“I should hope you gentlemen will take all due precaution in such a matter, sir.”

“You are, of course, welcomed to join us.”

Jeremy was surprised by this as his was the single dissenting voice save for Higginson.

“Your input is important to us, right Mr. Corwin?” Hathorne nudged Corwin, making the other man spill his current drink.

Corwin burped and said, “Yes, yes, of course.”

Jeremy nodded. “If there’s the promise of more brandy, yes, count me in.”

Corwin raised his glass to this. “You may count on that much.”

Jeremy walked out into the unfriendly rain, imagining a far worse storm to come unless cooler hearts and calmer heads prevailed. He hoped it would end with the public disgrace and possible hangings of only one, and perhaps two so-called witches. Human nature dictated the men in charge must throw some red meat to the wolves when public outcry made it no longer tenable to do otherwise. It might well already be inevitable— this inhospitable time for country hags.

Sarah Goode seemed certain to be fitted for a noose, and this Osborne woman might follow suit, and if Tituba were not careful, a third noose might be hers. As to this Bridgette Bishop, Jeremy knew little of her save the parish gossip. Since her husband’s death, she’d stop going to the village meetinghouse, and rather than sell the Inn, she chose to run it herself, not even hiring a man to run things in her absence, save for a bartender on occasion. Most of the time, she tended bar, and this did not set well with the community either, and when someone upset her with such petty squabbles as why she’s standing bar, she pulled out a nasty club and attacked—for which she’d been arrested on occasion and fined.

Jeremy weighed up all that had happened in the last few days, and he feared far too much was swaying in Reverend Samuel Parris’ favor. Jeremy headed back to the parsonage house, tired, feeling somewhat ashamed of his part in all of this churning up of witchcraft in Salem Village—as every Puritan had a hand in it, after all, one way or another. He felt a pang of sincere sympathy for Tituba and pictured her lashed to a chair and interrogated, hardly understanding the finer points of Puritan theology or the laws of these grim white men. In fact, Jeremiah Wakely felt as if he had himself just undergone an ordeal tonight, a trial by fire. As Increase Mather had once told him, “A man does not know what he believes until he sees what he does and says in a moment of crisis, and only then does he know his own heart for better or worse.”

Jeremy wondered what Serena would think of him at this moment, had she been present in that interrogation room. He wondered too what she might be doing tonight, at this moment, and if she might not be thinking of him, perhaps fearful, perhaps tearful. All he knew for certain at the moment was that he wanted to be with her.

Going on through the deepening fog, Jeremy wondered how long he had to uncover any further information on Parris when heard a sloshing, sucking pair of riding boots to his left. In an instant, he saw a man fast approaching with something in his hand, possibly a poker or other weapon. Could it be that Parris had sent an assassin in his wake?

Jeremy caught sight of the stranger in black cloak and hat out the corner of his eye. He whirled and set his feet in a slippery puddle; not the best of footing for the attack he expected, when he recognized Reverend Higginson’s man. The coachman who’d helped Higginson in and out of Corwin’s.

“Be not frightened, Mr. Wakely,” said the man holding not a poker but a coach whip. “Please follow me.” The coachman rushed ahead of Jeremy, both men searching the fog for anyone who might follow. Jeremy shadowed the other man’s lead through a series of muddy labyrinths until one ended back of Proctor’s Mill with the door of Higginson’s coach looking like a gaping, black pit. From a draped portal, the old man waved and whispered, “Hurry, hurry!” Jeremy quickly obeyed, disappearing from the foggy night.

Once Jeremy dropped into the cramped seat across from Higginson, the old man said, “From all accounts you’ve failed and failed miserably, Wakely.”

“No, no sir! I’ve sent several dispatches back to Mather, and he must see the madness of this man and that Parris must be stripped of his duties without hesitation.”

“I’ve not heard anything of the sort from Mather.” He looked puzzled.

“But you will, sir, you will. I’ve sent him a copy of one of Parris’ sermons only recently, and the language is staggering—”

“Staggering?”

“Astonishingly vile, sir. I’ve also forwarded extensive notes. And I plan to report on his performing a parlor trick and calling it an exorcism.”

“I must say you stood your ground with Parris and those dotes at Corwin’s, Mr. Wakely, but I fear no word from Mather in all this time as to your progress . . . well it’s a concern for an old man.”

“I assure you that a great deal of progress had been made, sir.”

“I apologize for not having met you on your first night at Watch Hill; it could not be prevented. I am afraid my health rules me.”

“You look fit tonight, Reverend.”

“And you are a consummate liar for one so young; you will make a great barrister and magistrate some day.” The old man cast his eyes to the floor of the enclosed buggy, the sound of the rain pelting over their heads. “I fear the course that Parris has chosen to follow in this, his latest scheme—involving children and spirits and witches and talk of condemning George Burroughs.”

“They’re meeting again tomorrow night to discuss it further.”

“Ah . . . I see and no one bothered to invite me.”

“Hathorne asked that I be on hand, just after you left.”

“Meet with them, Jeremy, and fight for reason.”

“Yes, sir, but I need you to be on hand, too.”

“You need Cotton Mather. No, you need Increase Mather. Neither of whom are likely to be on hand.”

“And so I need you the more.”

“Jeremiah Wakely, son of a dish-turner, I fear the law in Salem is being twisted to suit plans and schemes beyond anything I suspected before.”

“This work may need a dish-turner,” Jeremy joked.

The old man smiled briefly at this but then said, “I fear the lot of them—save for Hale. Noyes is a fine example—so damned willing to believe the worst that he will make magic and witchcraft his watchword to raise a standard against spirits of the Invisible World who’ve broken through and into ours at this placed named for peace.”

“Jerusalem,” said Jeremy.

“Aye, Salem”

“For some men, peace is not enough.”

“Nor reason a worthwhile cause.”

Jeremy asked Higginson to do his utmost to be on hand for the next go round with Parris and the magistrates, and Higginson promised to do his best to be there. Jeremy then bid him adieu, and he slipped from the carriage as quickly and as quietly as he had entered. In a moment, he continued on alone for his temporary lodgings, somewhat apprehensive of the kind of welcome he might receive from Sam Parris.

Chapter Twenty

The following evening in the village

After Jeremiah Wakely’s surprise rendezvous with Reverend Higginson, he’d spent a restless night filled as it was with fears, misgivings, doubts, and forebodings—not only due to what was being said behind closed doors here in the village, but due to the nonstop suffering, blood-curdling screams, and pained howls emanating from Betty Parris and Mary Wolcott. It came as sound of an animal kennel from behind that closed door. Parris found himself far too busy doling out medicine and encouragement to Betty in particular to get into any confrontation with Jeremy.

The adults in the parsonage home found themselves helpless to release Betty from her torments. Each time she came out of the catatonic state, she found only more terrors and beasts plaguing her—coming in at her eyes, ears, mouth, and below the covers. If they were hallucinations created of a fevered mind, they were convincing ones. Convincing not only to Betty who obviously saw these invisible phantasms attacking her, but convincing to her father and mother, to Mary Wolcott, to the doctors, and even to Jeremy. And to Jeremy’s surprise, these invisible forces brought about a genuine horror in Samuel Parris’ eyes. If Parris had orchestrated this grim business, perhaps he was having second thoughts now; perhaps he felt like a child dickering with fortunetelling and the occult only to have a nocturnal portal opened that he could not himself close. A portal through which every sort of spectral creature burst forth. And little wonder that little Betty Parris chose a catatonic state to the attacks.

To his credit, Parris did show a heartfelt, sincere love of his afflicted Betty, while Mary, equally ill now and lying nearby, went without the constant care of the daughter. Mary Wolcott got their attention, however, when she was discovered mysteriously gone. A search of the house turned up nothing. It was as if she’d been quietly pulled into the portal that Parris had dared kick open.

As Jeremy had become something of a member of the family, he’d thrown himself into the search for Mary, and at one point, he’d found himself alone in Samuel Parris’ room, a room off-limits to all but the invited. He’d found no Mary cringing below the bed, in a corner, below a bed, behind a closet door. However, he couldn’t help noticing loose pages lying over his master’s cramped writing desk – another sermon yet to be spoken. Such a document must reveal what Parris was thinking now, and it could prove helpful.

Jeremy scanned it, and what he found, he could not believe. It proved to his mind that this man was not only orchestrating and manipulating Salem Village into a witch hunt, but that he had personally decided who would next be arrested and dragged into his church to be put through the ordeal of excommunication. The name made Jeremy shudder and gasp—Rebecca Nurse.