Anne now believed, magically enough, that Mercy’s presence had dispelled the decade’s curse, and in Anne’s eyes Mercy had indeed cast off the ghosts bedeviling the Putnam home—and quite possibly the entire parish. Now Anne saw Samuel Parris as just a man with a family and a desire to do right and good in the parish. The Devils—if there were any in the parish—were those who stood against their minister, just as her father and mother had said so often in conversation, and to which Mercy agreed.

For Anne, Mercy proved a godsend. Mercy truly loved Anne, who’d never felt anything approaching unconditional love or even simple affection from anyone, including her parents. The relationship between Anne and her parents had the character of a deathwatch even now after nine years.

Besides, Mercy told fortunes by the sieve and scissors—a proven method. She also told the future by flames on a log, ripples on water, tealeaves even. Mercy knew all about the planets, stars, stones, and plants. She knew something of poisons too. She knew the magical properties needed to make a person fall sick or come well and heal, and she claimed to know how to bake a witch pie.

Again in the middle of the night, the children were awakened by Anne Putnam Senior’s night terrors, or rather the result of these—screams and loud argument. Mercy lifted the trap to hear the details. From below, Anne’s mother shouted, “I’m only one person! A woman at that! What can I do? It’s nothing I can manage alone! Haunt Thom! Strike Thom! Bite and pinch and tear at Thomas as ya do me! Wake him with hot coals and bloody pins and needles!”

Mercy, seeing that Anne had awakened and returned to her bed to sleep alone, asked, “How come these ghosts never go after your father?”

“Never,” mumbled Anne. “He’s blind and deaf to ’em.”

“Afraid of him are they?”

“No, he’s got no eyes for spirits.”

“No eyes for ghosts?”

“Like most men, blind to the Invisible World all round us.”

Every child of Salem Village had the notions of the Invisible World with all its punishments drilled into them.

“You sayin’ it’s a woman’s lot to be haunted?”

“Women being more open to invisible creatures, yes.”

“Women and children like you, you mean?”

“Yeah, women and children.”

“Why do you s’pose it’s so?”

“Dunno.”

“I could ask Goode or Tituba to do some magic that’d stop the curse on your family forever, Anne, if you wish me to.”

“You can?”

“I could.”

“You think it’d stop my mother’s being haunted?”

“Depends on how strong the curse is.”

Anne sat considering this for several silent moments.

Mercy climbed in beside her and took her hand in hers. “You know on dark nights when there’s no moon, that’s when Goode gets past the sheriff and the curfew.”

“Yes? And?”

“And she goes to somewhere in the woods.”

“Woods?”

“Swampscott, it’s called. It’s where she meets with the others.”

“Others?

“Other witches, and together—well together, their magic is stronger. Tituba has met with Goode out at the swamps in the forests.”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Met with Goode in the forest.”

“Me and Betty have, yes.”

“Betty Paris? When?”

“The last night I was in my uncle’s house. Tituba woke us and guided us.”

“Tituba? Did she fly you and Betty on a broomstick?”

Mercy laughed. “No! We walked, but I saw a black wolf following us.”

“A wolf?”

“A wolf who turned into a man, and we all knew a man wearing the black robes who watched everything.”

“A minister? A werewolf?”

“A minister with cloven feet, and he slobbered and drooled.”

“God, a wolf man. W-What’d you do?”

“Danced with ‘im.”

“No!”

“Round a fire, it was.”

“No! A bonfire?” Anne’s eyes went wide. “I’d love it!”

“Was only a small fire. We didn’t want to draw attention.”

“Then Tituba is a witch like Goode?”

“She’s a good witch.”

“But Goode is not?”

“Depends whether she likes you or not.”

Anne scratched her head over this.

Another horrid scream came from Mrs. Putnam’s bedroom. Anne shivered and confessed that since Mercy’s arrival, she’d had no visits from her dead siblings.

“I’m a charm, a good luck charm,” Mercy told her. “Tituba made me a charm.”

Another scream from below and Anne clutched to her newfound charm.

“Easy, my little doll,” said Mercy. “Why’re you so afraid? Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

Mercy tightened her hold on Anne. For whatever reason, Mercy pictured the old crone, Goode going about her day in Salem Village. It’d always been Goode’s habit to go door-to-door, begging scraps, begging for tatters of cloth, collecting bottles, tin cups, bells. She liked bells and jars. Mercy would see her at the seashore, collecting shells, pebbles, and periwinkles for periwinkle stew. Mercy always saw little Dorcas with her mother, and she imagined what it must be like to be the child of a witch. Yet it made no sense; if Goode were such a powerful cunning woman, then why couldn’t she fix her own daughter’s addled brain?

And why wasn’t the old woman’s curse on Parris’ house working?

And why’s it seem I have more influence over Anne and her family than that so-called witch, who can’t even regain her own daughter from Uncle Samuel?

In the short span of time that Mercy had been under the Putnam roof, she’d been frightened countless times by the night screams. Shortly after her first night the father attempted to corner her in some private place, obviously wanting to put his hands on her. This followed by Anne’s mother’s beating her with the tattling rod when she dared complain. Add to it all how little Anne now hung on her to forget her dead brothers and sisters, and the entire mix boggled the mind.

Mercy lifted Anne’s frightened little face, tilting it to her lips, and she kissed the younger girl full on the mouth, her tongue exploring. Anne responded to the sensations that Mercy imagined the younger girl had never experienced. Anne hungrily returned the kiss. Mercy then moved Anne’s mouth to her bared breast, offering a nipple, which young Anne grasped with hungry lips and smothered with lapping tongue. “Right . . . right . . . good, my little doll, my little darling. You do this, and I’ll ask Goode to lift the curse on your home.”

Anne’s warm breath and small mouth filled Mercy’s nightshirt, and the two fell asleep in one another’s arms.

Chapter Eight

At the Nurse home the following morning

Twenty-four-year-old Serena Nurse awoke that same morning with the unhappy condition of still living under her father’s roof. Her three sisters, and all of her older brothers had all married and were raising children. They each busied themselves in building their own homes and families while Serena was becoming increasingly referred to as the unfortunate one—a role fate had placed her in since birth, or so it went. A huge invisible S hung about her next like an albatross—S for spinster. She might just as well stitch the word to her dresses and shirts.

Her mother had said only last night, “Your sister Becca’s to have another child.”

Becca’s third. Serena had replied with a pasted on smile: “Sweet, smart, beautiful Becca, how wonderful for her and John Tarbell.”

Becca was the eldest sister, named after her mother, Rebecca. Mary, the younger sister, already had three boys, Elizabeth a boy and a girl. Nephews and nieces to spare for Auntie Serena.

Dressed in a shift-dress and her brother’s white shirt tucked and covered by a cowhide vest, Serena frowned at her reflection and angrily pulled a brush through her hair as if the effort might push unwanted thoughts away. She hoped Mother might later braid her hair, but for now, she tidied it into a ponytail. She was so very tired of having it up in a severe bun in the style of her mother and grandmother; she was even more tired of wearing plain and colorless, baggy clothing—gray, beige, and brown items that hung like a sheet from thick, ugly shoulder straps as big as a harness. To make matters worse, people expected her to then cover this with an equally ugly apron—a symbol of oppression so far as she was concerned. The damnable apron and bonnet. In general, women had one purpose in life—to learn the trade of the good and dutiful wife—the Goodwife or slave to a Goodman! She must conform—as assuredly as all men must learn the frugal and sensible management of resources or husbandry.

She said to her reflection, “Serenity Nurse—despite your name—you’ll never be treated like someone’s herd animal.” She would never be a resource in that sense, but most good men in their society thought of and treated their wives and children as chattel, and their maid servants had it even worse.

She picked up an awful gingham bonnet that her father always pestered her to wear. She flung it across the room. Finished primping, she stepped away from the mirror and out of her bedroom and into the great room to find it empty. Unusual. Where is everyone, she wondered. “Mother? Father?”

No answer.

Stillness. The house felt heavy with emptiness.

The night before they’d celebrated with ale and melon when Mother Nurse had found the strength to climb from her months’ long sickbed. She’d been ill the entire winter. Mrs. Rebecca Nurse had aged over those months, losing much of her hair, her sight weakening, the old strength in her voice and body now a ghost of itself—until last night. Last night she’d spent several hours at the hearth here in the great room in grand spirits and having a dram of spirits as well.