The Vanishing Bookstore
Prologue
PROLOGUE
SALEM, 1692
A dense cloak of darkness fell on this night faster than any I’d ever known, bringing with it a heavy feeling of unsettled dread. The sky outside was dark with the threat of a storm, and it felt as if something was approaching at the speed of an unforgiving fox about to strike its prey. I knew it was coming this way, I didn’t know what, but I knew it was about to wreak havoc on our little cottage and impact my life forever.
I tried to keep my mind busy, stop it from wandering and fretting. As I swept the ash from the floor around the dying fire that I had no desire to rebuild, my stomach was tight, and a sickness over which I had no control lay heavy in my belly. The rack of drying herbs collected by my mother and aunts filled the air of the wooden cottage we called home with soothing aromas of lavender, rosemary and mint. I inhaled deeply, hoping the familiar scents would calm the sickness. My mother and aunts had gathered the flowers from the large herb garden around the back. I loved everything we grew with a passion that sometimes made my chest swell with pride. To take a dried seed from a pod and plant it in the hard earth, caring for it until a tiny green shoot appeared, was satisfying beyond anything I knew.
My favourite were the tiny mayflowers that grew underneath the pine trees, their delicate white flowers and strong leaves were useful for bathing wounds and treating all manner of afflictions, providing a cure for many women’s sicknesses. I often went out on my own to harvest these precious plants with nobody but our pet crow, Hades, for company. Then my aunts would take what we’d lovingly grown and nurtured, turning it into an elixir or tea to help make someone feel better. They were healers and I was learning everything I could so that I could be one too. Weeding and tending the flowers was my favourite chore of all, the freedom working outside under the burning sun gave was like no other. These were happy days.
Of course, I had to keep my head covered with a scarf to protect my silver hair and pale skin, which was prone to turn a deep shade of painful red from the sun. All the English women were blessed with hair the colour of spun silver and emerald-green eyes. The women of Salem village were wary of us, and the men found my aunts mesmerising which we should have known would cause trouble. There is no fury like that of a woman scorned, and although my aunts were not interested in any of those men it didn’t deter them from trying to catch their attention. All they cared about was family and taking care of those who asked for their help when they had no other to turn to.
Tonight, they had been called to help in a matter most urgent and had left in a hurry with a large sack of herbs and tinctures.
I had begged to go with them, but someone had to clean up after supper. I did not grumble, what was there to complain about? I lived in a house with my dearest family close to me, we did not want for warmth or food, love or comfort because, despite the house being filled with only women, we all loved each other with a deep family bond that could never be broken and rarely spoke cross words to each other.
My mother and aunts had left earlier to visit the big house on the edge of the common in Salem town and tend to the captain’s wife, whose maid had come knocking once the sun had set and the swollen, white full moon had begun its majestic rise in the star-filled sky to light the way back through the woods for my family. I had no idea what was wrong with the captain’s wife, and my aunts would not tell me. I did not pry, I knew better, but I knew deep down it must be terrible if all three of them had to attend.
The pounding of fists against the wooden door filled my entire body with a cold fear. Throwing the besom to one side – the sweeping would have to wait – I ran to the door which was bending under the force of the blows to press my hands against it and stop whoever it was from breaking it down. I paused, afraid to open it, then I heard who it was. And the fear in his voice.
‘Isadora, Isadora, open up now. You must let me in, we need to go.’
I threw open the door. The look on his face illuminated by the flickering candlelight made my knees tremble and I had to reach out and lean against the doorframe to steady myself.
‘What’s wrong, Ambrose, why are you here so late?’
He pushed past me. ‘No time, Isadora, listen to me, we need to leave. They are coming and have dogs; we need to get far away from here. I heard them making wicked plans at the meeting house.’
‘Why?’ I stood defiantly watching him as he threw things into the small sack I used to carry things from the market. He didn’t answer, grabbing my cloak from the peg and tossing it to me.
‘If you stay here, you will die.’
I didn’t want to die, of that I was certain, though I knew not why I might. I pulled my cloak on, but as I reached the door I turned and ran back to retrieve my mother’s hand-etched, leather-bound journal from the top shelf. Normally, I was forbidden to touch it, but I felt a pull towards it even as Ambrose urged me on.
I followed Ambrose out into the woods. He ran much faster than I could, but he stopped and took hold of my hand. He did not speak, there was a look of absolute fear etched across his face, worsened by the dark shadows cast where the moonlight did not reach, and I knew then that he was telling the truth. If we did not get away from here, I would die, and he might too for helping me even though we had done no wrong. There had been arrests in the village, some of the women were in the gaols accused of being witches by those spiteful, childish girls even though they were no such thing and tensions were running high. I had thought we were safe from the madness since we lived just beyond Salem village; it seemed not.
‘We have to hide your mother’s book at the bookstore and then get to the cove, my boat, it’s the only way to escape the dogs.’
I was panting, I was not cut out for this. I was strong from tending to the garden, but I was not a runner and I stopped, a sharp stitch in my left side taking my breath away. I bent over double, sucking in air to try and ease the pain. I nodded.
Ambrose’s bookstore was a small wooden cabin that he had built himself two summers ago. It was hidden by the brambles that grew wild around it and impossible to find unless you knew the hidden trail through the woods to it. Puritans believed every person should be able to read the bible or religious texts, they would have been horrified to find the cabin and its stack of books that Ambrose had traded coin for at the busy port in Salem town. He would speak to the passengers and the crew aboard the sailing ships to barter for the books they sometimes brought with them. It was our special place to spend what very little free time we had in it reading, my favourite had been Romeo and Juliet , oh how I’d envied the intensity of their love. Ambrose had once opened his little bookstore to anyone who was in our circle of friends and allowed them to visit to buy a book if they swore to keep the store a secret from their parents, but the threat of them telling had made him realise it was far too dangerous. It was hidden from view and never talked of again except between the two of us.
Even though I could not run fast enough we carried on until we reached the small hidden doorway. The cabin was in darkness, but I could smell the leather-bound books and the ink on the paper. It soothed my soul what little it could for we had no time.
‘Give me your mother’s book.’
Ambrose held out his hands and I knew this was dangerous, not just for me, for my mother and aunts, but also for him. I would be sealing his fate if this cabin was discovered, and I didn’t know if I could do that.
‘Please Izzy, give it to me, we have to be quick. If you don’t get to the boat, they will kill you.’
His words hung between us and I looked at him. I was scared and confused. Why did I need to leave my family? We had done nothing wrong. I passed him the soft, leather-bound book that had been a part of my life for as long as I could remember. My family would be furious to know that I had given it to Ambrose. He wrapped it in a piece of linen then pulled out a loose board and pushed it behind it. ‘It is safe here, no one but you and I know about this place.’
I nodded and then I heard the hounds, their high-pitched howls filling the night air in the distance.
Ambrose cried out. Taking my hand he dragged me out of the cabin onwards through the brambles, the nettles and overgrown trails where no man had walked, so they could not find the path to our sacred place, and we ran as the thorns tore at our skin, stinging and ripping at the soft flesh on my hands and wrists, but he kept on pulling me. He cut a zigzag path through the dense brambles, but kept moving forwards in the direction of the cove and his small boat.
I looked up at him, my heart breaking that this could be the end.
I began to run faster than I had ever run in my short life, wondering if I had put my trust in the wrong people. I knew the man who was hunting me, and I knew in my heart that I would never escape.