Love,
Giles
Fiona read the letter several times and although it was painful to picture her mother's incarceration, it was a relief to know that she was not being abused and had held on to her strength and hope. How good Giles was! What would she have done without him? She pressed her lips to the spot where he had signed "Love, Giles." He and his family were all doing so much to help without showing a bit of reluctance or worry that they might get into trouble.
But Fiona knew the danger. So far, it seemed no one knew that they were harboring her, or else they would have searched the house, but she knew it would not be long before Grace alerted someone. No, she could not stay here indefinitely. Neither could she seek aid from Sally, who was already under suspicion and couldn't afford to have herself brought to Judge Blaize's attention in any way. It sounded as though he would not be presiding at her mother's hearing. Would Hathorne be more considerate? At least, no one could be worse.
Fiona inhaled deeply and made up her mind then and there. She must attend the examination this morning. She drank the remains of the cider, piled her hair atop her head, donned her shawl, and for a moment, bent her head in a desperate short prayer.
Down the stairs she crept, careful not to make a sound. She eased open all the doors and emerged into a strange white world. Thick vapors had drifted inward from the sea to hide familiar objects in a mysterious, secretive veil. This was all to the good, as she would be secreted as well.
She hesitated briefly in the yard, wondering where she could find the road. She knew a row of pine trees edged the field… yes, there they were, wispy, smoky strands of fog trailing upward among the silent branches. When she was on the village path, she could see ahead only for a few feet at a time. Thankfully, no one seemed to be abroad. Even the animals were hushed—no cackling hens, no lowing cattle, no birds announcing the new day. Yet she felt sure the trial would soon be in session, and probably the meetinghouse was packed already.
She reached it after what seemed a long time due to her slow, groping journey. As she feared, the doors were locked and the hearing had begun. She put her ear against the panels, but the sounds were muffled and she could not make out a thing. Might there be an open window somewhere? Yes! Although it was too high for her to see inside, she could hear quite well.
At first, there was just a jumble and a confusion of voices. Then a gavel pounded, and in the silence Fiona heard the next words clearly. Dear heaven, her mother was speaking: "I scorn your accusations, sir. There is not a shred of truth in what you claim, and—"
John Hathorne's cold steely, voice interrupted her. "Truth, say you, mistress? Beware of what you call the truth. This court will soon discover who is lying. That is all for the present. You may step down. We now call Mercy Prescott to the stand."
There followed a mumbling and a shuffling of feet, and then the hard voice spoke again. "Mistress Prescott, had you ever seen the accused woman or her daughter before they appeared at your door six weeks ago?"
"No, but—"
"And was not your cow dry the next morning? Mind you, your daughter, Grace, has already so testified. She also said your cow never strayed so far afield before. I instruct you, madam, speak the truth and nothing but the truth."
"Well, I don't know about the straying…"
"Was the cow dry or was it not after these two strangers cast their eyes upon it?"
"Well… well…"
"Speak up, mistress."
"Yes, yes, the cow was dry the next morning."
"And did not a strange cat suddenly appear and attach itself to Mrs. Ellen Prescott, shunning all others in the house?"
"Yes, but she had doctored it."
"Ah, yes, the doctoring. We now come to the crucial point. Did you ever see any unfamiliar herbs in Ellen Prescott's possession?"
"There were some I did not know."
"Quite so. And how do you account for your daughter's poisoned face when she was doctored with these same strange herbs?"
"I—I cannot."
"Were you in favor of their application to your daughter's skin?"
"No, I was against it. I feared—"
"That is all. Stand down, Mercy Prescott. I now call Fiona Prescott to the bar of justice for questioning."
An excited buzzing rose inside the courtroom when nobody came forward. The bailiff stepped close and whispered in the magistrate's ear.
"What!" roared Hathorne. "You have not found her yet? This be devil's work. Send more men to aid the search!" He rapped for order, then cleared his throat. "I call the next witness against Ellen Prescott, John Dunn, apothecary."
Suddenly, a voice spoke clearly to Fiona through the fog. "Fiona Prescott, you are wanted by the magistrate."
Mercy Lewis, the tallest and oldest of the afflicted girls, loomed just a few feet away, mist curling around her feet like a cold fire. A cruel smile touched her lips. "How fortunate that I was late coming to the hearing this morning. God must have directed my footsteps toward the catching of a witch." She gave a gurgling chuckle and her fingers stretched forth like daggers as she slid forward.
Startled, Fiona froze against the wall, then with a cry, she ducked her head under the outstretched arms and fled.
Behind her, Mercy gave an outraged yell as she fell against the building. Fiona dived into the thickest part of the ghostly, white world and ran blindly, the footsteps of her pursuer thudding sifter her.
The unnatural girl, like some thwarted demon, cried hoarsely to Fiona, demanding that she stop or a worse fate would befall her. Soon, however, the voice and footsteps became muffled. Then all sounds ceased as the suffocating, blanketing fog wrapped Fiona in its damp, cold weight. It drifted into her nostrils, choked her throat, dampened her hair with a soggy mist.
The road… where was the road? In and out among the deserted buildings she stumbled. It seemed to be a never-ending maze until suddenly she smelled the sea, a blend of salt and kelp drifting faintly into her cottony world.
She must have taken a wrong turn. She put out her hand and felt a wall behind her. Exhausted, she leaned against it for a moment to rest her laboring lungs.
When she turned around, a shape loomed up behind her. It was the figure of a woman with yellow hair, hands folded across a faded blue and scarlet garment. The mouth grinned foolishly while the round, staring eyes looked blind.
Fiona shrieked, clasping her face with shaking hands. The figure didn't move. Vines and bushes wound upward, holding it fast. A wild, hysterical laugh burst from Fiona's raw, choked throat. It was a figurehead! A wooden carving used on the prow of sailing ships. This one, chipped and past its usefulness, had been planted in a garden. Fiona backed away, her nerves still jangling from her fright.
"Fee… ooh… na…" Faintly, the horrible call came to her ears. Now not a figurehead, it was the real and terrifying Abigail.
Had the girl heard her scream? Fiona clapped her hands against her trembling mouth. Fool that she was! She must make no more sounds. She must try for calm, attempt clear thinking. Unmoving, straining every taut nerve, she listened.
The call came again, in front of her this time. Turning, she tried to skirt the town. Hands outstretched, sliding her feet along, Fiona moved as fast as she dared through the silent, thick white world. All the while, the force of her terrified heartbeats shook her entire body, for at any moment, she might crash into Mercy Lewis, who would hold on to her with big, strong arms and scream the town down until her prey was surrounded.
Suddenly, however, a space cleared in the fog and Fiona saw with astonishment that she had emerged at the pathway to Judge Blaize's manor. At that moment, the door opened and he emerged. "I was about to visit your mother's questioning, but Hathorne will do quite well until I'm ready." His eyes burned into hers. "I see they didn't catch you yet. No, don't leave. Come in and warm yourself, and then we'll talk." Moving as in a dream, Fiona let him take her arm.
As it had been sometimes before, his voice was now kindly, coaxing. Almos
t ready to collapse from her recent ordeal, Fiona moved forward, dazed and numb, shaking with exhaustion.
He led her into the parlor, where a cheery fire burned in the grate. "Sit here on the chair. I was just about to break my morning fast. Pray, join me in muffins or fruit."
"I'm not hungry, thank you," Fiona murmured, sinking breathlessly down onto the ruby velvet cushions as the strength left her limbs.
Today Blaize wore a black silk shirt with a lace jabot, dark blue velvet breeches, and silver-buckled shoes.
His bland expression seemed to quicken a little as their eyes met and Fiona looked away, remembering with a dart of fear the odd influence he had had upon her previously. Today, however, she must concentrate on the matter most important.
Her voice was strained. "You know, of course, that my mother and I have been accused of witchcraft by Grace Prescott?"
"An unconscionable turn of events! Was that what brought you to my door?"
"No, it was just pure chance. This morning I listened outside the meetinghouse and heard part of the testimony against my mother, but before it was finished Mercy Lewis appeared and chased me through the fog. I managed to elude her and found myself on your doorstep."
" 'Twas fate," he intoned deeply. "But were you not afraid that I might also turn you in?"
"No," she answered steadily, an idea swiftly taking shape.
He slid closer until his knee touched hers, and his voice was velvet-deep. "And why was that?"
"Because I still have something you want."
There was a long silence while Fiona forced herself to look at him, and he, with narrowed, calculating eyes, studied her in return. She sat erect, gripping her hands tightly, unsmiling, unable to stop the rapid rise and fall of her agitated breathing.
He noticed it and stared down at her body. His voice came thick and slurred, and he stretched out his hand. "First, I would see the merchandise for sale."
She brushed aside his questing fingers. "No. I must have a guarantee of your good faith."
He raised his diabolical black eyebrows. "What is to stop me taking my fill of you right here and now and give nothing in return?"
"You do not wish to ravish me. Formerly, you tried to buy my favors, so I know you wish my surrender to be completely willing."
"Correct," he answered huskily. "You are a clever girl— as clever as you are beautiful. I have never known another like you. Innocent, unsullied, yet ripe with burgeoning passion waiting to be released in a fiery torrent. You rate your virtue highly, and you are right. 'Twill be a lucky man who has first access. Yes, my dear, I want you soft and smiling, whispering my name when we come together in my bed. I promise you, it will be a long, rewarding experience for us both."
Bile rose in her throat as she envisioned his naked old man's body, the bony, scrabbling hands, his drooling, hot red mouth. She swallowed. "And you guarantee to help us?"
"What do you want? A promise to acquit you and your mother?"
"Yes. In writing."
"Very well."
They rose and faced each other. Fiona was terrified, but knew she must not show it. How could she get a signed document without sacrificing her virginity to this monster?
"I wish to see this letter written first," she declared. "I want to take it to the jail and see my mother safely on her way. The dwarf can accompany me and make certain that I return to you. The note must also say that there will be no future complaints against us."
"It shall be as you wish, but there should be a compromise. Something for me, too. Go into my bedchamber and don a sheer golden robe you'll find there in the closet. Ah, do not shake your head! I ask only that you come back here and let me gaze my fill. I promise not to touch you. Meanwhile, I shall prepare an exonerating note." His lips stretched taut across his pointed teeth. "Go now, and disrobe."
Dear God, Fiona prayed! Her mind worked at fever pitch. She had outwitted him before. She must do it again with every wile at her command. Her life depended on it She waited, holding herself rigid.
He rang a silver bell. The dwarf appeared and bowed Fiona down the hall, smirking slyly as he ushered her into his master's room. There were no windows (to avert escape?), only mirrors on every surface. White pelts covered the floor surrounding a large satin-covered bed. Scarlet was the predominant color, and it was so intense and fiery, Fiona almost swayed with dizziness and fear… a fear she must conquer.
"What can I bring you, mistress?" Solbaid hissed. "Water? Scent? A hairbrush?"
"Yes, yes, all those things."
"The golden robe is in that wardrobe," he tittered, "and it is like peering through a piece of glass. Why bother wearing it, I've often wondered—"
"Enough! Get out before I call your master," Fiona cried distractedly.
Still giggling, the dwarf slid away. Fiona eased the door ajar as soon as he had left and heard him speaking in the parlor. She knew neither of them could be trusted an inch and she must use her wits if she was to save herself and her mother. She tiptoed down the hall and listened.
The judge was speaking. "Bring me the ink and paper, also a bowl of lemon juice with which I shall write on the bottom, invisibly, that they must disregard the other words. While holding my note above a flame, they can read the truth. I have done this before with the one who serves me in the jail, so be sure it gets into his hands and no others."
"You are so cunning, master. Then, after you have enjoyed the girl, the constable will come for her, as directed in the note?"
"Yes, indeed. Go now, and bring her to me. I long to see the Robe of Sheer Delights."
"She wants to freshen herself with water and a comb."
"Well, hurry, hurry!"
Fiona clenched her hands. So Blaize thought he could trick her! Two might play that little game. She fled to the bedchamber and when the dwarf brought her a silver bowl and brush, she requested a glass of wine.
"My nerves need calming," she explained. "And it will make me more willing to do all your master wishes." Demurely she cast down her eyes.
"Of course." Chuckling, he danced away, and no sooner was the hallway clear than Fiona sped on silent feet out the front door, thanking the heavens that no one was a witness to her flight.
The fog enveloped her immediately and was a sanctuary now. She knew that she must put the sea behind her and go in the opposite direction, all the while not knowing when or how she still might be pursued.
She ran blindly, as fast as she could go, fortunately not stumbling or crashing into anything. And as she ran, a name flashed into her mind… the name of someone who might help her.
Chapter 24
The fog soon thinned, but Fiona still took extra care to keep hidden as she crept beside the road, screened by trees and bushes whenever possible.
She could only pray that she was headed in the right direction and breathed a sigh of relief when familiar objects divulged themselves to her straining eyes.
Soon she was able to pass Mercy's house, the fields beyond, and arrive at the Harmons' farm. A handyman carried a pail toward some pigsties, calling a greeting to a buxom maidservant entering the henhouse. Fiona hid behind a stalwart oak until she could slip in the door unseen.
Voices came from the kitchen, and creeping forward, she debated going directly to the secret room.
Sally's voice came to her ears, and Fiona listened.
"They came last night and asked if I knew where she was, and when I said 'no,' they searched the house anyway. Even though Oliver does not hold with this witch hunt, he could not defy the searchers, who were following orders from the court."
"I understand," Mrs. Harmon said, "but would he hand over Fiona if he found her?"
"No, never," Sally answered vehemently. "In fact, he offered to drive her and Mrs. Prescott to Boston as soon as possible."
At that declaration, Fiona stepped into the kitchen. Both women stared at her aghast, then all exchanged greetings.
"My dear, where have you been? Your shawl is wet," Mrs. Harmon ga
sped.
"I wanted to hear the questioning of my mother." Fiona removed her wrap and sank down wearily on the fireplace settee, stretching her cold hands toward the blaze. "Please don't scold me. I had to go."
Mrs. Harmon clicked her tongue and ran to latch the outer door. "We must not let the servants see you."
"Oh, Fiona," Sally moaned, "I am so sorry about all your trouble. Oliver and I have been so worried."
Before Fiona could reply, Giles's mother returned. She immediately poured some liquid into a pewter mug and handed it to her. "Here, drink this, you poor child. It's hot, and you look chilled. I can see you shivering. Giles went to the trial, but he has not returned. I take it you did not meet?"
Fiona shook her head, taking a long swallow from the mug. She tasted honey, lemon, and chamomile.
"What happened at your mother's hearing?" Sally asked anxiously.
Fiona drew a ragged breath. "I heard only Mercy's testimony. They dragged very damaging evidence from her about the dry cow, the black cat, and mainly the potion that inflamed Grace's face. I could tell she didn't really want to testify, but she had to do it."
"Was Grace there?" Mrs. Harmon inquired.
"She had already testified, I gathered. I didn't hear the end of the questioning because Mercy Lewis found me listening beneath an open window where I had crouched because I couldn't get inside. She tried to grab me, but I eluded her by plunging into the fog. Next…" Fiona hesitated. Should she tell them about Judge Blaize? Sally was the only person who would understand why she had sought his aid and what he wanted in return. But still she might be shocked at Fiona's daring to outwit him in his own home.
Quickly changing direction, Fiona ended by saying, "I eventually found my way here, but I dare not stay—"
"No, no, you must not leave," Mrs. Harmon cried. "Giles would be distraught. He'll be here any minute. Perhaps you need not tell him you've been out—"
At that minute, there was a banging on the outside door. "If that's Maryanne, I'll send her on an errand," Mrs. Harmon hissed.
But it was Giles who followed his mother in from the hall. His eyes sought Fiona and he hurried to her side, merely giving a quick nod to Sally.
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