31 Birdie #2
“Grimoires are the sacred recording of a witch’s magic, often full of spells unique to them.
Now, sometimes, a grimoire is preserved by a witch’s coven or their family and passed down.
But burying a witch with their grimoire is seen as a sign of respect, a way of letting them carry their magic with them to the life beyond. ”
Jasper’s warnings about Ezra being a grave-robbing treasure hunter finally make sense.
He’s quite literally looking for bodies so he can take what was buried with them.
Seen through the lens of an archaeologist, it’s just the job.
But through the eyes of a grieving family member?
I can see why the families hate this project so much. And why Jasper wants it stopped.
Howe’s expression is alight with hopeful anticipation.
“Imagine it, Birdie. Not only could we prove incontrovertibly that these women are the same founders who died as suspected witches—making them the first killings of their kind on this continent. We could prove that witchcraft was indeed practiced here in the colonies. I believe these women were real practicing witches. Imagine what their grimoires could mean for deepening our understanding of seventeenth-century witchcraft in America.”
My mind hums like a hive of bees. “So . . . you want the bodies to prove how they died . . . and the grimoires to prove how they lived?”
He beams at me. “Exactly. Birdie, you get it.”
“And you’ve told the Raven Hill Group your theory, right? That’s why they agreed to support you on such flimsy evidence? Because they think you’re going to uncover some holy grail that will unlock the study of early American witchcraft?”
He smiles like he’s holding back a secret. “Let’s just say they’re believers.”
God, this is a mess. He’s supposed to be my adviser, right?
Why do I feel like I’m the one having to play the grown-up here?
“Look, it’s clear you’re really passionate about this project .
. . but it sounds like the ethics review board is going to shut you down long before you ever get as far as digging up a body.
Or a grimoire. You said they only gave you one more week—”
“Yeah, which is why I have to find this journal! Everything hinges on it, Birdie.”
“Okay, well . . . where it is?”
“I don’t know,” he says on a groan. “I’ve torn these archives apart looking for it. That’s where you come in.”
“Me? What the hell am I gonna do?”
He grabs the back of my chair, keeping me from wheeling away. “You’re gonna find it for me. It’s here, Birdie, I know it.”
I glance around, confused. “In the archive?”
“No, on the island. If I were you, I’d start with Mercy Bartlett. She owns the Carousel, that little antique shop next to Salt & Sage.”
I tense, picturing the austere woman with the sharp bob and lidded eyes who reminds me so much of an owl. “Why Mercy—”
“She’s William Bartlett’s only child,” he says before I can finish my sentence. “Any family heirlooms should now rest with her. I bet you any money she has it.”
Of course. Bartlett. I should have put that together on my own.
On an island this small, anyone with the same last name has to be considered related until proven otherwise.
And didn’t I meet Ruby Dent at dinner on Friday with Phoebe?
Ruby and Mercy introduced themselves as cousins.
It was all right in front of me already, just staring me in the face.
I look to Ezra. “Why don’t you just go ask Mercy for the journal yourself? Call it a donation to the historical society?”
He laughs. “You haven’t worked that out for yourself yet?
Birdie, the families of the First Five hate me.
They hate my project even more. They think I should never ask questions and leave them all well enough alone.
But history is for everyone. They don’t get to just hoard away the pieces of Burr Island history they don’t want the rest of us to see. It’s not fair. It’s not fact.”
“Maybe they just don’t trust your intentions,” I offer as gently as I can. “You know how people can get about human remains. And these are living descendants. They were always going to have opinions. Strong ones. We have to respect that and accommodate them as best we can, right?”
He groans again. “Yeah, I know. Look, I burned all my bridges with these people years ago, almost as soon as I took over as director. They don’t like any version of history they can’t control.
To them, I’m a total loose cannon. But to you?
A fellow researcher who understands the important of telling all stories, even the difficult ones? ”
“I appreciate your passion, Ezra. And I can even see your logic. But stuff like this doesn’t instill much confidence.” I point at the glowing computer screen.
He’s the definition of contrite as he nods. “I know I put the cart before the horse big time here, Birdie. I admit that. But I also know I’m right.” His expression hardens as he leans in. “Haven’t you ever felt something down to your bones and just known it to be true?”
I say nothing and he presses on. “These women are just waiting for us up in those woods. Four hundred years ago, they were silenced. Burned alive. They were teachers, Birdie. Farmers. Midwives. They helped their neighbors. And those same neighbors turned on them. They deserve a voice. They deserve to be heard. Help me find them? Help me give them back their voice?”
Damn, no wonder Phoebe likes this guy. He may be an administrative mess, but I can’t deny he’s got passion.
I relax a little, glancing around this glittery archive.
It’s hard juggling both sides. Howe is right.
History is for everyone—the parts we like and the parts we wish we could conceal.
But discussing history like it’s an orderly pile of facts is dangerous.
So much of history is merely our interpretation.
It’s like Hortie said last night—it matters who gets to tell these stories.
For too long now, powerful men have presented their version of the past as fact, casually excluding any voices that don’t fit their narratives.
What truths got buried with Be-Good Prescott?
What could finding her finally bring to light?
At the end of the day, I worry that concealing these women’s stories for the sake of the families doesn’t actually protect them.
All it does is protect the system that put them in the ground.
“What if I can’t find the journal?” I hedge. “What if Mercy won’t give it to me?”
Howe shrugs, clearly delighted I’m even considering it.
“Well, then the review board shuts me down next week and you and I will spend the rest of the summer digitizing the waterlogged boxes in the basement. Just—please—” He reaches for me, his expression almost pained in its hopefulness.
“Try, Birdie. Will you do that for me? Will you ask Mercy? If she says no, that will be the end of it. But someone other than me has to try. Please.”
Sighing, I nod. “All right. I’ll try.”
He pumps his fists in the air. “Yes—”
“I’ll ask Mercy Bartlett one time to see the journal,” I say over him. “But I am not about to badger these people for you, Ezra. You burned your bridges for the sake of your research. Don’t expect me to burn mine too.”
He nods, stepping back. “Right. You got it. Of course I’ll respect your boundaries.”
We stand there, staring awkwardly at each other. Howe bounces slightly on the balls of his feet, brimming with anticipation.
“What?” I finally say.
Groaning, he shrugs, glancing towards the glass doors. “I mean . . .”
“You want me to go and ask her now?”
“Hey, no time like the present, right?” All his boyish charm is back. “Our clock is just sort of ticking. We only have, like, a week left. Maybe don’t ask her straight out, you know? Might need to warm her up a little first. Grease the wheels . . . test the waters.”
“Yeah, that’s super helpful,” I deadpan. “Any more advice, loose cannon?”
He chuckles. “Just call me when you’ve got it, okay?” Reaching over the desk, he plucks a business card off a stack by the sleeping computer monitor. “My cell is listed on the back.”
I take the card, tucking it in the front pocket of my jeans. “I’m gonna need some cash.”
“Hmm.” He taps a finger to his chin. “I doubt she’ll take a bribe. And she’d never sell you the thing. Best to expect she’ll just let you look at it.”
“There you go with the advice again,” I tease. “Mercy owns an antique shop, right? You know what greases the wheels of an antique shop owner?”
Groaning, he reaches for his back pocket. “A brass doorknob from that place costs, like, three hundred bucks.”
I smile, holding out my hand. “Well, then you better give me everything you have.”
Muttering under his breath, he empties his wallet. “This better work.”
I tuck the cash in my pocket alongside his card. “No promises. Anything else?”
“Nope. All my hope now rests in your impressive hands. Go show me what you can do, Ms. Rhodes.”
Turning on my heel, I walk away, heading for the glass doors.
The chill from the cellar never really left me.
It shivers down my arms once more as I pass through what remains of the crumbling church doorway.
Howe’s right. Five women died in this building.
Gruesome, awful deaths. After four hundred years, I think they’re owed a little justice.
They’re owed a chance for their story to finally be heard.