dulled to the color of coals in the hearth. She spoke softly but clearly. “Come and fetch me, darlings.”
Proctor thought she spoke to him, but at the call of her voice, the crows ceased their circling and swooped out of the sky, crowded together, hundreds of them, talons snatching at the old woman's outstretched sleeves. As if she weighed no more than a threadbare shift, they lifted her from the wagon, new crows constantly dropping through the flock to clutch at her when she slipped from the grasp of others.
Stunned by the sight, Proctor walked onto the trail and stood there in the open, watching her form rise over the trees.
The Quaker woman reacted first. “Who in God's name are you?”
Emerson rose to his feet, his gaze flicking for a secondfrom Proctor back to the sight of the old woman dipping over the tops of the trees. “Brown? What have you seen?”
Jedediah ignored him. Bareheaded, his bald skin blister-red from the fire, he tumbled across the path, snatching up his musket. He rose and aimed it at his diminishing prisoner. The pan flashed, and fire and smoke jetted from the barrel.
At the crack of the musket, the crows dropped the woman in black. She fell toward the trees and then vanished. The crows suddenly evaporated, like a wisp of smoke in a strong wind.
The air was quiet, empty, and utterly still.
Far away, in a pasture in the hills across a river, a cow lowed. The horse lowered its head and began to nibble at grasses that lined the path.
“Don't stand there,” the old man said, reloading his musket and gesturing for Emerson to follow him. “We have to recapture her.”
He set off running toward the spot where the crows had dropped her. Emerson followed, but at a slower pace. Proctor would have sprinted too, eager to help, desperate to learn more, but the Quaker woman stepped in his way.
“Wait, something's wrong,” she said.
“I don't think any of that was right,” Proctor answered. But then, without looking for it, he saw what she meant: a light breeze, coming across the nearby river, had pulled the smoke from the musket one direction. A cloud of mist, low to the ground and no bigger than a person, drifted against the wind and into the forest.
“There,” Proctor said, pointing at the mist. As he pointed, he became aware of a slight tingle, like ants crawling across bare skin, that made him certain he was right. “There she is!”
Emerson said, “Where?” and the old man stopped, twisting back around to see. Proctor was the closest to the mist, and without regard to danger, he ran toward it.
The Quaker woman intercepted him, shoving him aside. The contact shocked him. “Stay back,” she warned.
“But—”
He sputtered, trying to regain his balance. She came toward him, making him stumble backward, preventing him from resuming his attempt to help. Up close, she was much younger than he expected, perhaps no more than three or four years older than he was. Her face was as plain as her clothes.
“This is your fault,” she said. “I don't know how, and I don't know if you're aiding her—”
“I'm not aiding her, but—”
“—or if you're also a British spy, but if any additional ill comes of this, and I find out it is your fault—”
“But—”
“—I will see to it that you itch in places too uncomfortable to scratch for the rest of your miserable life.”
“But she's escaping!”
The mist had vanished completely now, and she was only a small, frail woman, a black wraith dodging through the rough brown trunks. The old man sprinted after her. Emerson followed, pausing as he reached Proctor and the young woman.
“Deborah?” he said.
“I'm fine,” the Quaker woman replied, more calm now than she had been moments ago. “But she must be stopped until we know what she intended.”
Emerson nodded. “This is Mister Brown, one of the local minutemen …”
Deborah said, “You know him?”
“I do. He's no British spy, but served well at the battle—his
Proctor thought she spoke to him, but at the call of her voice, the crows ceased their circling and swooped out of the sky, crowded together, hundreds of them, talons snatching at the old woman's outstretched sleeves. As if she weighed no more than a threadbare shift, they lifted her from the wagon, new crows constantly dropping through the flock to clutch at her when she slipped from the grasp of others.
Stunned by the sight, Proctor walked onto the trail and stood there in the open, watching her form rise over the trees.
The Quaker woman reacted first. “Who in God's name are you?”
Emerson rose to his feet, his gaze flicking for a secondfrom Proctor back to the sight of the old woman dipping over the tops of the trees. “Brown? What have you seen?”
Jedediah ignored him. Bareheaded, his bald skin blister-red from the fire, he tumbled across the path, snatching up his musket. He rose and aimed it at his diminishing prisoner. The pan flashed, and fire and smoke jetted from the barrel.
At the crack of the musket, the crows dropped the woman in black. She fell toward the trees and then vanished. The crows suddenly evaporated, like a wisp of smoke in a strong wind.
The air was quiet, empty, and utterly still.
Far away, in a pasture in the hills across a river, a cow lowed. The horse lowered its head and began to nibble at grasses that lined the path.
“Don't stand there,” the old man said, reloading his musket and gesturing for Emerson to follow him. “We have to recapture her.”
He set off running toward the spot where the crows had dropped her. Emerson followed, but at a slower pace. Proctor would have sprinted too, eager to help, desperate to learn more, but the Quaker woman stepped in his way.
“Wait, something's wrong,” she said.
“I don't think any of that was right,” Proctor answered. But then, without looking for it, he saw what she meant: a light breeze, coming across the nearby river, had pulled the smoke from the musket one direction. A cloud of mist, low to the ground and no bigger than a person, drifted against the wind and into the forest.
“There,” Proctor said, pointing at the mist. As he pointed, he became aware of a slight tingle, like ants crawling across bare skin, that made him certain he was right. “There she is!”
Emerson said, “Where?” and the old man stopped, twisting back around to see. Proctor was the closest to the mist, and without regard to danger, he ran toward it.
The Quaker woman intercepted him, shoving him aside. The contact shocked him. “Stay back,” she warned.
“But—”
He sputtered, trying to regain his balance. She came toward him, making him stumble backward, preventing him from resuming his attempt to help. Up close, she was much younger than he expected, perhaps no more than three or four years older than he was. Her face was as plain as her clothes.
“This is your fault,” she said. “I don't know how, and I don't know if you're aiding her—”
“I'm not aiding her, but—”
“—or if you're also a British spy, but if any additional ill comes of this, and I find out it is your fault—”
“But—”
“—I will see to it that you itch in places too uncomfortable to scratch for the rest of your miserable life.”
“But she's escaping!”
The mist had vanished completely now, and she was only a small, frail woman, a black wraith dodging through the rough brown trunks. The old man sprinted after her. Emerson followed, pausing as he reached Proctor and the young woman.
“Deborah?” he said.
“I'm fine,” the Quaker woman replied, more calm now than she had been moments ago. “But she must be stopped until we know what she intended.”
Emerson nodded. “This is Mister Brown, one of the local minutemen …”
Deborah said, “You know him?”
“I do. He's no British spy, but served well at the battle—his
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