summernight.Salwas in the back. Poker nightwith the boys. There was noone to talk to save the usual
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setofbarfliescongregatingatone end, already sloppy,teetering on their stools,repeating the sameexaggerated tales she hadheard last time she’d beenhere.Ayoungcouplewasallover each other in a booth,toocheaptopayforaroomatthe Ucky Star. Their beerswereprobablywarmbynow.Thiswashercrowd.Freya dusted the bottles,
wiped the counter and tables
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till they shone, sliced toomuch fruit, swept andmoppedthefloors.Therewasnothinglefttodo.Ithadbeenabout an hour, her standingthere, itching for adistraction. Arms crossedover her chest, she glared atthedoor,focusingherwitchypowers onto it, willing it toopen.Shethrewoffthejacketand stared at it some more.The old axiom about beingcareful what one goes
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wishing for holds true,especiallyifoneisawitch.Thedoor swungopen,and
a man swaggered in, staringat her. Faded blue jeans.White T-shirt. A slow smileformed on his lips as hestrodeuptoheratthebar.Hetookastool, tossingbackhisdark hair away from hissmoldering eyes. KillianGardiner. James Brewster.Balder the Beautiful. Sheknewallhisincarnations.She
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had left him, when she hadplunged to her death, hangedbythenoose,buthehadbeensaved somehow. Agovernor’s pardon hadarrived just in time. Thenoosehadnottakenhim,andwith the passages open onceagain, his magic and powerhadreturned,andhehadbeenable to journey back to thepresent,aliveandunharmed.Freya smiled. “What can I
getyou?”
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“YouknowwhatIlike,”hesaid with that easy, slowsmile again. She poured thebourbonandset it in frontofhim.Heraisedtheglassandshe
pouredherselfashot,downedit, and exhaled, tossing herhead. She poured anotherround.While they finished it, the
doortothebarswungopen.Herheartboundedintoher
throat.
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Killian turned to look andshrugged.The tall comely fellow
ambled toward them,his suitslightly rumpled, tie swungover a shoulder: abusinessman home from along trip, out for a nightcapbefore setting home toGardiners Island. This wasthe Branford Gardiner, themost eligible bachelor inNorth Hampton. BranfordDashiell Lion Gardiner.
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Nathaniel Brooks. Savedfromthehangman’snooseaswell, and free to make hisway back to whatever timeappealed to him. There wasno time but the present. Hewas still the same soft-spoken, debonair man withthesoulofmischief.ThegodLoki. He leaned against thebar. “Hi there,” said Bran,making those shy greendemoneyesather.Whathadhe said toheronce?You are
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more likeme than you think,dear Freya. Maybe it wastrue.What shehaddonewasjust a little bit wicked now,wasn’t it? Certainly thePuritans would neverapprove.“Hi yourself,” returned
Freya.KillianhandedBranashot
glass. Freya poured the threeofthemaroundofdrinks.Freya remembered her
dream once more. The three
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of them,naked in thewoods,alone,together,andshemadelove to them then, tobothofthem that night… In herdream she had woken,wedged in the middlebetween the two of them,withKillian’shandonherhipand Bran’s mouth on herneck.Woulditalwaysbethisway?Thetwooftheminlovewithherandsheinlovewithboth of them? It hadhappened so very, very long
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ago, was all she couldremember.In the beginning, back
when the world was youngand so were they, and theywere still innocent and inlove. She had been givenanother chance, and sheunderstood thatwhatever shedid, their fates were foreverentwined, in darkness or inlight. She had chosen light.She had chosen joy. She hadchosenlove.
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Itwasallsuchahaze.ButFreyaknewsomething
hadhappenedthatnight.Somethingthatwouldbind
the three of them togetherforever—orrelease themintothewind?Whoknew?What was a witch to do?
Maybe shewould leave bothof them and find someonenew. The future was wideopen, unwritten, the gamesabouttobegin.
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She lovedKillian.But shelovedBran,too.One day, she would have
tochoose.Butnottoday.Today she would pour the
drinks.
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TheNineWorldsoftheKnownUniverse
Asgard—WorldoftheAesir
Midgard—MiddleWorld,LandofMen
Álfheim—WorldoftheElves
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Helheim—KingdomoftheDead
Jotunheim—LandoftheGiants
Muspellheim—TheFirstWorld
Nidavellir—LandoftheDwarves
Svartalfheim—LandoftheDarkElven
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Vanaheim—LandoftheVanir
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TheGodsofMidgard
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Jean-Baptiste Mésomier(MUNINN, GOD OFMEMORY)Arthur Beauchamp(SNOTRA, GOD OF THEFOREST) (Norman‘sbrother)Anne Barklay (VER ANDI,NORNOFTHEPRESENT)
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Acknowledgments
Thankyou toRichardAbate,Erwin Stoff, MaggieFriedman, Jane Francis,Morgana Rosenberg, EllenArcher, ElisabethDyssegaard, Kerri Kolen,Marjorie Braman, andeveryone at 3Arts,Hyperion,
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Fox 21, and Lifetime forbelieving in the witches andthepowerofmagic.Thank you to Margaret
Stohl,AlysonNoel,DeborahHarkness, and Rachel Cohn,thewonderfulwritingwomenin my life, who have takenthe witches into their hearts.You are all goddesses inmybook!Thank you to Gabrielle
DanchickfortheresearchandcareintotheSalemstory.All
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mistakesareminealone.Thank you to my loving
familyandfriendswhomakeitallworthwhile.
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ABOUTTHEAUTHOR
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Melissa de la Cruz is theauthoroftheNewYorkTimesand USA Today bestsellingseriesBlueBloods,whichhasthree million copies in print.Sheisaformerjournalistwhohas contributed to manypublications, includingGlamour, Cosmopolitan,Harper’sBazaar,Allure, andMarieClaire.Shespentmanysummers in Shelter Island,New York, which served asthe inspiration for the
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fictional town of NorthHampton. She lives in LosAngeles and Palm Springswithherfamily.
www.melissa-delacruz.com
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alsobymelissadelacruz
witchesofeastend
serpent’skiss
thebluebloodsseries(youngadult):
bluebloods
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masquerade
revelations
thevanalenlegacy
lostintime
gatesofparadise
keystotherepository(referencebook)
bloodyvalentine(short
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stories)
wolfpact(ebookonly)
theheartofdreadseries(youngadult):
frozen
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COPYRIGHT
Copyright©2013MelissadelaCruz
Allrightsreserved.ExceptaspermittedundertheU.S.CopyrightActof1976,nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,distributed,ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,orstoredina
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databaseorretrievalsystem,withoutthepriorwritten
permissionofthepublisher.Forinformationaddress
Hyperion,1500Broadway,NewYork,NewYork10036.
TheLibraryofCongresshascataloguedtheoriginalprint
editionofthisbookasfollows:
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DelaCruz,Melissa.WindsofSalem:awitchesofEastEndnovel/MelissaDelaCruz.—FirstEdition.
pagescmISBN978-1-4013-2470-4
1.Witches—Fiction.2.LongIsland(N.Y.)—Fiction.I.
Title.PS3604.E128W562013
813'.6—dc232013010165
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eBookEditionISBN:978-1-4013-0501-7
CoverdesignbyLauraKlynstra
CoverphotographbyMartaBevacqua/ArcangelImagesAuthorphotographbyDenise
Bovee
FirsteBookEdition
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OriginalhardcovereditionprintedintheUnitedStatesof
America.