Prologue

Salem Village, Massachusetts – 1693

Blood rushed to her head and her shaky legs could barely support the weight of her body. The shouts of the crowd roared in her ears. “Witch! Hang her.” Spittle flew at her from every direction. Her hands, tied behind her back, tightened around the brooch she held.

“What say you, Constance Gardinar? Be you a witch?” The voice of the Majestrate echoed in her head.

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but the words would not come.

“Speak woman!” the Majestrate yelled.

Her head pounded in unison with the crowd’s chanting. “Speak! Speak!”

Her voice barely a whisper, she managed “I--am--not a witch!”

Grabbing her arm, the Majestrate yelled “Louder! Speak your mind so all can hear.”

The crowd grew louder. “Hang her! She’s a witch!”

Gathering every ounce of strength she had, Constance said, “I am not a witch. Please! I beg you to believe me and let me go free. I will leave Salem, if it is what you wish, and never return. I have nothing here. You have wrongly accused and hanged my mother. I implore you not to make the same mistake with me. Have mercy!” Tears coursed down her cheeks.

The crowd went silent while they pondered her words. There is hope for me, she thought. Constance squeezed the brooch tighter. It was all she had left. Her mother had given it to her just before her own trial, telling her “It can only save one of us. Let it be you.”

Constance had pleaded and cried, “Mother, please! Save yourself and we will leave this village together!”

“You don’t understand, dear. If I save myself, surely they will come after you. I won’t be here to protect you. That’s all I can tell you. Take it and run. Don’t ever, ever come back here. You cannot change what is about to happen. There is no use trying.”

The rumbles of the crowd jolted Constance back to the present. She trembled as the rumbles grew once more into angered shouts. Her heart fell into her stomach and her knees weakened. She looked into the crowd and was startled by the sight of Martha, tears streaming down her face, hand outstretched toward Constance. She wondered why her sister was in the crowd. Martha fled to Connecticut months ago.

“You have already been tried and found guilty. We cannot let you go. Admit to your witchery and the good Lord will have mercy on your soul.” Constance watched veins swelling and pulsating in the Majestrate’s neck as he yelled.

“I will not admit to that of which I am not guilty.”

“Then you shall hang with your sin on your soul!”  the Majestrate roared as he moved his leg to kick the stool out from under her.

Constance squeezed the brooch tighter and screamed “May the lord have mercy on your souls.”  She felt the stool go out from under her feet.  Total darkness engulfed her, yet in that darkness, she could feel herself spinning. Spinning.

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