Freya noticed that the good reverend was preaching against covetousness when just yesterday she and Mercy had brought him the gold candles he had requested for his altar. She glanced at Nate, who rolled his eyes. Was he having similar thoughts? She glanced at Parris for fear they might get caught sending each other these silent missives. Confident that the reverend had not cottoned on to her glances, she looked back at the boys’ pew. This time, it wasn’t Nate who was staring back at her but James.
Later that afternoon, Freya donned a cape, slipped the hood over her head, grabbed her basket, and wandered off into the woods. Once a week, the servants in the Putnam household were afforded an hour for solitary prayer. She wended through the pines, oaks, and beeches down a path, kneeling to pluck an herb or flower now and then. Few dared to venture out so far, knowing the native settlements were near, and the kidnapping of villagers was not uncommon. Freya was not afraid of the natives, however violent the stories she heard. Some called them savages, heathens, or devils. But she had also heard that their white captives often refused to return to their old lives after they were rescued. They preferred the native culture of all things—the freedom from all the rules and codes one had to follow in Puritan society. She had a feeling she would like that freedom as well.
The villagers’ fear granted her privacy and Freya let her mind roam however she wanted. In these woods she was free. She could breathe.
She heard branches crackling and quickly pivoted around. A deer leaped between the trees. She smiled at the doe and continued along the light-dappled path until she came upon a clearing. On the border of the meadow, she found a huge outcropping of stone, where she sat for a bit. She noticed a nearby dog rose bush. She got up and strode over to it. The roses were still just little buds. They would blossom in June, delicate petals the white pink of a maiden’s cheek. Once the petals fell they would turn into rosehips later in the summer—which would make for a good marmalade and a potent cough syrup. Freya reached out, whispering a word she didn’t quite understand, and the little bud came off its stem as if plucked by an invisible hand, dropping into her outstretched palm. She felt a thrill, then caught herself. There was someone behind her. She stood stock-still. Had whoever it was seen what she had just done? Had she been caught?
“Rosa canina,” came a low, soft voice. “That’s what they are called.”
She turned, pricking a finger on a thorn, dropping the small bud. James Brewster stood in the clearing, smiling.
“You pricked yourself!” he said, and took her hand to wipe the blood trickling down her wrist.
“Oh!” she said, taking her hand back and biting on the puncture, squeezing out a last drop of blood from it. “What are you doing here?” she asked, looking up at him.
James spoke hurriedly. “I’m sorry, Miss Beauchamp, I didn’t mean to startle you. Forgive me, I saw you wander off into the woods while Brooks and I were helping Mr. Putnam with the new barn. I had to go to the river to gather stones. When I got there, I saw Miss Lewis with the eldest Putnam girl. The little one fell into the river and hurt herself. She called for you. ‘Only Freya can fix it,’ she said. So I ran until I found you. They fear they will be in trouble from Mr. Putnam as the girl is supposed to be home, tending to the children.”
“Goodness!” said Freya. She gathered her basket, and they quickly made their way across the clearing.
As they walked together, James asked her about herself and Freya told him about how she appeared at the Putnams’ doorstep one day.
“You don’t have family?” he asked.
“Not that I remember. Mrs. Putnam thinks I must have suffered from the pox, which is why I lost my memory.”
“That is grievous indeed. To lose our memory is to lose our identity.”
“I am a fortunate girl,” Freya said. She said it so often she almost believed it. “The Putnams took me in and I have a home here. How do you find Salem, Mr. Brewster?”
“Please, call me James.”
“James,” Freya said with a smile.
“It is… interesting,” he said. “Before we came to Salem, Brooks and I lived in Europe. We are naturalists and are often in the forest, where we study flora and fauna, the multifaceted aspects of nature. In a word: science.”
“Oh dear,” Freya said, eyes sparkling. “I don’t think the reverend would like to hear that.”
“Which is why I can trust you with our secret?” James smiled.
“Of course.” Freya nodded. That he had revealed something so dangerous to her brought a huge sense of relief. Despite having Mercy, she realized how very alone she had been until this moment. As close as they were, she did not think Mercy would understand about the true nature of her gifts.
James smiled at her and she smiled back, thinking that he was indeed very handsome—and perhaps if she had seen him first in the meetinghouse instead of Nate, perhaps her affections would lie with him—but as it was, her heart was already full of a certain Mr. Brooks. But she was grateful for his kindness and his wise words that hinted of a world beyond Salem. The sun pierced through the clouds and beat down on her hood. She pulled it back and fixed her cap, still smiling at James.
“There she is!” he said.
Annie sat in the grass by the river, her back propped against a boulder. Mercy was crouched at her heels, holding the girl’s ankle, one foot raised upon her thigh. Annie wore nothing but her shift and skirts. Her wavy brown hair fell loose and damp over her chest, clinging to the shift. Mercy had washed the mud off the girl’s woolen bodice and linen cap, then placed them on a bush in the sun to dry. She had strung the young girl’s boots up in a tree, and now they dripped and dangled in the breeze.
“Freya, my Freya!” Annie cried as she and James came running.
James turned his back to the girl so as not to embarrass her.
“Don’t worry, James,” said Mercy. “Annie’s a wee girl.” Mercy wanted to be able to gaze at the object of her affection and not at his back, albeit attractive as well.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Turn, will you!” she ordered, so the lad had no choice.
Freya had kneeled beside Mercy and Annie. “You look a fright!” she said to the girl.
Annie began to whimper. “I’m so very sorry, Freya. I promise not to fall again. I promise!”