Prologue #2
She glanced over to her sister’s sleeping pallet, concerned to find it empty.
Her whiskey-colored eyes tracked across the room, and she found her sister slumped in the rocker by the dying fire.
Hester sighed and dragged her legs out from beneath the warm blankets, wincing slightly as her bare feet connected with the cold, rough floor.
She crossed to her sister and took in her disheveled appearance, frowning when she noted the dried blood marring the side of Bridget’s face from the undressed wound at her temple, and her wet boots from the night before still on her feet.
It was so like Bridey to take care of Hester and neglect herself. Her sister may only have been older by a few minutes, but she took the responsibility of an older sibling seriously, a feeling which had only been compounded by them losing their mother so young.
Bridget didn’t stir as Hester knelt at her feet to unlace Bridget’s boots and remove her wet stockings, frowning at the wrinkled and damp skin.
Then she stoked the fire and added more wood, and as the room began to warm, she retrieved her own now dry wool stockings and carefully slid them onto her sister’s frozen feet.
Retrieving a blanket from her bed, she covered Bridget gently. Although still exhausted, she moved quickly and with purpose as she set more tea to brew before cleaning and dressing Bridget’s wound.
By the time Bridget began to rouse, Hester was standing in front of the fire, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders tightly as she stirred a pot of warmed milk hanging suspended over the fire from a large hook. She added corn flour and continued to stir the thick, mushy pudding.
“You’re awake,” Bridget croaked as she began to rise stiffly from the chair.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Hester gently pushed her back into the rocker. “You did enough last night, Bridey. Let me take care of you.”
Bridget let out a sigh. She slumped back into the chair as Hester scooped the thick, hasty pudding into a bowl and topped it with a generous dollop of molasses.
“Thank you.” Bridget smiled tiredly as she spooned the pudding into her mouth, letting the warmth seep slowly down into her belly. “How are you feeling?”
“About as good as you do, I expect.” Hester gave a wan smile as she filled her own bowl and sat down at the table, spooning the thick mixture into her mouth, her stomach growling loudly.
“You burned up a lot of your strength last night with that spell.” Bridget watched her. “I’ve never seen that kind of power before.”
Hester paused, her spoon hovering in front of her lips. “I’ve never conjured that kind of power before,” she finally answered quietly before continuing to eat.
They finished their pudding, neither much inclined to conversation until Hester finally broke the silence. “I had the strangest dream last night,” she murmured.
“What did you see?” Bridget asked curiously. Hester’s dreams were never just dreams.
Instead of answering, Hester rose from the table, leaving her bowl sitting empty, she moved back across the room and reached beneath her sleeping roll to withdraw something.
“You still have that?” Bridget’s eyes widened slightly and she frowned in confusion.
Hester stared down at the battered old journal in her bandaged hands, her fingers tracing the letters etched into the cover.
Theodore Beckett.
“Why do you still have that, Hess?” Bridget asked. “He’s been dead for years.”
“No.” Hester shook her head slowly. “You’re wrong, he’s not dead, just... not here.”
“What do you mean?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.
Hester once again declined to answer, her eyes distant, lost in thoughts Bridget could only guess at.
She watched as Hester retrieved a small smooth chest made from pink flowering dogwood and reinforced with metal edges.
Lifting the lid, she set the journal inside and closed it up, laying her hand on it.
“By magic seal and magic sake, by magic alone shall this spell wake…” Hester muttered as the wood beneath her palm glowed.
She dropped to her knees and pulled up a couple of loose floorboards, dropping the trunk down into the concealed space beneath to hide it before replacing the planks.
“You’ve seen what is yet to come, haven’t you?” Bridget murmured.
Hester let loose a deep, troubled breath. “I’ve seen a great many things, some still unclear.”
Hester pushed to her feet and crossed the cabin, glancing out of the window with frosted edges and staring contemplatively as the sunlight reflected back from the thick white blanket of snow, which had fallen steadily throughout the night.
“We’re going to have to move on again soon,” Bridget murmured as she too stared out of the window. “The magic we called last night will act as a beacon for miles around. The wounds of Salem are still too fresh in everyone’s minds. It is not safe for us to remain.”
Hester stared for a moment longer before turning her clear gaze on her sister. “We can’t leave, Bridey,” she said softly.
“What?” Bridget tilted her head as she studied her sister. “Why not?”
“Because.” Hester turned back to the window, her gaze veering off toward the heart of the woods and the circle. “It’s our responsibility.”
“You said it would hold.” Bridget rose slowly and crossed the room to stand beside Hester. “The trap is sealed with blood magic.”
“I know.” Hester swallowed tightly. “But I can feel it. I’m bound to this place now. The magic will hold for as long as one of our blood inhabits this land.”
Bridget let out a slow, distressed breath. “Others will come, you know they will.”
“Yes,” Hester agreed. “But not in the way you think. It won’t be like Salem.
Others will come, drawn to this place just as we were.
They’ll feel the power beneath, and they will draw from it.
This will become a haven for our kind, and here, we’ll thrive.
” Hester reached out and grasped her sister’s hand, squeezing reassuringly.
“They won’t be able to harm us, not here. This will become our home.”
“Our home?” Bridget’s lips curved into a small, hesitant smile. “And what will we call our new home?”
“The name came to me in the dream,” Hester muttered. “Something never afforded us, nor others of our kind.” When she turned to stare at her sister, her eyes were filled with purpose.
“Its name is Mercy.”