Page 10 of The Witch

“Why do I need to talk to them? It’s up to Gram and Ethel if they want to sell.”

“Actually,” my father says, “Pemberton belongs only to my mother. Ethel was… She was cut out of the will years ago.”

“She was?” I had heard of the falling out between Ethel and my great-grandparents, but hadn’t realized it went this far. “Why?”

“I have no idea. You know how secretive everyone can be.”

That’s for sure.

“Look,” my father says, “Gram listens to you. At least hear out the man from the museum before you pass judgment.”

“Fine, fine…”

“What about tomorrow? I can arrange for you to meet somebody there when they open at ten. I’m sure when I mention that you’re in town, they’ll be eager to talk to you right away.”

I sigh. “Sure.”

Just as I end the call with my father, the bars vanish from my phone. I hold the phone up in the air and spin a few times, but I get nothing. Weird.

As I stand there, clutching my useless phone in my right hand, a chill comes over me. It feels very much like somebody is breathing cold air down the back of my neck. Despite the warm weather, I hug my arms to my chest and shiver. I look down at my muddy sneakers, and I wonder…

Could this be where she’s buried?

6

1692

CAROLINE

I journey into Town Square for the market at least once every week.

I ride on my horse, Lucky, who was a gift to me from Archie for my first birthday after we were wed. He has always been so generous with his gifts, but Lucky has been the best one of all. She is a fine horse, young and strong, and I cannot imagine loving any child of mine more than I love her.

The market in Town Square is open every morning for buying and trading. This morning, I am looking for fresh herbs and meat. I do have a garden of my own, but it is far too much work to grow everything that I require for cooking, and nobody grows better herbs than Hitty Atkins.

Hitty is always at the market, rain or shine. She has one of the less crowded tables, but she is always there. The reason she does not get more business is not because of the quality of her products but because of Hitty herself. The townspeople find her odd, but I think they simply do not appreciate her.

I never knew my mother, but Hitty has taken me under her wing the way a mother might. She is a widow and lost her son—her only child—so she is without family, too. Sometimes I travel to her house, and we talk in her garden, while she tells me stories about her long life. She is especially knowledgeable about healing, and I would trust her advice over that of Dr. Shaylor, our town doctor. When Archie fell ill last winter, I did not bother with the doctor. I went straight to Hitty, who gave me a tonic that healed him in only a few days.

I left many of my childhood friends behind when we married and went our separate ways. I was the only one who married a man of means, and then I moved to Pemberton, miles away from the center of town. My former friends are all too busy with endless chores and growing broods of children. Much like Hitty, I have become isolated in the last few years, and I’m so grateful for her friendship.

Hitty’s table is set up between Dorcas Brewster, who sells candlesticks, and Malachi Tanner, who has a selection of rum and molasses. When I approach, my friend rewards me with a wide smile that spreads across her wrinkled face. She wears a simple woolen dress, similar to the one that Molly wears, but the color is a vivid yellow, brighter than anything I have seen in even the finest fabrics. I do not know how she manages to achieve such colors, and I only wish I could buy one of them from her. But because I am the wife of a wealthy merchant, if I wore a bright yellow frock, all the townspeople would talk. They would wonder how I achieved such an unnatural color in a garment, and the talk would no doubt grow cruel.

“Good morrow, Caroline,” she greets me in her deep, gravelly voice.

“Good morrow, Hitty,” I say. “Your dress is as lovely as a dandelion.”

“I thank you!” Hitty brightens with the compliment—she receives few in this town. “I admire yours as well. That blue color is very becoming. And how are you and your family?”

I want to tell her that we are well, but the words stick in my throat. All is not well. I have spoken occasionally to Hitty of my longing for a child, but I cannot speak of it here, with prying ears amongst us.

But as she always does, Hitty understands. She reaches out to grasp my arm with her spindly fingers.

“Caroline,” she says in a low voice, “I think of you often and pray. I believe that soon, you will be with child.”

I nod my thanks. I have prayed every night for three years, but it cannot hurt to have one more set of prayers in my favor.

“And also,” she adds mischievously, “I have something for you.”