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Chapter 1
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Avery Harding entered the town commons, and a sickening apprehension washed through him. Something wasn’t right.
“What’s this?” he asked a man standing in a line of men barring the mysterious proceedings from view.
“Witch burning.” The man’s dispassionate reply sent Avery’s senses reeling.
His mind registered what his stomach revolted against. The sickening stench of burning flesh suffocated him with its foulness. His anxiety hardened to cold dread.
“Who?” he asked, his voice breaking.
The guard looked straight ahead. “The Gagnon crone.”
Dear God. He rushed the line of guards, straining to push through. The guards held him, but he fought with everything he had. A sudden blow to the back of his head dropped him to his knees. It took several moments for him to regain his wits.
He stood again, unsteadily, and looked down the impenetrable row of guards blocking his way. He searched for some chink which might give him access, some path to stop what was happening. There was none.
Obviously, Proctor had made certain there’d be no disruption to this evil endeavor. When they’d been told to gather here today, no one knew what would transpire. Proctor would have good reason to keep it from public knowledge. Though he couldn’t have known who would protest this injustice, he must have known some would try.
Nothing could be done now. It was too late. If he’d known this was happening, he could have tried to stop it, appealed to the Governor to intervene. But there’d been no trial, no public knowledge of this impending tragedy. He didn't believe any of it. The old woman was no more a worshiper of the devil than his own blessed mother, and God knows, she’d been a saint.
Avery envisioned the kind, old woman. He'd spoken to her often. A healer in the village, she'd kept to herself, living alone with her only relative, a granddaughter. He’d liked the old woman, as she’d always had a warm smile ready for him, a friendly greeting. How had she come to this horrific end so suddenly?
Most of the residents of Lynfort knew of Myrtle Gagnon's healing powers. A wise woman, whom aristocracy and beggar alike sought council from, her reputation for herbs and remedies, which doctors wouldn’t, or couldn’t, replicate, spread far and wide. Most of the cures the townspeople sought were harmless tonics, poultices or herb sachets, and no one had ever considered Myrtle a threat, let alone a danger.
He looked through the crowd and spotted the old woman's granddaughter, standing like stone. He remembered, oddly enough, the color of her eyes. Whether they were open or closed, he couldn’t tell, but he noticed the almost imperceptible sway of her slight form as she fought to remain upright.
He watched Myrtle’s granddaughter, wondering at what hell she must be enduring. He, himself, had the desire to retch. How was she even standing? As soon as that thought occurred, she crumpled to the ground in a heap of pale skirt and paler skin. An intense wave of rage shuddered through him, and Avery bit out a curse.
The thrall of spectators, in its fervor, paid no mind to the heap she made, and Avery feared the unsympathetic onlookers would trample her. Damning the consequences, he went to her, scooped her up, and carried her to the edge of the crowd, where the revolting stench dissipated some. He continued walking until he came to a green patch of cool grass beside a stream, beyond the sights, sounds, and stench of the town square.
A sudden, slight gust of wind tugged at his hair, and he looked up, noting the storm moving toward them. Placing the girl gently on the ground, he sat back on his heels to observe her. Though he knew little about her, he’d encountered her frequently. They'd never spoken more than a greeting. She was beautiful, in a graceful, remote way, he'd always thought. Her name was Fiona.
She groaned and rolled over, immediately vomiting into the grass. The violence of it alarmed him, and he fought to control his own unsteady stomach. When she sobbed, he wanted to join her. His own heartache would be amplified a million times in her, and he couldn’t bear the thought of just how much pain that actually was. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it into the stream, offering it to her. She reached out without looking at him, wiped her face and withdrew into a ball.
"What are you doing?" The voice he’d come to dread recently came from behind him. "Her grandmother was just burned for her crimes. She'll be accused soon, certainly. You shouldn't be seen with her."
He sighed and turned toward his fiancé. "Miranda, her grandmother has just been barbarically and publicly murdered. Has compassion been outlawed, along with common sense?"
"Compassion for a witch?" Miranda asked, bitterness in her tone.
Ignoring Miranda, he stood watching the girl, wishing he could ease her pain. He wondered how to get her out of the approaching storm, as she showed no outward signs of life.
"Come," his fiancé said, as she held out her hand to him. "Enough of this silliness. We need to get out of this weather." Her voice brooked no argument.
"I’ll see her home," he said, not taking his eyes from Fiona. Though it was true, he shouldn't be seen with her, he wasn’t about to leave the girl alone. He doubted she’d have the strength to rise and go home on her own. She’d catch her death in her weakened state.
Miranda's gasp was dramatic. "You can’t," she said. "It’s scandalous."
He suddenly felt the urge to punch something. The nearest tree would suffice. He’d reached his limit for the day. "I'm certain her virtue is safe, as she can’t possibly be feeling amorous, unless you’re suggesting I’d rape the girl."
"A girl of her sort is always in the mood for opportunity," Miranda spat.
He looked at his intended bride, promised to him at an early age. There'd been a time when he’d considered himself lucky to be betrothed to her. She was tall, poised, regal, and certainly beautiful. God, how he hated her. Her beauty had faded for him at some point. Now he could barely tolerate the sight of her.
"Find your father and go home," he told her. "I'll see the girl safely to her cottage, and there’ll be no more discussion."
Miranda's eyes narrowed slightly, and it registered with him. A sliver of dread flashed through him but dissipated before he recognized its weight.
