Only the Stars Know Her Name Page 4

  “Familiars are witches’ companions, animals who can do our bidding. They can be our eyes and ears: our spies. Next full moon, bring the book and something else—a tuft of fur, a snakeskin, or just a thought.”

  Elizabeth tittered and puffed her chest. “I will search the fence posts for gray wolf fur!”

  Tammy beamed. “A wolf you shall have then, Elizabeth. And you, Violet?”

  What would I have? Did I even believe?

  I did have a small token I’d collected on my walks in the woods. When I found it, I couldn’t pass it by and kept it carefully hidden under my mattress, safe from Betty’s and Abigail’s snooping. It was something that reminded me of the night spirits in the forests that Mama told me soared above the trees in her homeland.

  “I–I have a tail feather from a raven. Would that work? Would I really be able to conjure up a raven to do my bidding?”

  Tammy nodded and seemed pleased, as if she’d known all along what I would say. “Bring the book and the feather at the next full moon and I promise you will see through a raven’s eyes as it takes flight at your command.”

  I felt lighter than I had in months. It could all be nonsense and madness, but I felt as though I were taking control of my future. “I will get us a book even if I am whipped to the bone for it!”

  I lifted my head to the sky and peered through the canopy.

  When I am a witch, I will fly into the night sky and I will no longer be Violet Indian or Violet Somebody. I will command the stars to whisper my real name and they will point the way to Mama and Papa.

  A smile lit my face, but then I saw Elizabeth, bedraggled and sunken in her oversized dress. There was no magic lighting up her face at the endless possibilities Tammy was promising.

  My shadows reared and filled me with doubt. Was this all pretense? Was I a pawn in some twisted game of revenge?

  After all, my mother had confessed to casting spells with Elizabeth’s mother—who went to the grave denying such things.

  Perhaps Elizabeth had gotten this Tammy girl to help her strike out. Since Mama was gone, perhaps I was the one meant to suffer for her sins.

  Although I had already given them my promise to get the book, I needed to taste a small bit of sorcery to give me the courage to do it.

  “I need proof,” I stated.

  Tammy scowled. “Proof? Proof of what?”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Show me how to walk in the woods without making a sound. If you cannot, I will not risk my life stealing from the Parris house.”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I will show you.”

  I eyed her and found no pretense on her face, which was now lit up as if it were the sun itself.

  Though perhaps a small thing, what Tammy and Elizabeth had done—sneaking up on me like that in a noisy wood filled with dry leaves and sticks that I’d spent hours upon hours in—well, it did seem truly magical to me.

  No deer walked unheard, and no chipmunk ran quietly through the underbrush. If they could show me that magic, I would know I was not their target.

  Though Tammy was the obvious leader in our newly formed threesome, Elizabeth seemed to find the act of becoming invisible so satisfying, she seemed bursting to show me how to do it.

  Elizabeth grabbed my hands and squeezed them tight. “Since my mother passed, my stepfather has made me feel as if I did not matter—as if I took up space he wished others would. He has no affection for myself or my brothers—I do believe he would be quite satisfied if we would simply disappear.” She looked in my eyes. “So often I would love to do just that. Tammy has shown me what to do—how to become quiet—to slip into the background. It doesn’t always work—”

  “But it does, you’ve just done it,” I said breathlessly, thinking of all the times I would love to have escaped notice in the Parris house.

  Elizabeth’s face opened like a morning glory at sunrise. “Ground your feet to the earth, feel as if you are sending roots deep into the soil, and then break free.”

  “Break free?” I asked. “How?”

  Elizabeth took in a deep breath. “You ground yourself to the earth, sink all your weight into the forest floor, and then breathe in the air, forcing it to lift you on the breeze. Breathe in and be featherlight. Break away from your roots, be as light as a dandelion seed on the wind. Be invisible.”

  Tammy lifted her chin toward the sky and closed her eyes. “Be a thief,” she added.

  I watched Tammy as she took in three deep breaths. Her eyes snapped open as she threw her arms into the air and then took three silent steps toward me.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. My eyes locked on Tammy’s. Could I really do this?

  I imagined sending dark tendrils into the earth. I thought of Mama’s world before they’d stolen her. I thought of birds gliding through the hot air high above the lush forest—I thought of becoming eiderdown—milkweed—dandelion seeds.

  A small gasp left my lips as I felt an updraft lift through me and I took a step.

  My feet seemed not to touch the forest floor. I reached my other boot forward and not a sound or snap answered. My eyes widened, and Tammy beamed. She took her own noiseless steps toward me and clasped my hands.

  “You are a thief who walks on the wind,” she whispered. “A thief with all the world for the taking.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I did see her set a wolf upon her to afflict her.

  —TITUBA, FROM COURT TESTIMONY, 1692

  A week later, I stood staring at the bookcase, staring at the reverend’s book. Earlier this morning, I had seen Elizabeth in town, carrying a basket of eggs to sell. She did not greet me, but she simply tilted her chin slightly to the sky and gave me a questioning look. The moon was growing fuller with each passing day, but I could only give my head a tiny shake. Her face pinched in disappointment.

  I wished I could tell Elizabeth that stealing the journal was an unnerving task. Had the job been assigned to her, she would likely be quaking in her boots. Simply passing the bookshelf as I set the table for meals filled me with such dread that my hands trembled as I filled the glasses with cider.

  I held out my hand; the welt had turned from an angry red to a tender purple. After dinner last night, as I scrubbed the stains from the tablecloth, Reverend Parris switched my hand with one sharp strike and threatened worse if I continued to mar the linens.

  I rolled my eyes to the heavens. The reverend could switch me all he wanted, but thankfully he could not read my mind and discover I was plotting an act of thievery. I walked over to the shelf and ran a shaking finger down the book’s spine. There was only one spare journal sitting wedged between his Bibles and a handful of other books, and I knew his hawkish eyes would notice its absence as soon as it was gone.

  If I could even work up the courage to take it.

  Did I really dare?

  The journal he currently used for his sermons was steadily filling up and it would only be a matter of days before he took the new one—the only one—from the shelf. I had to act quickly, as it could be months before he purchased another.

  But if that book were found in my possession, I feared I’d suffer more than just a whipping.

  I wished I could talk to Tammy. Surely, a girl like that would know just how to steal a book without getting caught. I had to believe that Tammy would simply up and take it and walk right out of the house.

  I looked down at the darkening bruise on the top of my hand, and a thought I’d been sitting on got up and raced around my head.

  What if Tammy was a storyteller like Mama? She might be laughing this very moment about how she’d tricked me into stealing a book with her false promises of magic and finding my parents.

  I touched the book and closed my eyes. I had so many questions about so many things.

  But there was Elizabeth and Tammy teaching me to walk in the wood without so much as a branch snapping under foot. I felt as if I were as light as a chick and could have been carried off on the slightest breeze.


  I certainly couldn’t explain the power that coursed from Tammy’s fingers.

  I had felt that; it was as real as the heat lightning in a summer storm.

  And there was Mama. In court she talked of Sarah Good with a yellow bird. Was that bird Sarah’s familiar?

  “Violet,” Mistress Parris called out as she descended the stairs with Betty and Abigail trailing behind.

  I blinked and rushed to the hearth to put as much distance between me and the shelf as possible.

  They were wearing their visiting clothes. I looked down at their polished boots, praying my guilty thoughts weren’t written on my face.

  She picked up her Bible from the table and seemed to pay me no mind. “We are to call on the Walcotts on behalf of the reverend to inquire about their absence from the last four services. The reverend and Thomas will be home at five, so be sure to have dinner on the table when they arrive.”

  Her eyes drifted to the switch leaning on the wall next to me. “God frowns on carelessness, Violet. I expect the linens will not be stained tonight; your mother certainly never spilled a drop.”

  “Or let the porridge stick to the bottom of the pot,” Betty added with a smirk.

  I stared at her, wondering when she’d become so like her mother—so unlike the Betty I had known.

  Abigail snickered at Betty’s comment. “Or let the corner of the blanket hang off the mattress,” she added, looking down her nose at me.

  Mistress Parris sniffed as she made her way to the door. “Yes, it’s a good thing your mother is not here to witness your sloppiness; she’d be greatly disappointed in you.”

  Disappointed? My stomach roiled with anger.

  Betty glanced at me with wide eyes as heat seared my cheeks. Her mouth opened, and I thought she might say something, but then she looked away.

  I had been making small acts of defiance since we got back from Gloucester—a blanket not properly tucked in; porridge left on the hearth a minute too long—nothing so grave that it should get me whipped. But to hear her say it was a good thing Mama wasn’t here cut me to the quick.

  Would Mama be disappointed in me? I felt the shadows I carried within me send their tendrils deeper inside my body and I wondered if there was any light left in me at all.

  “Mistress Parris?”

  Mistress Parris turned from the page she’d opened in her Bible. “Yes, Violet?”

  “I do not think my mother would be disappointed in me, and I am sorry she is not here to prove you wrong.”

  Mistress Parris’s eyes widened for a second before narrowing into two indignant slits. “I disagree,” she said curtly, and I cursed my bravado as my legs turned to churned butter. “And it is the reverend who is the sole judge of the quality of your work. I will see that he discusses his opinions with you this evening.”

  I bowed my head to keep from melting under the heat of her gaze. While Mistress Parris was not one to shout, her quiet anger was as powerful as Tammy’s bottled lightning.

  “Let us go, girls, we have God’s work to do.”

  “Why do we have to go?” Abigail groaned. “This has none to do with us.”

  I glanced up in time to see Mistress Parris swat Abigail across the cheek with the back of her gloved hand. “Because the reverend wants us to impress upon them the harm that can come from not attending services and obeying God’s will. Do you have any other questions, Abigail? Perhaps you have something you’d like to add, Betty?”

  The girls shook their heads, and Mistress Parris clutched her Bible to her breast. The three of them walked past me as if I were a phantom, invisible to their eyes. As soon as the door shut, I suddenly knew what I would do.

  This phantom would take the journal, and the girls who had been responsible for Mama being thrown in prison, they would feel the switch tonight. Tonight, stained linens would be the last thing on the reverend’s mind, and I would be one step closer to finding Mama and Papa.

  I walked to the window and watched the three women make their way down the dusty road. Once out of sight, I turned and stepped slowly toward the shelf. My resolve wavered the closer I got, but I willed myself to keep moving.

  “Be like Tammy,” I whispered, my eyes focused on the book. “Be strong so you take control of your life.”

  With a trembling hand I reached for the journal. I wasn’t sure when the reverend would notice it was gone. I ripped four pages out and then hurriedly wrapped the book in an oilcloth and raced toward the woods to hide it, praying my plan would work.

  It had to.

  My life depended on it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  At five o’clock sharp, Reverend Parris and Thomas entered the house. I had taken extra care cooking and seasoning the stew. Each spoon lay perfectly straight on the carefully folded napkins, and even though my body had felt like it could shake into pieces, not a drop of cider marred the white table linen.

  The reverend did a quick assessment of the main room. Abigail and Betty had just put their stitching away and were making their way to the table as Mistress Parris was hastily folding her apron. It took every ounce of self-control to not glance at the bookshelf, and I slowly exhaled when his attention settled on his wife.

  “What word do you have from the Walcotts, Mrs. Parris? Shall I expect them for this Sunday’s worship?”

  She sniffed as we all took our places at the table. “Apparently, the gout has struck Mr. Walcott and Mrs. Walcott insists she can’t leave him alone to attend worship all day. I must say Mr. Walcott did not seem much afflicted to me, but I delivered your note of warning that should they remain away, litigation may be taken. I pray they will have a change of heart.”

  “Change of heart?” he asked, one eyebrow rising in puzzlement.

  She smiled weakly and dipped a ladle into the stew. “I did not secure a promise they would be in attendance for your next service.”

  His nostrils flared. “Did you impress upon them the importance of attending worship? Did you speak of God’s anger to see their empty seats week after week?”

  “I did my best, but you know my words do not carry the same weight as yours.”

  She filled the bowl, avoiding his steely gaze. “But Mr. Walcott did impress upon me that he has had many visitors to his home and all have said that attendance for worship is down. He said his empty seat would be . . . hard to pick out amongst all the others.”

  The reverend slammed his palms on the table, and cider spilled from the cups. Mistress Parris flinched, and a large blob of stew splashed onto the white linen cloth.

  “Careless woman, look what you’ve done!” he boomed, his gaunt face reddening.

  Thomas, Betty, Abigail, and I all froze as the reverend rose swiftly and stalked toward Mistress Parris. It was no secret the reverend had never been a well-liked man and the town’s opinion of him was made all the worse by his part in the witch trials. It was also no secret that doing God’s work had not spared him from having a fiery temper.

  He snatched the ladle from her hand and flung it across the room, where it clattered against the hearth. “Why do I bother to send you as a messenger of the Lord if you cannot impress upon a simpleton such as Mr. Walcott that those who care not for me should still be attending worship!”

  He turned and grabbed his journal from the desk. Breathing heavily, he looked toward Betty. “Fetch the ladle and see that you prove to be less clumsy than your mother and our useless servant.”

  “Yes, Father.” Betty rose slowly from the table and then shooed away the dog, who was licking the ladle clean. As she rinsed the ladle in a bowl of water, the reverend walked back to his place and set the journal next to his napkin. By the time Betty came back to the table, the reverend’s breathing had slowed, and he spoke matter-of-factly as if he had not just behaved in a most unholy manner.

  “I have decided to change the topic of Sunday’s sermon to stress upon the community the importance of worship no matter the feelings for who is leading it. And what have I done that was
so grievous? Ask for a decent salary? Ask for the kindling that is stipulated in my contract? When was the last time someone had even a stick to spare for the man who speaks for God?”

  He smiled coolly, gesturing to the table. “At least I can be thankful for this meal to share with my family.”

  The reverend folded his hands together and we bowed our heads. “We thank thee our Lord for this bounty and pray that the Walcotts come back to our fold. I beseech You to also guide the Tarbell, Nurse, and Lewis families back into Your good graces, so we may see them at services as well. And lastly, we thank You, Lord, that You have seen fit to secure our Thomas an apprenticeship with Reverend Increase Mather. Amen.”

  Mistress Parris’s head popped up in surprise and she reached a hand to her son’s arm. “Oh, that is blessed news! Our Thomas is to be a minister, too!”

  Thomas nodded, but his face did not mirror her obvious pleasure. Over the years, the reverend had pushed pencils and books on his son, but it was Betty who was more interested in the written word. Seeing her curious about what the marks on the pages of his Bible were, the reverend had indulged her and educated her alongside her brother until Betty told some of her friends. As word spread, the reverend chastised her for having a loose tongue and ended her lessons, telling her she should concentrate on “women’s work.”

  It was because of Betty that Abigail and I could write our names.

  When her parents were out of the house, Betty would teach us the letters of our names in the ashes or with a stick in the dirt out in the yard. Eventually, Betty acquired a slate that she kept hidden from her parents, but even Mama had learned to write a capital T in white chalk.

  But I knew Thomas’s heart was not found in the pages of a book, as he seemed to prefer the feel of a hammer in hand, often working side by side with Papa. They never talked much, but Thomas—unlike the reverend—appeared to prefer the same quiet Papa did.

  “It is fortunate I have a spare book for you to gather your thoughts, Thomas. I will implore the town to give heartily at the next service so I can purchase a new one for myself.”