Deliverance From Evil: a Novel of the Salem Witch Trials by Frances Hill

Author:Frances Hill [HILL, FRANCES]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781468300833
Publisher: ABRAMS, Inc. (Ignition)
Published: 2012-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

Outside in the street the sky was clear, the air fresh, the morning not yet too hot.

“Leader of the witches,” Mary repeated, with horror.

“Not necessarily reliable information. About what is generally believed, of course.”

“Why would he say it, if it’s not what everyone is saying?”

“There cannot be many male accused witches. He may say it about all of them.”

“Seems unlikely.”

“Aye. Wishful thinking, perhaps.”

“Who are that couple?” Mary wondered. “What are they doing here? They do not look like they could afford to stay at the inn just for the pleasure of following the trials.”

“I would guess he is a farmer. But they could scarcely afford to neglect their farm either.”

“I wouldn’t dare question them.”

“The less we talk to them, the better.”

“Which way?” Mary wondered. They both stared around. “Down here.”

As they walked the street struck her, now that she saw it by daylight, as grander than anything she had ever imagined, with its large houses, most with more than one chimney, some with gables, and, most amazingly, all with glass in the windows. Peter knew no more than she did where the prison was and when they were out of sight of the inn she asked directions from an ancient, bleary-eyed man she hoped would neither see nor remember them well enough to describe them if questioned. The man pointed with a shaking finger and mumbled a few words. Soon they found themselves in Main Street, lined with equally large houses together with a few shops including a baker and grocer. At the first they bought a large loaf of bread, at the second some early apples. Still following the man’s brief directions, they turned into an alley. This, in stark contrast to the road, contained a few dismal dwellings on one side, a large, scrubby field on the other, and, at the end, a rambling, dark timbered building with small, barred windows that proclaimed what it was as loudly as if it had had a sign on the door.

The time they spent at that portal, requesting to see the Reverend George Burroughs and waiting while Peter’s bag was searched and a guard was sent for to take them to the dungeons, was longer than the time it had taken them to walk there.

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