“I see. And you hope to have a word with one or more of the accused before seeing Mather?”

“You have me, yes.”

As they neared the jailhouse, they saw a strange sight—a lady dressed in beautiful clothes, a manservant with her, doling out bread and biscuits to those housed in the jail.

A crowd outside the jail had gathered around the lady, whose hat alone, might feed all the prisoners if cashed in for its florals. Some in the crowd jeered the lady’s Christian gesture of feeding those accused inside the jail, while others cheered her on; however, the nays began to drown out the yeas. The biscuits and breads at an end, the lady and her man returned to a wide carriage draped in black, where the beautifully clothed woman climbed inside and disappeared behind the drapes. The man lifted the stepstool, stowed it, and climbed into the driver’s seat. In a moment, the carriage was parting the crowd.

“Who is she, I wonder?” asked Serena.

“Who is she?” asked Jeremy a bit too sarcastically. “I mean, the Governor’s wife.”

“She shows mercy on the imprisoned. Shows a kind heart.”

“Even toward those accused of witchcraft.”

“A true gentle woman, caring. How much more we need of such people.”

“Wish her husband was as caring. I’ve had no luck seeing him either.”

“You’ve tried to see Governor Phipps?”

“It’s possibly why Mather is upset. I mean if he learned of my going over his head.”

The crowd about the jail dissipated. Jeremy and Serena walked closely by the barred windows, arms outstretched, men, women, and children shouting for a crust of bread, a two pence to pay their jailer, any number of other wishes. One woman called out to ask Serena to post a letter. This while Jeremy studied the grimy faces and disheveled heads behind the bars and in shadow, searching for anyone recognizable. There were thieves, possible cutthroats locked away here with those accused of witchcraft from not only Salem but other towns around Salem as well. It seemed every town touching on Salem had gotten the contagion, and so the number of warrants followed by arrests had increased exponentially.

Serena stepped close to accept the letter the one prisoner extended through the bars, seeing the address had been written on the folded note. As she did so, Jeremy gasped on seeing back of this woman the eyes of Tituba Indian.

Jeremy called out to her. “Is it you, Tituba?”

The jailer, a man in tatters himself who might be more suited inside rather than outside the bars, came around the corner, his arms filled with firewood. “Here now! No audience with the accused, sir, not without paying me first.”

“Just a word, sir.”

“Not without you pay first!”

“Damn it, man, I am an officer of the court!” Jeremy looked to Serena for one of the silver coins, but Serena, seeing Tituba, rushed off ahead of Jeremy, who pursued her.

“I just want a word with her, Serena.”

“It’s not our coin, Jeremy.”

“But Mrs. Fahey said whatever might be left over is our payment.”

“Yes, so she might give us payment for her own rent, don’t you see?”

“That woman’s secrets could help me tonight when I see Mather, if I can get her to talk.”

“You’re not even sure you will see Mather tonight. He has dangled you out this long!”

He took her firmly in hand, turning her to face him. Their eyes met. “Your grip, Jeremy. You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry. Ha, our first fight.”

“Disagreement,” she corrected, “and sad that it has to be over this?”

She rushed on, going for the marketplace, the wicker baskets in each hand. She’d tucked the letter from the prisoner in a pocket in her dress.

“If that jailer had seen you take that letter, he’d’ve fined you. Would you’ve paid him?”

“These confounded jailers are given too much power,” she countered.

“You’ll get no argument from me on that. Now, would you’ve paid him from the money in hand?”

“That’s different. This poor woman locked away. All she wants is to send word to a loved one. It’s evil to think she must pay her jailer to send a note.”

“It’s the law. How else is the man paid but by those jailed—and those who take pity on them?”

“It’s a bad law, and you know it. It gives a jailer the same power over people as-as, well as a captain on a slave ship.”

“Hmmm . . . interesting comparison.”

“It’s true! There’s so much in our laws and customs that are so very unchristian and yet we call ourselves followers of Christ.”

They’d arrived at the marketplace, and Serena began to haggle with a man and a woman selling greens. Serena’s voice became part of the lively babble of the market. Soon, Serena had one basket filled, and still she had most of the money Mrs. Fahey had fronted them. In the next instant, Serena was talking with rough, foul-mouthed sailors who’d shouted down one another on her approach to get her business. She asked the price of a mackerel. She made them laugh as she haggled down the price.

But the entire time, Jeremy kept looking over his shoulder at the habits of the jailer, and he saw that Tituba Indian aka L’englesian, sent here from Salem for her terrible indiscretions stood at the window now, hands wrapped about the bars, staring back at Jeremiah Wakely and his bride.

Forget about the Barbados witch, one part of Jeremy’s brain said. Forget about all the sad, superstition-riddled accusations, ordeals, and court sessions going on in the courts there with Corwin and Hathorne at the helm. Make a life here in Boston with Serena; a life far from that damnable, dark, cursed village. Never go back there. First step in never going back, don’t talk to that Barbados witch.

“Whatever is on your mind, Jeremiah?” asked Serena, breaking his reverie.

He turned to see that she’d filled both baskets, and she held up two silver coins. “We can pay our rent now!”

“I was just giving thought to perhaps staying here in Boston.”

“Staying?”

“Finding gainful employment and living here, yes.”

She shook her head as if the gesture might empty her head of what he’d said. “I don’t think so, Jere.”

“Look around you, Serena. This is the modern world. Boston will one day rival London. This is where American civilization grows, not like . . . ”

“Not like Salem? Where squabbling and vileness thrive?”

“That place, the village in particular, it’s as if . . . as if its very roots are bloody and vile. Here we could flourish if I set up as a barrister.”

“And a fine one you’d make, Jere, but there’re people I love back in Salem, people I want to see again. You speak as if you never want to return for any reason, but we’re here only so as to help those we left behind.”

“I fear the place; I fear your ever going back there.”

“My home is there.”

“Your home may not be there ever again after this.”

“My father and brothers will not allow them to take our lands.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You can go back tomorrow or a year from now, but the place of your childhood—the face of it—has already changed to the degree you won’t recognize it or the people in it.”

“You were gone for ten years, yet you came back, and I had not changed.”

“But you have.”

“I have?’

“In the most beautiful sense, yes, but I fear that place in the last month has gone into a darkness from which it will never lift itself.”

She studied his face as if she he was right. Tears welled up, and she wiped them with a hanky.

They’d started back for their lodgings now, but Jeremy intentionally moved her along a path that would not take them by the jail again. “Forget about Salem; imagine us flourishing here in Boston.”

“Safe from superstitious minds? Liars and thieves?”

“Not entirely, of course, no, but—”

“And strangling notions of right and wrong?”

“Not entirely, no. But things here are better. You can’t argue that.”

“I can always argue. You forget how many brothers I have.”

“Serena.” He took hold of both her shoulders and turned her to face him, staring into her eyes. “I could make you happy here. In time, we could find a plot of land, build a house, have children.”

She nodded, still fighting back tears. “And wash our hands of Salem, eh?”

“It’s a temptation I am willing to give into, yes.”

“And what of the accused, those awaiting trial?”

“In time, this fire storm will pass. It’s tempest in a teapot.”

“You don’t believe that, now do you?”

“It will whistle and brew hot, but-but an end to it will come; just a matter of time.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” she conceded, “but I have to know that my parents, my brothers, my sisters—that they’re all right.”

“Write to them.” He shrugged. “I’m sure that with Goode’s execution, this entire ordeal will burn itself out like the crucible it is. I mean look how they’ve sent Tituba out of the fray. Parris could not see her hung.”

“Do you think it’s so?”

“It appears so.”

“Still, in any crucible, the circumstances subject people to forces that test them.”

“And often make them change, Serena, and we have a right to choose our destiny and make our own changes amid this . . . turmoil.”

She leaned into him as they continued, man and wife, toward Mrs. Fahey’s. “A place of our own,” she whispered in his ear. “Find a place of peace. Is it possible?”

“We will make it so.” Even as he said it, even as he felt her on his arm, even as others stared at the unfamiliar pair, even as Jeremy wanted to believe it himself, he desperately wanted to know the secrets held back by one Tituba L’englesian. In fact, he felt an irresistible urge to seek the Barbados woman out tonight, perhaps on his way to his meeting with Reverend Mather.