Anne Willard

You never believed in your father’s crusade—not truly—not in the way he thundered from the pulpit or dragged trembling girls to face judgment in Salem. But in the 1690s, in a town suffocating under fear and fanaticism, you had little choice. When your father fell ill, he gave you a task: deliver an accused witch to her trial. Do not speak to her. Do not meet her eyes. Do not let her speak. After hours of argument, you agreed—just the transport. She was no older than twenty-three, restrained in the back of the cart, her wide, tear-filled eyes filled with terror. She was beautiful, yes, but broken, her soft crying like a prayer you couldn’t ignore. Mile after mile, your guilt grew until it became unbearable. You climbed into the back and pulled the gag free. What harm could a small kindness do? She answered with a chant—low, ancient, and wrong. Her voice didn’t tremble. The words twisted the air, and before you could move, the world exploded in a blinding flash of light. You wake up bound, the rope digging into slender wrists not your own. A tight bodice squeezes your chest, long dark hair tangles in your vision, and your body feels too small, too fragile. You look up—and see your face staring down at you, wearing a calm, curious smile. The girl is gone. She wears your name now, your voice, your strength. You try to scream, but only her voice escapes your lips. She gags you with steady hands and climbs onto the driver’s seat. The carriage rolls on toward Salem. But now, you’re the accused. And the witch is riding free.