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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

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

in their Long Island town.Abubblingcauldronofmysteryandromance,thenovelsharesthe fanciful plotting of BlueBloods, the author’s teenvampire series… [B]reezyfun.”

—People

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her first novel for adults, theauthor… lets her repressedsorceressesrip.”

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“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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—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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“De la Cruz has, withWitches,onceagainmanagedtoenlivenandembellishuponhistoryandmythologywithaclever interweaving of pastand present, both real andimagined…[It]castsaspell.”

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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.”

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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

ForMikeandMattie

Contents

CoverTitlePagePraise for The Witches ofEastEndseriesDedicationEpigraph

Once upon a time in NorthHampton…

Salem:Spring1692ChapterOne:AVioletWar

Chapter Two: Of Plums andPieChapterThree:SecretsChapterFour:InBloomChapterFive:Mr.BrooksandMissBeauchampChapterSix:TheProposal

North Hampton: ThePresent:NewYear’sEveChapterSeven:WhatDreamsMayComeChapterEight:BrotherTimeChapter Nine: The

NewlywedsChapter Ten: The MostImportantGirlinHisLifeChapterEleven:OfGodsandMenChapter Twelve: The SalondesRefusésChapter Thirteen: DetectiveNobleChapter Fourteen: Cavern intheWoodsChapterFifteen:FightingFirewithFireChapter Sixteen: The Perfect

FamilyChapter Seventeen: From theMouthsofBabesChapterEighteen:GoneBabyGone

Salem:May1692Chapter Nineteen: MiracleWorkerChapter Twenty: Raise theRoofChapter Twenty-One: ThankHeavenforLittleGirls?Chapter Twenty-Two:Whish

WitchChapter Twenty-Three:LooseLipsChapter Twenty-Four: LoveandMarriageChapter Twenty-Five: TheImmortals

North Hampton: ThePresentValentine’sDayChapter Twenty-six: TheHammerStrikesChapter Twenty-seven: TheFamilyThree

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

Chapter Thirty-Five: Put aRingOnItChapterThirty-Six:ThePriceofAdmission,PartThreeChapter Thirty-Seven: TheMonster at the End of theWorldChapterThirty-Eight:SlidingDatesChapter Thirty-Nine:Trickster’sSonChapter Forty: MotherGoddess

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

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

ofaLifetime

North Hampton: ThePresent:EasterChapter Fifty-Five: LeftBehindChapter Fifty-Six: OneWeddingamongtheFuneralsChapter Fifty-Seven: TheLongest JourneysBeginwithaSingleStepChapter Fifty-Eight: TheLovesofHerLife

The Nine Worlds of theKnownUniverseTheGodsofMidgardAcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorAlsobyMelissaDeLaCruzCopyright

Jealousyisalwaysbornwithlove,butdoesnotalwaysdiewithit.

—François,DucdelaRochefoucauld,Maxims

OnceuponatimeinNorthHampton…

In a rambling colonial houseinalittleelusivetownbytheseaonLongIsland’snorthernand easternmost tip, a silver-haired witch named JoannaBeauchamp lived with hertwo daughters, Ingrid andFreya. Blond and brainy,

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

salem

spring1692

chapterone

AVioletWar

LateMarch inSalemVillageand the early spring flowers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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?

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

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

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

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?

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,

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

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

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.”

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

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

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

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.

chaptertwo

OfPlumsandPie

Early the next morning,

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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,

“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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

that they had glimpsed thetwoyoungmen.Mercy offered Freya her

arm.“Shallwe?”Freya nodded and the two

girlscrossedthestreet.

chapterthree

Secrets

“Donotdespair,mybrothersand sisters, for there are alsotrue saints in the church,”Reverend Parris proclaimed

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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?”

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

“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

rocks and returned to thebarn, leaving the youngwomen,whodidtheirbesttomake Annie presentable inherdampclothes.

chapterfour

InBloom

“Itisallsoheavenly!”Mercyremarked as she strodethrough the stable, liftingher

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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.

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

thinkingofher.Shetrembledwith excitement even as shewasloathtoshareanyofthiswithherbelovedMercy.

chapterfive

Mr.BrooksandMissBeauchamp

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

understood the rules as wellasshe.

chaptersix

TheProposal

Freya ascended the flight ofcreakingwoodensteps to thestudy,holdingthecandlestick

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

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,

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

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

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.

“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.

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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!”

“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

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.

Laughing, Freya spunaway and ran back to thefarm.

northhampton

thepresentnewyear’seve

chapterseven

WhatDreamsMayCome

“Hey, what’s going on?”

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,

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

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.

“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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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-

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

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

beenhangedonGallowsHill.Thefactthattheywerenotinany recordswaspuzzlingyetheartening. Maybe it meantthatthepasthadalreadybeenaltered somehow? And thatFreyawassafe?Theburningfieldofwheat

andhersisterinthemiddleofit…Ingrid grabbed another

bookandread,pushingpastawave of weariness. Therewere three facts about the

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

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.”

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

inyetanotherbook.

chaptereight

BrotherTime

Sunlightpierced thecurtains,fallingovertheCofJoanna’sbody beneath the duvet,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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.

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,

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.”

chapternine

TheNewlyweds

Freddieheardtheshowerturnoff, followed by Gert’s loudsigh. The little New Haven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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.

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,

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

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?”

“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

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.

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.

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

theinsurancecompany.

chapterten

TheMostImportantGirlinHisLife

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

“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

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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.”

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?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

“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.

chaptereleven

OfGodsandMen

By Sunday, Joanna and

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

“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

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

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

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,

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.

“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.”

“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

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

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

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

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

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.”

“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

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

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,

he scribbled down thedirections his brother gavehim.

chaptertwelve

TheSalondesRefusés

Gert and Freddie’s living

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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—

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

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.

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

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,

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.

“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.”

“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

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,

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.”

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

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.

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

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

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!”

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

swear!” He called for Nyphand Kelda but they weregone.Freddie knew the pixies

werejusttryingtohelp,butatthis rate they were going tohelpgethimadivorce.

chapterthirteen

DetectiveNoble

Matt had called Ingrid toinviteheroverforaSaturday-night movie. He was all by

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

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.

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

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.

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?”

“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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

excitement. “Matt, I couldkiss you—of course!Someone read Hooker’spamphlettothem!Butwho?”Matt smiled. “We’ll figure

thatoutlater,”hesaid.“Nowaboutthatkiss…”

chapterfourteen

CavernintheWoods

By early afternoon, Joanna

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

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

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

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

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.”

She shook her head. TheOraclewasbestleftalone.Norman insisted. “Itmight

be the only way to save ourdaughter.”

chapterfifteen

FightingFirewithFire

Snow was melting on the

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!”

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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.”

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.

“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

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

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.

“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

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.

chaptersixteen

ThePerfectFamily

Matt had Maggie for theweekend.EventhoughIngrid

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

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

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,”

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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.

chapterseventeen

FromtheMouthsofBabes

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

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.

“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.

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

“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

theirfaces,becauseheleanedin and said, “But you’re inluck because there issomething you could do togetaroundit…”Joanna and Norm huddled

inclosertothescreen.

chaptereighteen

GoneBabyGone

It had been a relativelypeacefuldayatthefirestation

—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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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,

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

June1692

salem

may1692

chapternineteen

MiracleWorker

There was never a lack forwork on the Putnam farm.Thebirdschirpedinthetrees

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.

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.

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.

“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

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,

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

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,

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.

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

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

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.”

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

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

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!”

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

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

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

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

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

cobalt night glittering withstars.

chaptertwenty

RaisetheRoof

Itwasbarn-raisingdayonthePutnam farm, a merry

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!”

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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

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

getawayfromNate’sslitherygoatofarelativefastenough.

chaptertwenty-one

ThankHeavenforLittleGirls?

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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.

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

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

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.

“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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

black-and-gold lettering onthe cover and read it aloud:“An Essay on Remarkable,Illustrious, and InvisibleOccurrences Relating toBewitchments andPossessions, by ReverendContinenceHooker.”

chaptertwenty-two

WhishWitch

“That very same year, asprovidence would have it,”

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

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-

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,

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

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

(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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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.

chaptertwenty-three

LooseLips

Freya had time on her handsnow that she was practicing

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

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

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.

“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…”

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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.”

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

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.

chaptertwenty-four

LoveandMarriage

Itwaslectureday,aThursday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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,

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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,

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,

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

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

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,

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

Salem Village, she knewnow.

chaptertwenty-five

TheImmortals

When Freya arrived in themeadow,shespottedJames’s

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

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

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,

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?”

“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.”

“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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?”

“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

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

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,

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,

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!”

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

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.”

“Run,”Jamessaid,tuggingonhisbootsandhandingherhers.“Runawayasfastaswecan.”

northhampton

thepresentvalentine’sday

chaptertwenty-six

TheHammerStrikes

Hudson held up a tiny pink

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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.”

“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

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

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!”

“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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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.”

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

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.

Jesus!”Hudson laughed. “I didn’t

say, ‘Sleep with him!’Although if you don’t, Iwill!”

chaptertwenty-seven

TheFamilyThree

“I’ll do it, ” Norman said

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

chaptertwenty-eight

TheMannyDiaries

Light poured through the

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

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.

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?”

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

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,

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.

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

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-

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

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

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-

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,

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.

“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

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?

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

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,

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

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.

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

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,

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,

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

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.

chaptertwenty-nine

MyBoyfriend’sBack

A wheel on the book cart

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.

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,

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,

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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.”

chapterthirty

ThePriceofAdmission

TylerAlvarezsatonastoolat

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

“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.

“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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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,

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

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.

“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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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:

a surfeit of prestige—whichwas the one thing thatmatteredintheHamptons.

chapterthirty-one

TequilaSunset

Leaning against the cashregister in a plaid shirt and

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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.

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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.

chapterthirty-two

ShowerthePeople

Guests sat on the carpet in a

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.

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

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

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,”

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

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.

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

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!”

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

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

inscribedthewordlederhosenafterHudson.

chapterthirty-three

ThePriceofAdmission,PartTwo

Infrontofthelow-slungmainbuilding—madeofwoodand

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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,

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.”

chapterthirty-four

WhereThingsComeBack

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

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

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

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.

“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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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

news: we found the trident.Bad news: Jörmungandr hasit.”

chapterthirty-five

PutaRingOnIt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

“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.

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

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

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

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?”

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

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

her, his hands pressingagainst the car’s roof, one ateachsideofhershoulders.Hehad her locked in so shecouldn’t go anywhere buthere, which was exactlywhereshewantedtobe.

chapterthirty-six

ThePriceofAdmission,PartThree

Her stomach lurched. Joannawasn’t the one about to be

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

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.

“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

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.”

“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.

“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.

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.”

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

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.

chapterthirty-seven

TheMonsterattheEndoftheWorld

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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?”

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.

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

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.

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

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

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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

chapterthirty-eight

SlidingDates

Ingrid climbed the stairs toher room. The familiars

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

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

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.

“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

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.

“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

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?

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.”

chapterthirty-nine

Trickster’sSon

Nyph placed a hand on thedoor, whispering the ancient

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

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.”

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.”

“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.”

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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.”

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

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.

chapterforty

MotherGoddess

Shehad lied toherdaughter.She had lied to her husband.She couldn’t bear the good-

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

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.

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—

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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—

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

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

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,

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.

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.

timeinabottle

salemnorthhamptonpastpresent

chapterforty-one

FriendoftheFamily

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

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

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

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.

“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

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,”

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

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.

“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

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

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—

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

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

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

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

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.

“But thenwhowould takeMaggie to the Four Seasonsand the theater?” she said asshehuggedhimtightly.

chapterforty-two

BlackWidow

Inhersleep,Freyawipedtheantcrawlingacrosshercheek,

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.”

“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

Putnam would soon becomethe richest landowner inSalemTown.

chapterforty-three

ForkintheRoad

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

imprisoned here for fivethousand years.This was theabyss.“Well,whatarewewaiting

for? Let’s go get my stuffback,”hesaid.

chapterforty-four

Crucible

“Oh dear! I believe we’vearrived.” Ingrid pulled hersilk cape and petticoat from

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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,

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

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

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?

“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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

eyes bulge and redden. Atrickle of blood seepedthrough the cloth at hermouth,andshewentstiff.Ingrid turned her head

away.

chapterforty-five

TheManinWhite

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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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!”

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

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.

“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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

had always loved him. Sheput out her hand andmotioned tohim.“My love,”shecalled.“Joinus…”

chapterforty-six

DowntheRabbitHole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

anddarker.

chapterforty-seven

AppointmentwithDeath

So this was death. It wasn’t

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

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

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

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.

“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!”

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.”

“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

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.

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

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

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.

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?”

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

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

scarlet.“Iwanttospeakwithmysisternow!”

chapterforty-eight

AlphaGirls

At the crack of dawn on theMonday following Bridget

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

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

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

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,

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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—

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?

chapterforty-nine

Nemesis

Limbo had an institutionallook, like a boarding-schooldorm or a vaguely stylish

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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…

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!

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

shoulder.“Welcome home, Fryr,” a

velvety and sinister voicerumbledbehindhim.

chapterfifty

Freya’sDiary

When Ingrid and Troyreturned from the woods anhour later, the village had

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!”

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

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

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,

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

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.

“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

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

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

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

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!”

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?”

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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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,

desolation, remorse, illness,andmiseryaheadofher.Thewitches were not the onlyvictimsofSalem.

chapterfifty-one

IntheLandoftheBlind…theOne-EyedMan

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

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.

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

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

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?

“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

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?”

“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

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

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

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

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.

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

fishingnet.

chapterfifty-two

GooseChasing

By the time Ingrid and Troyarrived at the jailhouse in

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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