Winds of Salem (7 page)

Eggs lifted from the hay inside the chicken coop, flying into her basket as the hens let out surprised clucks. Next, she rounded the farm to the lean-to structure, where she would check on the fermenting hops, bottle some ale for supper and dinner, then churn the butter, using witchcraft to get it all done quickly. She was full of energy, her incantations leaping from her lips in winding whispers. She had no idea where the words came from—she just knew them. They made her light-headed, intoxicated. Perhaps love enhanced her magic.

On her way to the lean-to, she heard her name in a loud whisper.

“Freya!”

Nate!
He was here!

She turned and walked toward the voice. It came from a copse of leafy trees. She heard a branch crackle underfoot, and James Brewster stepped out from the shadows, his clothes rumpled. He took her in with a deep breath.

“Oh, James!” Instantly, she was embarrassed by the disappointment in her tone. She was, of course, delighted to see James.

“Freya!” said James again.

She remembered her agreement with Mr. Putnam to exercise utmost discretion regarding her and Nate. She wasn’t about to
betray her benefactor. Mr. Putnam was so kind, and she must remain loyal and not say a word about her engagement.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I was on night duty at the watch house, so I am returning to the Brooks farm to get some sleep.” He yawned, covering his mouth, and stretched his arms. His cotton shirt lifted, revealing a smooth swath of skin. Freya blushed. He beamed, his eyes glinting. He was as handsome as Nate, to be sure.

“I see! You were the one to keep us safe in our beds.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Safe from the
savages
!” He widened his eyes. “I don’t quite see them that way though. I rather like those savages.” He put an index finger to his lips and made a shushing sound, and winked at her.

Freya made a face. “If people heard you, James, they might accuse you of idolatry or even devil worship!” she teased. She was one to speak. If only people had seen what
she
had just been up to.

“Smart you are!” he said. “Very modern!”

“Modern?” The word was familiar to her, but she couldn’t remember what it meant. She knew she had heard it a long time ago, somewhere in her foggy past.

“Ahead of the times,” James explained.

“Like you,” she said keenly.

“Perhaps,” he allowed with a small smile.

She was going to ask him more but heard noises from the house. The family would wake soon and Mercy would be out here as well. She felt a strong affection for James suddenly. Nate’s dear friend and Mercy’s love. Perhaps one day the four of them would be as close friends as she and Mercy were. Freya would like that.

Without thinking, she pulled him close and kissed him on the cheek.

“Well!” he said, shocked.

Laughing, Freya spun away and ran back to the farm.

north hampton

the present
new year’s eve

chapter seven

What Dreams May Come

“Hey, what’s going on?” came a low rumble at the end of the line.

The sudden sound of Matthew Noble’s voice made Ingrid Beauchamp’s pulse quicken, even after all this time. “Hey, Matt,” she said. “It’s going.” In the background, she heard the sounds of the North Hampton Police Department: papers shuffling, phones ringing, the kind of laughter that went along with work horseplay, static crackling from a walkie-talkie, and a guy whining about his stolen car. Detective Noble was still at the precinct and Ingrid hadn’t left work either. After all the librarians had gone home—including Hudson Rafferty, the world’s oldest intern and her dearest friend in the world, the hugely pregnant Tabitha Robinson, and a few new clerks—Ingrid had locked the front doors, turned off the lights, and retreated to her archivist’s office at the back.

“You haven’t answered any of my calls. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” he said.

“I’m so sorry.” She glanced at her cell and saw that he had
tried earlier and also left a text. She must have forgotten to turn the ringer on her phone back on after closing up shop.

“Hmm,” reflected Matt, “why do I keep hearing that from you lately, Ingrid?”

They usually checked in with each other as soon as library hours ended, if not before, but ever since December when Freya had been whisked back to Salem through the passages of time, their relationship had been placed on a permanent hold. It barely even had a chance to begin. It was January, a few days after New Year’s Eve, which had been a grim celebration at best, and Ingrid could not afford any distractions. There was too much at stake—who knew what was happening to Freya back there? Ingrid was consumed with books on seventeenth-century Salem Village politics, before, during, and after the witch-hunt fervor. There was no time to return calls or texts, much less for a relationship.

Ingrid couldn’t help but revisit Freya’s last moment before she was taken, that awful night at Mother’s house. Her sister had been standing by the fireplace, still in disbelief over how Killian had been torn away from her just as she had found him again after centuries of pining. Freddie, their brother, had reassured his twin that they would do everything to find Killian and bring him back. But Freya had not answered; instead she had turned silent, her eyes filling with shock. She appeared to be staring at something that terrified her. Her bright green eyes had clouded over, becoming dull, as her face blanched. She gasped and choked. It all happened within seconds. Ingrid had risen to her feet, moving forward to help. But there was nothing anyone could do. As Freya brought her hands to tug at her neckline, Ingrid saw the invisible rope cutting into her throat, squeezing it and leaving a red mark.

Then she was gone. Her sister was gone.

Ingrid knew what had happened the minute she had seen the rope burn at her sister’s neck. Gallows Hill, 1692. When the two of them had hanged for witchcraft. It was happening all over again. Somehow, someone wanted Freya back there. Back to Salem Village and all its horrors.

Ingrid pulled the rubber band out of her hair to lessen the pinch at her temples. She anxiously scratched at her scalp. “I keep saying sorry, Matt, because I
mean it.
You know I wish I could be spending my time with you instead, but I can’t, not until we find her. But don’t worry, I think I’m getting closer.”

“The dreams?”

“Yeah, I had another one,” she said, and shuddered.

“Ingrid? You okay?” asked Matt.

No, she wasn’t. She had drifted off again while talking to him. “You know, I don’t think it’s fair to you to be with me when I’m so distracted.”

Matt let out a breath. Ingrid wished she could feel the warmth of it against her face and neck. She felt herself almost give in and tell him to pick her up so they could spend the night together. Instead a silence hung between them, fraught with tension.

Her love for Matt had not waned. If anything, she loved him more than ever—for his patience and always being there when she needed a shoulder to lean on, solid as a pillar. He encouraged her when she lost hope of finding Freya, and was as helpful as a mortal could be in this situation. He didn’t understand everything about her background or her family, but he had accepted her for what she was. A witch.

“Why don’t you give me a call when you’re wrapping things up?” Matt said. “I’ll pick you up and drive you home.”

She stared at the books piled on her desk, all different sizes, stacked in towers, then the one open under the circle of light cast by the desk lamp. “I don’t know… I’m not sure when I’ll be
finished. I wouldn’t want to hold you up or wake you if you’ve gone to bed.”

He laughed. “Come on, I just want to see you. Anyway, I’m still at the precinct doing paperwork. We just wrapped up a case.”

“While I didn’t even ask how you’re doing… I’m so sorry.”

“There you go again. I’m fine.”

“I really miss you,” she said, but even as she did, she’d grown distracted by the pile of books in front of her.

Matt was silent. “Let’s talk later,” he said.

“I promise this will get better, and we can spend more time together.”

“Sure.” He remained on the line but was silent.

She waited a little longer but that was it, so she said good-bye, and they hung up without saying their usual “I love you”s. Ingrid felt empty and awful from the way the conversation had ended. Their relationship was constantly being stalled by something or other. She lowered her head and began to read, then realized she had read an entire page and not retained a word. Because what if Matt grew used to her absence and stopped missing her altogether? The poor guy couldn’t wait forever, could he? He couldn’t wait forever for her to… well, to sleep with him, for one. They weren’t teenagers. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. She wanted him more than anything. He was the one for her. Except, there was just one thing.

He was mortal.

He would only get hurt, or she would, there was no getting around that. She would only pretend to age, but he would die, leaving her alone forever. While Matt seemed to accept her differences easily, it was a revelation to Ingrid to find she was the one with doubts, perhaps because she knew exactly what their relationship would mean for her in the end. So she had pushed him away, using Freya’s disappearance as an excuse.