Salem

PILOT: PART TWO.

SALEM

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JULY, 1692. SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS.

MANY YEARS AGO.

It has been several months since Sarah Good was finally taken in for her crimes. She never doubted that she wronged the other witches, but she never wanted her child to be blamed as well.

The girl was too quick for her own good; while she had cleverly figured certain tricks from the examples of those around her, it was not looked upon well. As soon as Sarah was taken for her transgressions, Dorothy was next. It was ridiculous to additionally throw the girl into prison, but rationality meant nothing to the paranoid.

Months pass and there she was, still a mere child. Dorothy Good lay curled in her mother's lap, sweating from the heat creeping in between the cracked walls and never departing. The awful cement contraption inflicted nothing but trouble for those with weak immunity. All of the fresh air gradually left the small cell, and all of Dorothy's fragile health left her body. Not much could be done but pretend it was not happening.

"Mama," The maiden murmured miserably, "When can we leave this place?"

Sarah dipped her head down to rest it on top of the child's. "You remain unwell?"

"It feels so," She whimpered.

Sarah sat up, brushed her child's matted hair back, and put a hand to her forehead. After a brief pause, the mother's brows worriedly creased together. She spoke, "I refuse to believe they see not what is wrong with you. You overheat."

"They say I live on. It is only warm outside."

"They lie." She sighed and withdrew her hand. She looked down at her suffering child only to feel her heart become heavier; all that can be done is to embrace.

Dorothy accepted the affection but desired to escape it only seconds after its gifting. She wriggled from Sarah's arms to say, "Not all is bad, mother. I still see my flowers from here," She feebly stood to go peer through the cell's only outlook to the world: small, highset window. She had to stand on the tips of her toes just for an inch of the sunshine. She pointed, "See the garden?"

Sarah got to her feet to view the claim for herself. She picked up Dorothy as she reached the window to raise her up to it. "Where?" She asked as she placed the child on her shoulders.

Dorothy thrust her hand out again to direct her mother's attention. "There, right beside home. See the foxgloves?"

Sarah squinted before eventually smiling. "I do," She said, "Who is that again?"

"You, as they mean unity. It suited you. " Dorothy smiled and took only but a second to wipe the beading sweat from her forehead, "And over there is the rest of us. Father is the dandelions, as those are lion's teeth and he is brave...and sister is the daisies. Daisies present innocence."

Sarah's smile faded at the mention of Dorothy's sister. The daisies, much like her, were dead. They lay limply in the dirt, forever brown and rotting away. She did not mention the disheartening, but rather cleared her throat and moved forward. "Which represents you?"

"The ginger flower,"

"Quite a proud flower." Sarah remarked.

"We all exist in them somehow."

"You remain far too clever for your age." She laughed before getting a better look at her. She questioned, "Will we all live? Your sister as well?"

Dorothy became solemn at the inquiry. "Those without magic in their blood are unaffected."

Sarah couldn't bare the look on her daughter's face. Reality can be cruel to those who aren't gifted. It's not a matter to think about for too long in these times. She did her best to muster up a hopeful tone, "I suppose it will be just us. I will take what is available."