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mother’s bed and sent her to God.
    “She’s a godly woman,” I said again, as forcefully as I could.
    It was not a lie, but it was not an answer, and I saw that Mary heard it. I saw that faint triumph in her eyes.
    “Why, ’twould be terrible if she is. Can you imagine? Look at the pastor talking to her now. He looks truly lovesick, don’t
     you think? Ah, I should like to see his face when he finds out the truth about her. An actress! In Salem Village!”
    “Hush, Mary,” I said. “’Tis not true, not that I know. How much worse it would be if you were caught telling lies about her.”
    “You don’t know it isn’t true, do you, Charity? You don’t know for certain.”
    “I do know. I’ve talked to her—”
    “She’s an actress. Perhaps she’s dissembling.”
    “No.” I shook my head. “I know her. And even if I didn’t, my father would never allow it.”
    “Perhaps he doesn’t know,” Mary said.
    “Of course he would know.”
    “Why? Do you think your father cannot be fooled?”
    The question was unexpected. I could not answer, and I was dismayed to see that Mary saw it.
    “Perhaps she’s fooled him. Perhaps she’s lying.” The slyness was in her eyes again.
    I told myself to ignore her. Mary had shown her colors to me already. She had been my closest friend once. That was over,
     but I knew how she could turn the most innocent things wicked. I knew how easily she could sway me. I struggled to turn from
     her the way my mother had urged me to.
    She could plant doubt in me only if I allowed her, and I would not. I knew what my father said about actors, what the preachers
     said. The theater was Hell on earth, and stage players were the Devil’s minions. Certainly my father would never permit an
     actress in his own home.
    I turned to Mary, meaning to tell her so, confident in my conviction, when a puzzle came into my head—a small piece, but it
     was disturbing. Then there came another image, and another: the way my father snapped at Susannah as if just the sight of
     her made him angry, the way she spoke to him, without deference or respect, as if she were afraid of nothing. My mother had
     not seen her sister for eighteen years—why was that?
    I glanced to where my aunt walked with Master Parris, suddenly desperate to see her face, to have her smile reassure me. Her
     back was to me, and the preacher was talking to her, and doubt crept like a hard little seed into my heart.
    “You could find out, couldn’t you?” Mary gave me a conspiratorial smile, the one I’d once treasured because it included me.
     “You could ask her.”
    “No,” I said. How faint my voice was. “I’ll do no such thing.”
    “No, of course you would not.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    Mary shrugged. “You would never believe your aunt was something so terrible as an actress, would you? Why, no, of course not.
     You
are
such an innocent.”
    I did not know what to say. I watched her, trying to find her sarcasm, waiting for her blow, but she only smiled and said,
     “Betty’s calling to me, so I’d best run back.” She took a step away, and then she stopped and said, “Oh, Charity, I’ve been
     meaning to ask you for weeks now—’tis so odd the way Sammy just disappeared. So suddenlike. ’Twas as if the Devil himself
     were after him, don’t you think? Or maybe…Maybe ’twas something else altogether. But I imagine you would know that better
     than me.”
    She laughed then and twirled away. I was so stunned I stopped short, and Jude bumped hard into me. Just a word from her, and
     the images I’d tried so hard to forget flooded my mind as if they’d been waiting for the chance. Sammy bending close, his
     hands on my body, the warmth of his breath…
    “Go on, Charity,” Jude complained. “Why are you stopping?”
    Tears came to my eyes, and I dashed them away with the back of my hand and held the rest back by sheer force of will. I pretended
     Mary had not shaken me with her rumors