Suffer a Witch (20 page)

“I wondered. . .” George said as he came into their kitchen. Em was leaning against the counter, drinking a cup of black tea.

“Tea?” Em held up the pot she’d made.

“Sure,” George said.

She waited for him to fill his cup with a half-inch of milk before pouring him a cup of strong tea from the pot. He glanced in the cup and gave her a wry look.

“I need a . . .” he started.

“Fork,” they said together.

“Yes, sorry,” Em said. “I made tea for William, my father, and fell back into old habits.”

“Reminds me of visiting you in Salem Village,” George said with a grin.

“You can always add milk,” Em said.

“Milk in after?” George scowled. “Heresy.”

“You weren’t even born in England,” she laughed.

George laughed and took a drink of his tea.

“It
is
very good,” he said.

She grinned at him and started toward their living room.

“Wait,” George said.

She turned around at the door and looked at him.

“I ruined your painting.” George gestured to the painting of the wheat field and William.

“What do you mean?” Em asked.

“How . . .?” George took it down from the wall. “There was a green dot.”

He pointed to the painted image of William’s back as he fought with the wooden plow.

“It’s gone,” he said and looked up at her.

She gave him a soft smile and started for the living room again. Still holding the painting, he followed her.

“I should check my email, because . . .” Em started.

She turned to see that he was still holding the painting. She looked at the painting and then at him.

“I need to ask you something,” George said. “I’m just not sure what.”

Em nodded her head to the couch and went to sit down. She set her cup of tea on the end table. Seeing her tea, George realized he’d left his in the kitchen. He leaned the painting against the couch and jogged back to the kitchen. She pulled the painting onto her lap. Looking at the image, she realized the painting would be a great way to contact her father. She touched the image of his back. He turned around and waved. When George returned, the painting was sitting on her lap, and she was smiling.

“What?” George asked.

She turned the painting for him to see.

“He’s waving.” George’s voice was tinged with a touch of awe. “How did you . . .?”

“The painting must be a kind of portal so that I can get his help and wisdom,” Em said. “They said they had set something up. I just wasn’t sure . . .”

“They?” George asked. “Who’s ‘they’? What ‘they’?”

Em patted the couch. George gave her an irritated look.

“You can’t just tell me?” George asked.

“I can,” she said and patted the couch again.

He made a show of sitting down on the couch.

“Where is that?” George asked. “And how is it that I don’t know anything about it?”

“Well . . .” Em started.

“You’re acting so oddly since you got back,” George said. “I was worried sick about you, and you . . .”

“I’m sorry you were worried,” Em said with a slight smile. “I know what it’s like to wait for someone when they’ve died. It’s horrible and heartbreaking. You do get used to it after the hundredth or so time, or at least, I . . .”

“Very funny.” George cut her off. “I’m the unstable one. You’re the rock.”

Em laughed.

“Where is that?” George asked. “Alice said you lived there.”

“After the London fire,” Em said. “The fire was unbelievable. It burned so fast that people couldn’t get out of its way. Entire families were burned alive. And it burned crematorium hot. Living beings — humans, dogs, cats, everything — went from living flesh to dust. They didn’t bother to fight the fire because it burned mostly the middle- and lower-class slums, hotbeds for the plague, which had ravaged the city just the year before.”

“Alice said your father’s watch shop was right there,” George said.

“It was,” Em said. “We barely managed to escape with our lives.”

George threaded his hand through hers and pulled her closer to him.

“We went to Rousay,” Em said. “My father has a tract of land that’s been in the family for many thousands of years. The whole island used to belong to us, but it’s been lost due to greed and the usual.”

“Rousay?” George asked. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Where’s that?”

Em winced. She scanned his face before taking a guarded breath.

“Rousay is an island in the Orkney Islands,” Em said.

“Okay,” George said.

“Scotland,” Em said.

“What?” George reared away from her. She wrinkled her nose and nodded. “You’re a Scot?”

“My father was raised on Rousay. He was born on Shetland,” Em said. “Shetland, Orkney, and Rousay were inhabited long before there was a Scotland, long before the Covenanters betrayed their king and were cruel to one Reverend Burroughs, long before there were human beings, for that matter.”

George sneered and leaned back on the couch. He stared off into space for a few minutes.

“I suppose you didn’t tell me because . . .” George started.

“You’re very prejudiced against Scots and Scotland,” Em said. “You think Scots are lesser beings, even after your beloved
science
and
genetics
proved that the Picts were a sect of the Celts.”

George crossed his arms and grunted. Em knocked her shoulder against his.

“Celts,” Em said. “Like you. Celts.”

He gave her a dark scowl, and she grinned.

“You’re a Scot?” he asked.

His face was such a mix of disgust and sorrow that Em had to suppress a laugh.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Em said. “Why didn’t you ask?”

“You
said
you were from London,” George said.

“I was born in London,” Em said. “We moved to Rousay only after the fire. We returned to London when I was sixteen or seventeen. I met Henry in London.”

George scowled.

“Are you ready to let go of your prejudice?” Em asked.

“No,” George said.

“Even for me?” Em laughed.

He looked at her and shook his head.

“You ask too much of me, Em,” George said.

She burst out laughing, and he grinned.

“Can I love you and still hate Scots?” George asked.

“If it makes you happy, sure,” Em said.

“It does,” George nodded. “Very happy.”

Em had to look away to keep from laughing.

“Where did you go?” George asked.

“I went to Jamaica Plain to find my father,” Em answered the question she knew he wanted answered. “I found a person using his name. My father thinks it’s my demon, but I don’t know. It was terrifying, really. I spun around . . .”

Em nodded.

“I met your friend Martha,” Em said.

“Martha is dead,” George said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Em said. “I liked her. How did that happen?”

“I’ll tell you later,” George said. “Now I want to hear about . . . well, everything and . . .”

She turned to look at him.

“Are you really a Scot?” George asked.

Em laughed. When he grinned, she told him about her trip to Rousay.

Em shook her head at the chaos on her computer. She’d been gone a total of three days. Three days away had created three days of cleanup. If she didn’t get out to find John Proctor tonight, she’d run right into Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Wildes, Elizabeth Howe, Susannah Martin, and Sarah Good’s hanging day. There was always a big hoopla around the guys’ hanging in July. This year, she thought it would be fun to make a big deal for these brave women. She checked the clock and calculated that she had just enough time to get the shovels together before they were leaving. She got up from her desk.

“I have an errand to run,” Em said to the woman working the front desk.

“You’re leaving?” The young woman looked scandalized. “You just got back!”

Em smiled at the young woman.

“You can get me on my cell,” Em said. “It’s brand new and charged up. I solemnly promise not to break it.”

“It’s just that we were so worried about you,” the young woman said.

Em put her hand on the woman’s shoulder, and the young woman gave her an anxious nod.

“I’m not leaving right away,” Em said with a smile. “I need to get some things from the roof.”

“The roof?” The young woman looked even more worried. She leaned forward to Em. “You’re not going to. . .” The young woman looked around to see if anyone was close. Seeing no one, she mouthed, “ . . .jump.”

Em had to stifle a laugh. She shook her head.

“I’m here,” Em said. “Don’t worry.”

“I just know that poor George was beside himself,” the woman said. She gave a little sigh. “He’s really. . .”

“Yes, he is,” Em said and smiled. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “Off to the roof I go! Call me if you need me.”

The young woman raised a hand in a kind of uncertain goodbye. Em went up the store steps to the apartment. She quickly changed into old jeans and a T-shirt before heading up to the roof. She opened the shed and started looking through her shovels. She was there merely a second before a shadow crossed the door. The late afternoon summer sun made the rooftop spotlight bright compared to the dark shed. She could see only the dark outline of someone.

“Em?” the woman asked.

“Yeah,” Em said. Assuming it was someone from the store, she didn’t look up.

“It’s me,” the woman said. She stepped into the shed. “Martha.”

“Martha!” Em said. She set her shovels down and hugged Martha Carrier. “I couldn’t tell that it was you.”

Martha nodded. In Salem Village, Martha had grown up in a wealthy family. When she got pregnant at fifteen, her father paid an indentured servant to marry her. She’d been known for being harsh and disagreeable after that. Em found Martha to be sharp as a whip. Martha had the rare gift of being able to think fast and communicate clearly. Martha never suffered fools, which endeared her to Em. This skill made her good at her current job as a general counsel for the CIA.

“I’m getting ready to dig up Proctor,” Em said using the name they’d called John Proctor in Salem Village. “You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Martha said.

Em smiled and gave Martha a shovel.

“We can’t count on the others to bring shovels,” Em said.

“Is everyone coming?” Martha asked.

“Those who can get away,” Em said. “Sam’s coming. George, of course. They’ll probably do most of the digging. You know how they hate to have us ‘girls’ do ‘men’s work.’”

“John’s working on a case,” Martha said.

“Sarah Good is working,” Em said with a shrug. “We’ll see who shows up.”

“Mary Eastey is upset,” Martha said.

“I know, I know.” Em raised her hands. “I can’t blame her. I don’t really want her sister to return either. You?”

Martha chuckled. Em went deeper into the shed.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Martha said. “You know, before everyone was around.”

“Yeah,” Em said.

“Um,” Martha said. Martha followed Em down a pathway between stacks of empty beehives. “Em?”

Em looked up.

“Alice told Susannah, who told Mary Ayer, who told John Willard. . .” Martha swallowed hard.

“What did they say?” Em asked.

“She said you know how to send us. . . um. . . on,” Martha said.

Em looked at Martha for a moment. She set the shovels against the wall of the shed and reached out to hold Martha. The woman began to cry. As her tears fell, she spoke of her sorrow.

“I’m so lonely, Em,” Martha said. “I don’t have friends, except the witches, and you know, I’m not sweet, like Elizabeth. I haven’t had a boyfriend for more than a hundred years. Who would want to be with me? I’m so bossy and controlling and. . . I don’t have George or John Willard, and Sam, well. . . I miss my kids. I miss my beloved George and our life. Hell, sometimes I even miss my stupid husband, Thomas.”

Martha gave a snot-filled snort and stepped back.

“All these years of liberation, and I miss Thomas — that stupid, abusive jerk,” Martha said. “I have as much money as I could want. I love my work, but I feel. . .”

“Out of place,” Em said.

“Like I don’t belong.” Martha nodded against her shoulder.

“I know how that feels,” Em said.

“You do?” Martha asked.

“I think we all do,” Em said. “I think it’s particularly hard for you because your work is so intense and takes up so much of your life. You’re really in the thick of this paranoid time.”

“Always pretending I wasn’t born in 1643,” Martha said. “And sometimes I slip. Not a lot, but every once in a while. I’m afraid they’re going to rendition me.”

“I’ll burn them where they stand if they touch even one hair on your head,” Em said.

Martha clutched Em again.

“I’m so sorry,” Martha said.

“You’ve been strong a long time,” Em said.

“That’s what my counselor says,” Martha said.

“Therapy?” Em asked.

“I went because I thought it might help,” Martha said. “I’ve never had another love relationship — not after my George.”

“You were married for forty years,” Em said.

“It was almost a hundred years after Salem Village,” Martha nodded. She moved away from Em again. “I went from being called the ‘Queen of Hell’ to being married to a General, the head of a new country, no less. It was. . .”

“Exhilarating, Mrs. Washington,” Em said with a smile.

Martha nodded.

“I just never got over everything that happened, in Andover and Salem Village, you know?” Martha asked. “Add to that how my George died. He was there one moment and gone the next. Even Ann couldn’t heal him.”

“Awful,” Em said.

“It’s helped,” Martha said. “Therapy, that is. I don’t feel like it was my fault that I got pregnant when I was fifteen. My dad was humiliated, so he threw my life away. I’ve been able to see the good in Thomas, especially how he treated the kids after I was hanged. I even went to the crypt where George is buried and said goodbye.”

“He was a good man, Martha,” Em said.

“I never loved Thomas or Daniel, for that matter,” Martha said. “Only George. In all of this time, I’ve loved one man. That’s all. And he died in 1799.”

“I know,” Em said.

“And the slaves?” Martha shook her head. “I feel horrible about the slaves. Every day. I read about all the troubles African-Americans have, and I know it’s because of us, me, slave owners.”

“It was a different time,” Em said.

“You never had them,” Martha said.

Em shrugged.

“Every historian says that
I
wanted to keep them,” Martha sniffed at her sorrow. “They were Daniel’s slaves. I wanted to set them free. You know that, Em. But my George never wanted to let go of anything he’d obtained.”

“People want George to be pure of what they see now as evil, regardless of the truth,” Em said.

“Evil,” Martha said. “It’s amazing to me how certain we were.”

“In 1692?” Em asked.

“We knew what was godly and what was of the devil,” Martha said. “We just knew, and slavery was godly.”

“Arrogance,” Em said.

“It was easier to be certain then,” Martha said. “Fewer people. I didn’t think about what was happening in Asia or the Middle East. Even when I was married to my George! All that mattered was what directly affected me — Indian wars, slaves, church, family, the children.”

“Maybe you just need a break,” Em said.

“Maybe,” Martha said. “But if I wanted to. . .”

“If you want to end this, I will help you,” Em said.

“I knew you would,” Martha said.

“You can’t do it until my hanging date,” Em said.

Martha nodded and hugged Em.

“Alice will kill me,” Martha said. “She keeps talking about the war between you and the demons. Is that real?”

“Unfortunately,” Em said.

“Will you forgive me if I. . .?” Martha said.

“Of course,” Em said. “Nothing to forgive.”

“You’re a good friend, Em,” Martha said.

“So are you, Martha,” Em said. “You deserved to be loved, not hanged. George loved you and tried to make up for it all. And now that he’s gone, you still deserve to be loved.”

“I’m not Bridget,” Martha said. “She’s had a rich husband a decade.”

“Bridget is Bridget,” Em said. “You are you.”

“Her husbands treat her like a goddess.” Martha shook her head. “And I can’t find. . .”

“There is a man who works with you,” Em said with a smile. “He’s wondering when you’ll notice him. You never know, but he seems like a nice guy.”

“Em,” Martha said. “Don’t tease me!”

“Never,” Em said. “You know who I mean?”

Martha thought for a moment and then nodded her head.

“Maybe you feel this way because your life is about to expand,” Em said. “One last chance to quit before everything changes.”

“Maybe,” Martha said.

“You know, it’s okay to love your George Washington and love someone else,” Em said with a smile. “He would be the first person to encourage you to find someone to love.”

“I guess,” Martha shrugged.

“Well, you have until the end of September,” Em said. “Why not try it with this guy until then? You can always get out of here if it doesn’t work.”

“You mean die?”

“Or leave for the island,” Em shrugged. “What do you have to lose?”

Martha bit her lip for a moment and then looked at Em. Martha nodded.

“Good,” Em said.

“Jeez, it’s hot in here,” Martha said.

Em gave her two round-head digging shovels and picked up a spade.

“Should I grab the potato fork?” Martha asked.

“I’ll get it,” Em said.

“How do you have all of these?” Martha asked as she stepped out of the shed.

“Giles,” Em said. “They’re part of my divorce settlement.”

“Really?” Martha asked. She looked at the shovels. “But they’re almost brand new!”

Martha caught sight of Em’s grin and laughed.

“Do you want to go with me?” Em asked.

“Sure.”

“We won’t be alone,” Em said. “The others are coming.”

“That’s okay,” Martha said. “Can I have some lemonade?”

“Of course,” Em said. “Let’s leave these by the door and get some lemonade. You know we’ll end up waiting on George anyway.
And
, I just remembered that I made lemon sorbet last night.”

“Heaven,” Martha said.

Martha smiled. She put her hand on the door and stopped.

“You’re sure about the guy at my work?” Martha said. “It’s Bruce, right?”

Em nodded, and Martha smiled. Em followed Martha to her apartment. Em was just taking the sorbet out of the freezer when Alice and Susannah came down. Martha poured the lemonade. Em had just scooped out the sorbet when Elizabeth and Margaret arrived. Sam followed Mary Ayer into the kitchen.

“I should have made more sorbet,” Em said.

She was acknowledged by a kind of “mm-hm” from the witches. The sorbet was almost done when George arrived. He took the bowl from her hands and finished her sorbet while she groaned at him.

“Are we ready?” George asked. Sarah Wildes came in behind him. She waved off any sorbet.

“Isn’t it dangerous to go when it’s light out?” Margaret asked.

“We need to try to use the GPS and our other equipment,” Em said. “There’s no guarantee that they’ll work. We have to try.”

“Better to try in the daylight,” George said.

“Even so, it seems dangerous to me,” Mary Ayer said.

“I have permission from the owners of the land to stage a recreation,” Em said.

“A recreation?” Alice asked.

Em pulled on her shirt, and their clothing transformed into what they’d worn in Salem Village.