“’Tis no rumor,” Elizabeth said brightly. “It will be done. We shall own land on both sides of the Wooleston River. The tract even extends into Salem Village where it abuts Ronald’s village lots.”

“But the Putnams had the intention to buy the land,” Mercy said indignantly. “It is important for them. They need access to the water for their endeavors, particularly their iron works. Their only problem is the proper funds, for which they must wait for the next harvest. They shall be very angry if you persevere, and they will try to stop the sale.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I have the money now,” she said. “I want the land because we intend to build a new house to enable us to take in more orphans.” Elizabeth’s face brightened with excitement and her eyes sparkled. “Daniel Andrew has agreed to design and build the house. It’s to be a grand house of brick like those of London town.”

Mercy could not believe what she was hearing. Elizabeth’s pride and covetousness knew no bounds. Mercy swallowed another mouthful of cider with difficulty. “Do you know that Daniel Andrew is married to Sarah Porter?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth said. “Before Ronald left we entertained them both.”

“How, may I ask, do you have access to such vast sums of money?”

“With the demands of the war, Ronald’s firm has been doing exceptionally well.”

“Profiteering from the misfortune of others,” Mercy stated sententiously.

“Ronald prefers to say that he is providing sorely needed matériel.”

Mercy stared for a moment into Elizabeth’s bright green eyes. She was doubly appalled that Elizabeth seemed to have no conception of her transgression. In fact, Elizabeth brazenly smiled and returned Mercy’s gaze, sipping her cider contentedly.

“I’d heard the rumor,” Mercy said finally. “I couldn’t believe it. Such business is so unnatural with your husband away. It is not in God’s plan, and I must warn you: people in the village are talking. They are saying that you are overstepping your station as a farmer’s daughter.”

“I shall always be my father’s daughter,” Elizabeth said. “But now I am also a merchant’s wife.”

Before Mercy could respond, a tremendous crash and a multitude of screams burst forth from the kitchen. The sudden noise brought both Mercy and Elizabeth to their feet in terror. With Mercy directly behind her, Elizabeth rushed from the parlor into the kitchen, snapping up the musket en route.

The trestle table had been tipped on its side. Wooden bowls empty of their stew were strewn across the floor. Ann Putnam was lurching fitfully about the room as she tore at her clothes and collided with furniture while screaming she was being bitten. The other children had shrunk back against the wall in shocked horror.

Dispensing with the musket, Elizabeth rushed to Ann and grasped her shoulders. “What is it, girl?” Elizabeth demanded. “What is biting you?”

For a moment Ann remained still. Her eyes had assumed a glazed, faraway appearance.

“Ann!” Elizabeth called. “What is wrong with you?”

Ann’s mouth opened and her tongue slowly protruded to its very limit while her body began chorea-like movements. Elizabeth tried to restrain her, but Ann fought with surprising strength. Then Ann clutched at her throat.

“I can’t breathe,” Ann rasped. “Help me! I’m being choked.”

“Let us get her upstairs,” Elizabeth shouted at Mercy. Together they half-carried and half-dragged the writhing girl up to the second floor. No sooner had they got her onto the bed than she began to convulse.

“She’s having a horrid fit,” Mercy said. “I think it best I fetch my husband, the doctor.”

“Please!” Elizabeth said. “Hurry!”

Mercy shook her head in dismay as she descended the stairs. Having recovered from her initial shock, the calamity didn’t surprise her, and she knew its cause. It was the sorcery. Elizabeth had invited the devil into her house.

Tuesday, July 12, 1692

Ronald Stewart opened the cabin door and stepped out onto the deck and into the cool morning air, dressed in his best knee breeches, his scarlet waistcoat with starched ruffles, and even his powdered peruke. He was beside himself with excitement. They had just rounded Naugus Point, off Marblehead, and had set a course directly for Salem Town. Already over the bow he could see Turner’s Wharf.

“Let us not furl the sails until the last moment,” Ronald called to Captain Allen standing behind the helm. “I want the town folk to see the speed of this vessel.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Captain Allen shouted back.

Ronald leaned his sizable and muscled frame on the gunwale as the sea breeze caressed his tanned broad face and tousled his sandy blond hair peeking from beneath his wig. Happily he gazed at the familiar landmarks. It was good to be coming home, although it was not without a degree of anxiety. He’d been gone for almost six months, two months longer than anticipated, and he’d not received a single letter. Sweden had seemed to be the end of the earth. He wondered if Elizabeth had received any of the letters he’d sent. There’d been no guarantee of their delivery since he’d not found any vessel going directly to the Colony, or even to London for that matter.

“’Tis time,” Captain Allen shouted as they approached land. “Otherwise this craft will mount the pier and not stop till Essex Street.”

“Give the orders,” Ronald shouted.

The men surged aloft at the captain’s command and within minutes the vast stretches of canvas were pulled in and lashed to the spars. The ship slowed. At a point a hundred yards from the wharf, Ronald noticed a small boat being launched and quickly oared in their direction. As it approached Ronald recognized his clerk, Chester Procter, standing in the bow. Ronald waved merrily, but Chester did not return the gesture.

“Greetings,” Ronald shouted when the boat was within earshot. Chester remained silent. As the small boat drew alongside, Ronald could see his clerk’s thin face was drawn and his mouth set. Ronald’s excitement was tempered by concern. Something was wrong.

“I think it best you come ashore immediately,” Chester called up to Ronald once the skiff was made secure against the larger craft.

A ladder was extended into the small boat, and after a quick consultation with the captain, Ronald climbed down. Once he was sitting in the stern, they shoved off. Chester sat next to him. The two seamen amidships lent their backs to their oars.

“What is wrong?” Ronald asked, afraid to hear the answer. His worst fear was an Indian raid on his home. When he’d left he knew they’d been as close as Andover.

“There have been terrible happenings in Salem,” Chester said. He was overwrought and plainly nervous. “Providence has brought you home barely in time. We have been much disquieted and distressed that you would arrive too late.”

“It is my children?” Ronald asked with alarm.

“Nay, it is not your children,” Chester said. “They are safe and hale. It is your goodwife, Elizabeth. She has been in prison for many months.”

“On what charge?” Ronald demanded.

“Witchcraft,” Chester said. “I beg your pardon for being the bearer of such ill tidings. She has been convicted by a special court and there is a warrant for her execution the Tuesday next.”

“This is absurd,” Ronald growled. “My wife is no witch!”

“That I know,” Chester said. “But there has been a witchcraft frenzy in the town since February, with almost one hundred people accused. There has already been one execution. Bridget Bishop on June tenth.”

“I knew her,” Ronald admitted. “She was a woman of a fiery temperament. She ran the unlicensed tavern out on Ipswich Road. But a witch? It seems most improbable. What has happened to cause such fear of malefic will?”