Life's A Witch

Prologue

June 10, 1692

It was the day Bridget Bishop was sentenced to die and all she could think about was how she would never get the chance to see her daughter marry. She had had three husbands herself. With each marriage she'd learned something different about love and life, and had intended to share these lessons with her only daughter, Christian, so she might save her from some of the mistakes she herself had made.

For instance, Make sure your husband-to-be has a strong heart, so people cannot accuse you of bewitching him if he suffers an untimely death, she thought with a sigh.

Then again, maybe the first lesson she should have taught Christian was how to go unnoticed. After all, wasn't it the fact that Bridget was considered a wanton woman that had landed her in the dank basement of the local jail, where she was now shackled? Her friends had warned her about wearing red. That the color seemed to elicit a reaction in the men of Salem Town and, of course, annoy the women whose men drooled after her. Not that she was the only one who donned the attention-drawing color-albeit none of them also owned taverns. Several taverns actually, which in the 1600s was somewhat unseemly for a God-fearing woman. Men were usually the ones who controlled the flow of ale, and some thought it distasteful for a woman to be around so many inebriated men.

The thought of work made Bridget begin to fret over what was surely happening without her watchful eye on things. No doubt her barmaids were refilling steins for free and allowing the men to gamble. The places were probably in ruins without her. And likely, not nearly as fun.

But she supposed that soon, all of that would no longer be a concern. In the nearly two months since she'd been arrested on suspicions of witchcraft, time had ceased to exist for her. She never knew what hour it was, her cell had no windows and the criminals were all kept separate. But given the steady flow of visitors she'd had over the past day, she knew that her time must surely be running out.

At least, that's what she'd gathered that morning when the reverend had read Bridget her last rites and asked if she had any confessions before meeting her maker. Bridget's answer had been the same as it had always been: that she'd never done anything in her life to harm another living thing. She'd barely been able to contain her anger as the man of God sighed and shook his head in disbelief, before once again leaving her alone in her cell.

She still had no idea how the situation had gotten so out of control.

Before her mind could once again recollect the sequence of events that had brought about the trials, she heard a shuffling of feet and then the sound of a man clearing his throat from just outside the bars of her cell. Although it was rather dark in the room, she knew who her visitor was without seeing him.

"Reverend Samuel Parris," Bridget said evenly. "What brings thou here? I already had my meeting with the church today . . ."

"You know that is not why I am here, Bridget," Reverend Parris said, walking toward her, the lantern in his hands casting an eerie glow across the cold stony space. He moved forward until his face was just inches away from the bars.

"Come to break me out then, have you?" she asked sarcastically, then snorted.

The reverend didn't answer, but instead looked around the room uncomfortably.

"Oh, come now, Samuel, I know there is aught you can do," Bridget said, her tone turning sad. She looked down at the chains that bound her hands, tugging at them halfheartedly. "I've been trying to get out of these confounded things since they brought me here, but it looks like it will take some serious magic to free me."