The doll she’d paid dearly for was fashioned by Sam Wardwell, both blacksmith and cunning man, some openly called the Wizard of Andover. Sarah had made several trips to make payments, and each time Wardwell would display the doll in its progress from wood to realism. Sarah Goode believed the man a magician.

Further, Wardwell asked no questions beyond her specifications. He kept mum, too, and never knew that his creation was in the image of Betty Parris; that it was a doll that’d do harm to Reverend Samuel Parris’ eleven-year-old, little Elizabeth Junior, named for her mother.

The doll, once stuck full with pins—as Parris’s Barbados servant, Tituba Indian, had instructed—would thereby inflict pain on the minister’s daughter; thereby inflicting suffering on the minister himself. But only if Sarah used a lock of the child’s real hair, pinned to a swath of cloth belonging to the child made into a pouch harboring the child’s nail clippings. All items Sarah had bartered from the hands of Tituba, the Barbados witch and servant to the Reverend Samuel Parris. Aside from a few pretty shells and a green bottle, all that Tituba had wanted from the bargain was that Sarah Goode eventually destroy Reverend Parris.

The old woman was unsure if she believed everything that Tituba had told her about Reverend Parris—like the business of his having either stolen or killed Tituba’s infant at birth—and that it was his child—but Goode understood why the black servant hated her master. “Tit’shuba hates ’im ’cause what Parris done to her. Same as me—took her child same as my Dorcas.”

Goode’s candle flickered against a pinched, prune-dried face. The bowlegged Sarah must push and pull her weight on legs reluctant to take her the final step. It was, after all, a grave undertaking she had planned: to strike hard at a minister. A plan that would take her into the dark arts far deeper than ever she had practiced before—to commit witchcraft on a child.

This last reluctance held her; perhaps she ought not to do what her anger dictated. Perhaps she should show a measure of Christian forgiveness, mercy. But when she looked for such things as pardon and clemency, all she found were the vilest of Christian curses to hurl at the Reverend Mr. Parris.

In fact, none of the simple curses would do. Nothing as mundane as ‘may your dog ne’er hunt, may your pig ne’er grunt, may your cow ne’er milk, nor your worms e’er silk; may your lock ne’er latch, the wind take your thatch. Things had gone far beyond such humdrum incantation, and Goode had tried all the more tedious hexes on Parris, but the man’s protection proved strong against the commonplace. Besides, murderous thoughts had come of an old woman’s rage. So murderous and heinous that for days now, her incantations had continued nonstop. She’d gone without sleep.

She stopped in her machinations long enough to mutter another curse—this one the strongest yet directed at the minister’s heart: “May the hot coals of your hearth, Mr. Parris, fall ‘pon your home and burn your heart! May your legs go lame, and your ugly soul perish in flame! May your wife shrivel and die as winter grass, and may your children’s catechism turn to the Devil’s class.”

She ended with an aged tear escaping her left eye.

“No damming curse is ’nough,” the crone muttered. “A curse alone’ll not do. Not for the likes of you. Damn you for stealing wee Dorcas from me.”

She recalled how the minister had handed Dorcas over to a parish family to become a maidservant—used as a wee slave by strangers! “To learn a trade,” the minister had said.

Sarah knew better; it was outright theft of a child from her mother, and the minister had taken coin for placing Dorcas—as addled and sick a child as her. “Old Porter’ll use her badly, sure. But he’ll be cursed next!” She spat the names of villagers she hated. “Parris, Porter, Putnam—all three . . . the Devil take all of thee.”

She placed the candle on the floor at the northeast corner. There she had safely hidden the instruments of her witchcraft. She worked to loosen the board, and from below it, she snatched up the long knitting needles all wrapped in linen. Below these, she located her book of spells, and below the book, the doll exactly where she’d hidden it on her last trek to Swampscott. She stared now at the well-crafted doll, so lifelike…its blue eyes and corn silk hair reflecting in the weak candle glow. One strand the girl’s true hair.

Cackling in delight, Goode came away from her kneeling position with all of her necessities balanced in her arms. Duck-toeing to the center of the room, she placed each item onto a low-standing oaken table. Here the shining, winking needles acknowledged her like an old friend, and why not? She had used them many times before to make an enemy suffer.

But this was the first time she’d set out to harm a child, and a minister’s child at that. It gave her pause. Then Goode lifted her longest needle to her eyes, and it spoke to her, whispering the words: use me.

The gleaming long needle wanted using. The feel of it against her palm said so.

With leathery jowls roiling, Goode’s jaw worked in a habitual circle, her tongue rolling tobacco around her gums. A brown drool escaped from time to time, soup spatter about her chin. Tobacco held healing powers. This her sore gums attested to daily. She would trade her last table scrap for a wedge of ’bacca.

She now opened the tattered little book of spells, leafing through to find just the thing to harm Reverend Mr. Parris, the lying-thieving-bastard. She spied the right page and flattened the yellowed edges, creasing the pamphlet with aged thumbs. She scanned the ancient Latin words she’d memorized as a child from her mother before her, because Sarah could only read a handful of words.

The doll’s ruffled dress moved. A breeze . . . cracks in the old cabin walls accounts for it, Goode decided when the frilly dress stilled. Another strange wind threatened her candle and lifted the book page, flapping it ever so gently as if by an invisible hand or fairy. Now a stronger gust blew into the cracks, threatening to extinguish the candle.

She attempted to save the candle from going out, but the page tore from the book, lifted and wafted off and below the table.

Is Reverend Parris at the window? Is he before his fire, sending forth his familiars to bedevil me even as I mean to bedevil him? Is the man in black a blackhearted wizard himself? Could he be causing me to lose my page and my calm?

“A pox on ye!” she shouted the habitual chant before bending, reaching unsteadily, and finally crawling below the table for the page. The page regained, she groaned with her rising. Upright, a hand on her backside, her eye went from window to door, half-expecting to see it broken in, followed by men and lanterns and dogs come to drag her to the nearest tree. All with Parris overseeing her hanging. She imagined herself squealing, kicking, fighting to no avail until choked to death, her neck broken.

But all remained silent. Just the wind kicking up.

Her hazel eyes went directly to the blue eyes of the doll again. Warm blue pools so like the minister’s daughter, wee but plump Betty Parris.

“Gawd but that clever Andover blacksmith put so much of you into the likeness,” she said to the empty cabin. “He did fashion you well, my Betty. Even got your dimples down. Gaw’d blind me, if you ain’t-a-spittin’ image.”

Trembling in anticipation of her full-blown magic and the results of her witchery, Sarah smiled her toothless grin. The witch held the doll against her breast, sobbing over it, asking its forgiveness, calling it by the child’s name as she did so. “Forgive me, Betty, dear.”

She held it against the table with one hand while her other lifted overhead and sent the longest needle into the doll. The needle deeply and evenly penetrated the soft, balsa wood belly. She brought the likeness, needle and all, up close to her mouth and kissed its lifelike lips, noting how extraordinary the little nostrils appeared, so real in the candle glow. As if breathing on its own…a pained breathing… and those eyes . . . vacant and innocent, had they been painted brown, the doll might be a likeness of her own Dorcas.

Sarah felt the pang of onrushing emotion. She freely cried for the child, Betty, and she cried for her missing Dorcas. “I didn’t ask for this trouble between your father and me, child,” she told the doll. “Twas all his doing! First excommunicating me from that damned church, and then stealing my Dorcas! And cloakin’ it in the goodness of his parish duties! Lying swine. Sold my Dorcas into slavery is what he’s done! Money changed hands!”

She jammed another long needle into Betty’s likeness. Tearfully, Goode cried out, “The sins of the father are visited ’pon the child! Not my rule! Not my sins.”

She heard the doll whisper, I understand, Goodwife Goode.

Goode rammed another needle into the doll.

The doll winked at her under the candle glow as if to add, Father’s left you no choice.

Chapter Two

Watch Hill, outside Salem Village, same time

Jeremiah Wakely in black riding cape reined in his pale horse and brought the gray-speckled mare to a soft trot. He and Dancer rounded the base of the gravelly hill that Jeremy recognized as Watch Hill. Must be careful . . . discreet. He urged the horse now up the gentle slope beneath the moonlight. Must arrive in Salem Village without notice. “Perhaps an impossibility?” he asked the horse, leaning in to pat the animal.

As Jeremiah and his horse Dancer scaled the ancient hill, he wondered if it had not been a mistake to make this pact with Mather. Wondered if he shouldn’t ‘ve told both ministers the previous night—and in no uncertain terms that he was…what? Uncertain? “Hardly strong enough language for what ails ye tonight, eh, Wakely?” he spoke aloud to himself in the cold night air. Any moment now, he expected to see Higginson coming up the other side of this wretched hill, but so far no sign of the man.

In a pace that stirred so much emotion in Jeremy, he wondered if the Mathers, and now Higginson, had not placed their confidence in his ability to remain neutral and above the fray possible. An attitude necessary to accomplish what amounted to a conspiracy against Reverend Parris. Am I the right man for this affair? Suppose the others are wrong? Suppose I’m the worst possible choice for this grim and complicated undertaking? Am I up to it?

Then there was the fear that had welled up and engorged his heart with every hoof beat bringing him closer to Salem and Serena. His mind played over this fear…played over the moment that he’d most assuredly again lay eyes on her.

The feel of the white steed beneath him sent a slow and easy rhythm through Jeremiah. A calm had settled over man and horse after the full gallop from Boston. Nonetheless, Jeremiah could feel the animal’s heart racing still—a kind of chant, reminding Jeremiah of his mission, its gravitas and significance. More rumor than fact but in earlier attempts to unseat Samuel Parris, people had fallen gravely ill and others had died—some said of poison, some pointed to poisoned thoughts, while others cried witchcraft! After all, a minister who practiced magic was not altogether unheard of in Salem as people there recalled Reverend George Burroughs who on occasion had performed magic tricks and displays of so-called superhuman strength at the altar.

Coincidence or not, the latest and most outspoken of Parris’ critics was none other than Rebecca Nurse, Serena’s mother, who—if word could be believed was herself abed with a condition bordering on death. Of course, there might be no connection whatsoever, but it smelled mightily to some, and it raised suspicious minds to a fevered pitch, especially as Serena’s father, Francis, had also been an outspoken member of the group opposing Parris. Odd for certain, yet not surprising that Serena’s family—serious churchgoers—would be in the thick of any parish business. It amounted to yet another reason why Jeremy questioned his ability to pass fair judgment one way or the other.

Regardless here he was, poised to enter the fray himself. And regardless of how he was selected or why, he’d soon enter that cursed village of ill memory; enter it along a dirty cow path west of Ipswich Road.

Man and horse reached the summit of Watch Hill, a place where once, as a boy Jeremiah Wakely worked for the village and room and board at Deacon Nathaniel Ingersoll’s Inn and Apoethcary. As a scrawny boy, Jeremy guarded the entire expanse of what had been called Salem Farms. He stood watch, prepared to torch a bonfire and to ring a huge bell so large it’d been mounted on a heavy oaken frame. Jeremy had been proud in those days—acting as eyes and ears against the then troubling pagans of the bush as Ingersoll, his overseer, had routinely called the native Massachusetts Indians.