“Peaceful,” Ann Pudeator said.
“Real,” Alice said. “Like all of this is a dream, and that . . .”
“Is reality,” Martha Carrier whispered.
“You mean it’s happened to you?” Sarah Good asked.
Everyone but Em nodded.
“It hasn’t happened to you, Em?” Alice asked.
Em shook her head.
“I don’t know whether to feel sorry for you or . . .” John started.
“Jealous,” Sarah Wildes said. “I wake up smelling my thick, sweet jasmine patch, the one I had around my house in Salem Village. I feel so . . . safe, hopeful, at peace, in a way that I haven’t felt since . . .”
Sarah Wildes’ fingertips stroked her throat. Sarah Good held out her arms, and the women hugged.
“I’ve had this dream every night this week,” Giles said. Surprised that he’d spoken in the crowd, they turned to stare at him. “I was on Salem Farm. Martha and I had just been married. I was lying in bed thinking that I was finally safe. The kids had taken over the farm. Martha was there. I mean, I knew about George, but he was gone, in Maine, out of the way. And . . . I knew she’d take care of me to the end.”
“I would have,” Em said. “I will.”
“In that moment, I knew I didn’t have to pretend any longer,” Giles said. “I could finally live out my years in peace. The feeling was more than safety . . .”
“Everything in its right place,” Elizabeth said. “At least for me. It’s like whatever happened in Salem Village has haunted me all this time, and, suddenly, it was gone, just gone.”
Elizabeth’s eyes welled with tears, and she stopped talking.
“Since we were hanged,” Margaret said.
“You are all having this experience,” Em said.
She looked from face to face. As her eyes turned to them, they nodded.
“You’re not?” Giles asked.
Em shook her head.
“But . . .” Em blushed and looked away.
“She doesn’t want to say that she wasn’t happy in Salem,” Giles said with a smile.
“I wasn’t happy, either, Em,” Sarah Good said. “I have so much more fun, every day, now, than I did in all the years I lived in Salem Village. I know it’s crazy, but I still miss it.”
Many of the witches nodded.
“Do you think that’s why Dorothy is here?” Em asked.
“Dorothy’s here?” Alice asked.
Alice’s face fell. Elizabeth wiped away a tear. Margaret hugged Sarah Good.
“How did she look?” Sam asked.
“Like a happy four-year-old,” Sarah said.
She looked at Em and Bridget. They nodded.
“Em?” Wilmot said.
Em turned to look at her.
“Why don’t you hold a séance?” Wilmot asked. “Find out who’s here and why. I mean, Alice told me about the demon you saw. Maybe this is just a happy memory for us or . . .”
“The demon is trying to trick us,” Ann Pudeator nodded. “Yes, that feels right to me.”
A few heads went up and down in a nod.
“We won’t know until . . .” Wilmot looked at Em.
“Will you do it, Em?” Sarah Good asked. “For me.”
“Not here,” Em said.
“When?” Sarah Good asked.
“Monday night,” Em said. “We need to finish up here. We’ll head back on Sunday night.”
“I can fly us to Boston,” Sarah Good said. “We can have the séance Sunday night.”
“We can finish what’s left by dark and drive home,” Sam said. “It’s only forty minutes or so, without traffic.”
“We could do it tonight,” Wilmot said.
“I don’t mind taking care of the canning next week,” Giles said.
“I can help you, Giles,” Bridget said. “I’m not doing anything next week.”
“I can help, too,” Alice said.
Em looked at the sad and desperate faces of her witch family. She gave an acquiescing nod.
“I need to talk to George,” Em said.
“I’ll do it, Em,” Giles said.
He touched her shoulder as he passed. Em widened her eyes to Sarah Wildes. She smiled.
“Wait up, Giles,” Sarah Wildes said.
Giles stopped walking and turned. Sarah Wildes tucked her elbow into his, and they went inside. With nothing left to say, they went back to working the field.
Em and George sat in the far back of the Chevy Suburban John Willard had checked out of the FBI motor pool. Em hadn’t said much since the event in the garden. Misjudging Em’s silence as her needing time to prepare for the séance, the witches had left her alone, which suited Em. She felt haunted by the familiar curse of being different from everyone else. George had taken one look at her and held her tight. He’d insisted they ride together in the back so that he could simply hold her hand, his gesture of connection to her.
Once at the Mystic Divine, there was no time to talk. The store had already closed, and the employees were finishing up the last details. Shonelle was standing at the door, waiting to be let out when they’d pulled up. She wanted to know what they were doing and if she could be involved. She followed Em around the store trying to convince her to let her stay. Once Shonelle realized they were holding a séance, she was furious that they wouldn’t do the same to help John Parker find the Salem Witches. Shonelle ranted and raved, giving credence to the idea that Benoni was, in fact, George’s son. In the end, Em promised to think through having a séance for John Parker. Shonelle would call Monday morning for Em’s answer.
“And it had better be ‘yes,’” the young woman said in the demanding voice of a child.
Smiling, Em hugged her and let her out the front door.
“Is that it?” Sam asked from the loft area upstairs.
“Yes,” Em said.
She locked the store’s front door and pulled down the shades to the sidewalk. Turning in place, she saw George standing behind her.
“You don’t have to do this,” George said.
Em lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
“I can do it,” George said. “Any of us can. You don’t . . .”
“I do,” Em said. “You know it has to be me.”
George held out his arms, and she walked into his hug.
“I hate to see you so blue,” George said in her ear.
“I’m all right,” Em said.
He kissed her neck.
“Are you dreaming of Salem Village?” Em asked in a low tone.
“I only ever dream of you,” George said. “You know that.”
“But . . .”
“I’ve dreamt of you in Salem Village and in Boston and on the island and in Europe and . . .”
“Recently,” Em said. “Like the others.”
He shook his head. She looked deep into his eyes to see if he was telling her the truth; he was. She gave him a soft nod. He kissed her nose and stepped back. They walked through the store together.
Em was powerful enough that she simply had to call in spirits to her. The ritual she was about to perform was for everyone watching. They needed to be present. They needed to be clear. They needed to be ready. Most of all, they needed not to block the action.
Em and George met the witches in the large room upstairs. Giles and Sam were in the process of setting up the large round table. Martha and Mary Ayer were waiting to set up the table. Flower child Sarah Wildes was holding one of her sage bundles.
“Are we ready?” Sarah Wildes asked.
Em gave her a curt nod. Sarah Wildes lit a bundle of sage made from last summer’s harvest. Sarah Wildes had used her magic to imbue this sage to enhance its capacity to clear negative energy. This particular bundle was charged with clarity. She waved the sage bundle a foot above Margaret’s head. The pungent smoke was to clear any darkness or negative energy.
“Clear and light,” Sarah Wildes said.
“Clear and light,” Margaret said.
Sarah Wildes ran the burning sage bundle around Margaret’s body. Margaret nodded and took a seat at the now-prepared large table. Sarah Wildes worked her way through everyone until she got to Em. Sarah Wildes hugged Em before giving her the sage stick. Em repeated the ritual for Sarah Wildes, before giving the sage back to Sarah Wildes, who ran the sage over Em.
“Clear and light,” the witches said in unison.
Sarah Wildes went to take a seat across from Em at the table. Em went to her seat in the middle of the table. She looked around the circle at the people who’d become her friends and her family. They were fifteen tonight, since Mary Eastey and Susannah Martin were in Pennsylvania.
“We are . . .” Em said.
“Clear and light,” they replied.
Em sat down. She took a white pillar candle from her pocket.
“Remember your psychic protection,” Em said. She looked at Giles, the least strong among them, and he nodded. “We don’t know what will come in.”
Em lit the candle.
“Please,” Em said.
The witches took out small white candles and placed them into the candleholder in front of them.
“We are . . .” Em said.
“Clear and light,” they repeated as they lit their candles.
“Lights,” Em said.
Rather than break the circle, Em clapped her hands, and the overhead lights shut off. Em waited until everyone’s eyes had adjusted to the candle-light.
“I call to all spirits and specters from Salem Village who have a direct connection to us and are living within our plane.”
She hadn’t gotten the first sentence out when a specter began to appear above the white pillar candle.
“Show yourself!” Em commanded.
The apparition solidified. The witches gasped and fell back against their chairs.
Chapter Nine
The apparition of Rebecca Nurse appeared in the center of the table. She was wearing the floor-length, dark cotton dress she was hanged in, complete with a white lace cap.
“Rebecca?” Em’s voice expressed her disbelief.
Rebecca Nurse was a kindly grandmother who had been hanged as a witch on July 19, 1692. Her son, Benjamin, had retrieved her body from their mass grave on the evening of her hanging. She was reburied by her family on the large Nurse estate. Em had always believed that she and the other two whose bodies had been retrieved by their families — George Jacobs and John Proctor — were at peace.
“Goodwife Corey!” the ghost scolded Em. “What are you wearing?”
“I . . .” Em looked down at her long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. “Uh . . .”
George covered Em’s hand with his own to encourage her.
“Why, Reverend Burroughs!” Rebecca exclaimed. “What of your wife? Have you no shame?”
“Nice to see you, Rebecca,” George said with a smile. “You’re as lovely as ever.”
Rebecca gave him a stern scowl before looking around the room.
“I don’t think she can hear you,” Em said in a low tone to George. He nodded.
“Why . . . you’re all here,” Rebecca said under her breath. Seeing Sarah Good and Sarah Wildes, she brightened. “My favorite Sarahs!”
“How’s our favorite Rebecca?” Sarah Good asked as Sarah Wildes said, “Blessings be to you, Rebecca!”
“And Elizabeth?” Rebecca turned back to Em. “She was hanged just before me.”
Elizabeth waved a hand over her bright blond hair and clear blue eyes.
“You missed her,” Em said.
She pointed to Elizabeth, and Rebecca spun around to her old friend, now returned to her brown hair and non-descript hazel eyes.
“There you are, dear!” Rebecca said. Rebecca knelt down to Elizabeth. “How are you feeling?”
Elizabeth shot Em a panicked look. Em dropped her head and rolled her shoulders forward in resignation. Elizabeth nodded. An intensely private person, Elizabeth had found the entire process, from accusation to hanging, deeply humiliating. After a particularly brutal “examination,” she had fallen into a debilitating depression, which Elizabeth found all the more humiliating.
“I am very well, dear,” Elizabeth said. “How are you?”
“Of course, my dear. Lovely to see you, too!” Rebecca said. She looked around the circle. “Where are my sisters? Where are Sarah and Mary?”
“Mary is living in . . . uh . . . in the south,” Em said. She added enough magic to her words to penetrate Rebecca’s deaf ears.
“Not with that horrible William Penn and those heathen Quakers?” Rebecca looked aghast. “Not my Mary.”
“No, you’re right,” Em smiled. “Mary would never live with the Quakers.”
“That’s right,” Rebecca said.
“Mary will be heartbroken to hear that she missed you,” Em said.
“Breaks my heart to have missed her.” Rebecca put her hand over her heart for a moment, before her countenance became angry. “And Sarah Cloyce? Where is my sister?”
“She was released,” Em said. “I haven’t seen her since 1693.”
“Sarah wasn’t hanged?” Rebecca asked.
“No,” Em said. “Your family helped to get the trials stopped. They fought hard.”
Rebecca beamed with pride.
“They are good children,” Rebecca said.
“Rebecca, dear, do you have any idea what year it is?” Sarah Wildes asked in a loud voice.
Rebecca blinked at Em, so Em pointed to Sarah Wildes. Rebecca spun around to look at Sarah Wildes. Em glanced at her, and Sarah Wildes shrugged.
“I wish you wouldn’t mumble.” Rebecca raised her eyebrows at Sarah Wildes. Turning back to Em, she asked, “What did she say?”
“We’re wondering if you realize where you are,” Em said.
“Where I am?” Rebecca asked. “It’s not like you to beat around the bush, Goody Corey. What is it?”
“What do you remember?” Em asked.
“I was hanged.” Tears fell down Rebecca’s face. “Such an awful thing. I thought the suffering would never, ever end. Then, suddenly, there was only love and peace. As you know, Martha, ‘For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation aboundeth through Christ.’”
“Amen,” George gave a robust response.
“You really are a Baptist, aren’t you Reverend?” Rebecca sniffed her disapproval.
The witches chuckled. Rebecca scowled down at George Burroughs, and he beamed at her.
“You didn’t wake up?” Em asked to keep them from arguing.
“Wake up?” Rebecca scowled. “Yes. A little while ago, George Jacobs came to see me. Mr. Jacobs?”
The apparition of George Jacobs, Sr. appeared next to Rebecca. Seventy-two years old at the time of his hanging, George Jacobs looked every bit the wealthy landowner he had been in Salem Village.
“Martha’s wondering why we have awoken.” Rebecca said. “I told her you woke me.”
She spun in place and floated over to talk at Sarah Wildes and Sarah Good.
“She can’t hear,” George Jacobs said of Rebecca.
He pointed to his ears to indicate that, even as a specter, Rebecca Nurse was completely deaf. He shook his head at Rebecca. George Jacobs’ body had been retrieved from their mass grave by his children and reburied on his farm. His remains were found in 1864 and reinterred near Rebecca’s grave in 1992. The specter of George Jacobs looked around the table.
“What year is it?” George Jacobs asked.
“2014,” Em said.
George Jacobs shook his head and looked at each of them again.
“You haven’t changed at all,” George Jacobs said. He nodded and said, “Giles.”
“George,” Giles returned the acknowledgement.
“We were turned into immortal witches when they hanged us,” John Willard said.
“I’ll be,” George Jacobs said. He nodded to John in hello. “Where was I
?”
“Your family retrieved your remains,” Em said.
George Jacobs nodded.
“What do you remember?” George Burroughs asked.
“Always the question, isn’t it, Reverend?” George Jacobs asked. “What do I remember . . .”
Thinking, George Jacobs gazed off. His hand came to his face, and he rubbed his beard.
“Good that the scar’s gone, Reverend.” George Jacobs glanced at George Burroughs.
“Yes, sir,” George Burroughs said.
“I remember hanging, Em,” George Jacobs said. “You still go by ‘Em’?”
Em nodded.
“Nice that some things don’t change,” George Jacobs smiled. “Let’s see. I remember that awful choking. I remember looking at the Reverend. He was so confident they wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t hang us. I remember thinking that he would learn.”
George Jacobs snorted.
“I’m such a self-righteous prick,” George Jacobs said.
“George Jacobs!” Rebecca said.
“Curse, and her hearing is perfect,” George Jacobs smiled. “It’s a miracle.”
Rebecca scowled at George Jacobs and turned back to continue talking at Sarah Wildes and Sarah Good.
“I was at peace when a man’s voice called to me by name,” George Jacobs said. “Something like: ‘George Jacobs, awaken now.’ A command. Then I was walking in this . . . foggy land. I heard the man’s voice. He called to me and Rebecca and someone else . . .”
He spun to look at John Willard, who was sitting next to Sarah Good, and then shook his head.
“John . . .” George Jacobs paused to think. “I’m not sure he was clear which ‘John.’”
George Jacobs nodded.
“Then I found myself lying down,” George Jacobs said. “When I stood up, I was standing next to Rebecca.”
George nodded.
“We were in that grey area for . . . a long time,” George Jacobs said. “Suspended there, awake, but not able to move or think. I tried to leave the grey, return to my peaceful rest, but I wasn’t able to act upon the world around me.”
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