“What do you mean, ‘clean’ drugs?” Kim asked.

“Drugs that have little or no side effects.”

“All drugs have side effects,” Kim said.

“I suppose that’s true,” Edward said. “But some side effects are quite minor and certainly an acceptable risk in relation to the potential benefits.”

“I guess that’s the crux of the philosophical argument,” Kim said.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Edward said. “I remembered those two books I’d promised to loan you.” He reached in the backseat, grabbed the books, and slipped them into Kim’s lap. Kim leafed through them, jokingly complaining that there weren’t any pictures. Edward laughed.

“I tried to look up your ancestor in the one on the Salem witch trials,” Edward said. “But there is no Elizabeth Stewart in the index. Are you sure she was executed? Those authors did extensive research.”

“As far as I know,” Kim said. She glanced in the index of Salem Possessed. It went from “spectral testimony” to “Stoughton, William.” There was no Stewart at all.

After a half-hour drive they entered Salem. Their route took them past the Witch House. Edward’s interest was immediately aroused, and he pulled to the side of the road.

“What’s that place?” he asked.

“It’s called the Witch House,” Kim said. “It’s one of the prime tourist attractions in the area.”

“Is it truly seventeenth century?” Edward asked as he stared at the old building. “Or is it Disneyland-like recreation?”

“It’s authentic,” Kim said. “It’s also on its original site. There is another seventeenth-century house nearby at the Peabody-Essex Institute, but it had been moved from another location.”

“Cool,” Edward said. The building had a storybook appeal. He was enthralled by the way the second story protruded from the first, and by the diamond-shaped panes of glass.

“Calling it cool dates you.” Kim laughed. “Call it ‘awesome.’”

“OK,” Edward said agreeably. “It’s awesome.”

“It’s also surprisingly similar to the old house I’m going to show you on the Stewart family compound,” Kim said. “But it’s technically not a witch house since no witch lived in it. It was the home of Jonathan Corwin. He was one of the magistrates who conducted some of the preliminary hearings.”

“I remember the name from Salem Possessed,” Edward said. “It certainly brings history to life when you see an actual site.” Then he turned to Kim. “How far is the Stewart compound from here?”

“Not far,” Kim said. “Maybe ten minutes tops.”

“Did you have breakfast this morning?”

“Just some juice and fruit,” Kim said.

“How about stopping for coffee and a donut?” Edward asked.

“Sounds good,” Kim said.

Since it was still early and the bulk of the tourists had yet to arrive, they had no trouble finding parking near the Salem Commons. Just across the street was a coffee shop. They got coffee-to-go and strolled around the center of town, peeking into the Witch Museum and a few of the other tourist attractions. As they walked down the pedestrian mall on Essex Street, they noticed how many shops and pushcarts were selling witch-related souvenirs.

“The witch trials spawned an entire cottage industry,” Edward commented. “I’m afraid it’s a little tacky.”

“It does trivialize the ordeal,” Kim said. “But it also stands as testament to the affair’s appeal. Everybody finds it so fascinating.”

Wandering into the National Park Service Visitor Center, Kim found herself confronted by a virtual library of books and pamphlets on the trials. “I had no idea there was so much literature available,” she said. After a few moments of browsing, she purchased several books. She explained to Edward that once she got interested in something she usually went overboard.

Returning to the car, they drove out North Street, passing the Witch House again, and turned right on Orne Road. As they passed the Greenlawn Cemetery Kim mentioned that it had once been part of the Stewarts’ land.

Kim directed Edward to turn right onto a dirt road. As they bumped along, Edward had to fight with the steering wheel. It was impossible to miss all the potholes.

“Are you sure we’re on the right road?” Edward asked.

“Absolutely,” Kim assured him.

After a few twists and turns they approached an impressive wrought-iron gate. The gate was suspended from massive stanchions constructed of rough-hewn granite blocks. A high iron fence topped with sharpened spikes disappeared into the dense forest on either side of the road.

“Is this it?” Edward questioned.

“This is it,” Kim answered as she alighted from the car.

“Rather imposing,” Edward called as Kim struggled to open the heavy padlock securing the gate. “And not that inviting.”

“It was an affectation of the age,” Kim yelled back. “People with means wanted to project a baronial image.” After removing the padlock, she pushed the gate open. Its hinges creaked loudly.

Kim returned to the car and they drove through the gate. After a few more twists and turns the road opened up to a large grassy field. Edward stopped again.

“Good Lord,” Edward said. “Now I understand why you said baronial.”

Dominating the enormous field was a huge, multistoried stone house complete with turrets, crenellations, and machicolations. The roof was slate and pockmarked with fanciful decorations and finial-topped dormers. Chimneys sprouted like weeds from all parts of the structure.

“An interesting mélange of styles,” Edward said. “It's part medieval castle, part Tudor manor, part French château. It's amazing.”

“The family has always called it the castle,” Kim explained.

“I can see why,” Edward said. “When you described it as a huge, drafty old place, I had no idea it was going to look like this. This belongs down in Newport with the Breakers.”

“The North Shore of Boston still has quite a few of these huge old houses,” Kim said. “Of course some of them have been torn down. Others have been recycled into condos, but that market is flat at the moment. You can understand why it’s a white elephant for me and my brother.”

“Where’s the old house?” Edward asked.

Kim pointed to the right. In the distance Edward could just make out a dark-brown building nestled in a stand of birch trees.

“What’s that stone building to the left?” Edward asked.

“That was once a mill,” Kim said. “But it was turned into stables a couple of hundred years ago.”

Edward laughed. “It’s amazing you can take all this in stride,” he said. “In my mind anything over fifty years old is a relic.”

Edward started driving again but quickly stopped. He’d come abreast of a fieldstone wall that was mostly overgrown with weeds.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the wall.

“That’s the old family burial ground,” Kim said.

“No fooling,” Edward said. “Can we look?”

“Of course,” Kim said.

They got out of the car and climbed over the wall. They couldn’t use the entrance since it was blocked by a dense thicket of blackberry bushes.

“Looks like a lot of the headstones are broken,” Edward said. “And fairly recently.” He picked up a broken piece of marble.

“Vandalism,” Kim said. “There’s not much we can do about it since the place is vacant.”

“It’s a shame,” Edward said. He looked at the date. It was 1843. The name was Nathaniel Stewart.

“The family used this plot until the middle of the last century,” Kim explained.

Slowly they walked back through the overgrown graveyard. The farther they went the more simple the headstones became and the older they got.

“Is Ronald Stewart in here?” Edward asked.

“He is,” Kim said. She led him over to a simple round headstone with a skull and crossed bones done in low relief. On it was written: Here lyes buried y body of Ronald Stewart y son of John and Lydia Stewart, aged 81 years Dec’d. oct. y 1. 1734.

“Eighty-one,” Edward remarked. “Healthy guy. To reach such a ripe old age he must have been smart enough to stay away from doctors. In those days with all the reliance on bloodletting and a primitive pharmacopoeia, doctors were as lethal as most of the illnesses.”