Page 116 of In the Pursuit of Haven
I turned into Jessie’s shoulder, trying to get my voice to carry through this gale. “Beale went back to court! He was the guy who testified that Philip was a witch.”
Jessie’s arms tightened over me. “That would clear the way for this island!” he hollered into my ear.
Now he got it. Beale was trying to get rid of Philip.
“Yeah!” My throat was getting hoarse from all my yelling. I just didn’t know why Reverend Smalls left this clue behind. I took a deep breath to be heard over the wind: “You think Smalls is related to Philip?”
Jessie didn’t answer, possibly couldn’t hear me. I struggled with the pocket in my wet jeans to get out my phone. Covering the screen with my shoulder, I tried to pull up the English family’s ancestry on my app and got a blank page with a swirling hourglass.
Stupid storm!
“Hold up.” Jessie pulled us further back against the shelter of the rocks under Ruth’s boathouse, freeing us from the wind tunnel’s deafening shrieks.
At last I could hear again. And talk!
We backed up into the sunken crevice where Mary and Philip’s names were carved into the stone. I felt worlds safer using nature’s defense against the elements. My knee ran into the strange cross carved into the rock on the other side of us.
Jessie texted his sister: “Abby?” he wrote. “Are you there?” The internet was out, but that didn’t mean the phones were. “Can you get my texts?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “Give us all the info you can on Philip and Mary English. Who are their children, grandchildren, all of that? Are they somehow related to Reverend Smalls or…?” He gave me his phone and I texted the names of the other island owners before he took his phone back and pressed send.
My gaze flew to the creaking pillars holding up the groaning structure above us. “Ask Abby if Smalls is related to Ruth, too,” I whispered. Her family’s boatshed hiding the reverend’s clue was just more evidence that they were Shepherds of the Relics. “I’m starting to think…”
Jessie nodded and texted his sister that, and added more: “Find out if the English family is related to Crowninshields too.”
In another second, Abby texted back. “Boring. I’m on it.”
Jessie let out a breath and leaned his head against the granite in our more secure shelter. “So did they die?”
It took me a second to figure out who he was talking about. “Well, the English family had connections to Governor Phips, right?” I said. “And so when they were transferred to Boston, they were allowed the special privilege of paying bond to get out every morning, though they had to spend their nights in prison. Their cell was roomier than in Salem, and at least they were together…”
“Babe.” Jessie ran the tips of his fingers over my arm. “You’re getting better at these stories. You almost tell a better whopper than my grandma”
I knew him well enough to know that was a compliment. He’d gotten his storytelling from her.
He kissed my wet cheek… well, he was sopping wet too, and the rain water dripped from his nose down my neck; another reminder of his loving touches. “Remember when I was the only one who had a story to tell?” he asked.
How could I forget? I’d first started falling in love with him over the animation I’d seen in his face when he’d told me his first ghost story—the untouchable statue had come to life in front of my eyes.
“You keep going like this and I might not be able to control myself around you,” he breathed.
Blushing, I had difficulty gathering my thoughts until he squeezed me encouragingly. “So they just stayed in that cell together… forever? That doesn’t sound bad.”
“No, no.” I shook my head. “The danger was pressing down on them. Anyone pleading innocent in their hometown was ushered to their execution. Their trial was fast approaching when they got a visit from Matthew Moody, their minister.”
The jailor rapped heavily against the metal doors. “The good priest has come to give his Sunday sermon,” he crowed through the slats. The next moments were filled with the clanking and twisting of the locks as they were worked open to allow in the young minister.
Matthew Moody was a pious, goodly sort of fellow with sober eyes that saw too much and a tongue that possibly said too much, though he kept his head meekly bowed until the prison doors clanged behind him. His dark gaze went to us. “Are you well?” he asked with bated breath.
My hand went to Jessie’s…ur, Philip’s.“As well as may be,” said I. “Have you any word of our children?”
“They are in excellent hands, sister, and they are happy. Your friends treat them as their own.”
We could not hope for more, though I yearned to be reunited with them soon. My babies needed their mother.
“Your trial is to come in a fortnight,” said he.
And with that would come our doom. I bowed my head while my husband brought me closer. “They will not rest until they do hang us as witches,” Philip said.
“And I’ve one thing to say to that.” Moody opened his Bible to show us Matthew 10:23: “If they persecute you in one city, flee to another.”
