didn’t ask for.”
CHAPTER SIX
Isabella
1639
Threads of fog weaved their way in and out of the dense trees. The cold, brittle branches snapped as Isabella walked through the forest. The rays of the moon barely reached the earthen floor, the high canopy of trees forbidding the light.
She shivered, but still she marched on. Her feet stepping one after another, searching for what her mind knew not of. She drew her nightshirt closer to her, swathing herself in its warmth.
From deep within the shadows, a light grew, reaching out to Isabella, beckoning her. Her pace quickened, body racking with cold tremors. Light meant heat and heat she needed.
A singsong voice floated along the fog to her, enveloping her in its melody. She was not alone. Another traveler sought out the heat in this damp night. She trudged on, not moving the chaos of branches that scratched her face, wanting nothing more than to search out the light.
The forest broke into a clearing. A small fire sent shadows jumping into the thicket of trees, reaching farther out into the dark. Breathless and shaking, Isabella stepped into the light. The heat of the flames warmed her in an instant.
A woman stood across the clearing, her back to Isabella and the fire. Her hands stretched high above her head as she sang a beautiful melody.
Isabella stepped forward, needing to thank the woman for the use of the fire.
The woman’s head cocked to the side, a small smile played against cracked lips. “I see you,” the woman said.
Isabella stumbled backward as the woman turned, the blaze flickering on her face.
Mrs. Shipton.
Isabella awoke with a jolt. She sat straight up in bed, her chest heaving fast and her aching, tightly stretched muscles begged for release. Her blonde hair so damp it clung to her neck and face. Her gaze darted around the cold, black room. Searching. Fog clouded her vision, disturbing her, but she finally locked on her target. The desk.
It glowed crimson in the early morning light that reflected off the window.
The door to her bedroom burst open. Her mother stood in the entryway, gasping for air, her hair wild and eyes wide like before.
Isabella clenched her bed sheets, tangling them in her fists and bringing them tight around her neck. It was time.
Tears streamed down her face. She knew she needed to be silent, yet they kept coming as sobs broke her chest.
“Dear Isabella, are you well?”
“They have come.”
“Who has come? I heard your screams.”
“They have come to take me.”
Mrs. Lynne flew to the bedside and gathered Isabella in a hug. “Oh no, Child. I came because you were screaming. Are you well?”
Isabella lifted her head to the desk. It did not glow. Mrs. Shipton was not before her. Her cries quieted. "I must have had a nightmare,” she breathed.
“The screams were terrible. I thought you were inflicted.” Her mother hugged her tighter to her, sinking that word through her skin and into her insides so fast that Isabella wanted to choke on it.
Inflicted. On Sundays, the fearful word was hammered into her by the Reverend Samuel Ludington at the meetinghouse. It meant horrible, tortured, unfathomable things.
“But of course you are having nightmares,” her mother continued. “We are living in the devil’s hell. One cannot tell whether we are awake or if sleep has taken us.”
Her mother looked deep into her eyes. “Of what were you dreaming?”
Isabella tried to smile. She did not know what she saw or the reality of it. One cannot tell whether we are awake of if sleep has taken us. But she knew of infliction and of the images that conjured. “I do not remember, but I assure you I am well."
Mrs. Lynne’s eyes grew lighter and she sighed, smoothing Isabella’s hair from her face. “Oh, my dear, you scratched yourself."
Isabella’s heart thundered inside. She barely felt anything as her mother took the blanket from the bed and wiped at her face. Smears of red came away
CHAPTER SIX
Isabella
1639
Threads of fog weaved their way in and out of the dense trees. The cold, brittle branches snapped as Isabella walked through the forest. The rays of the moon barely reached the earthen floor, the high canopy of trees forbidding the light.
She shivered, but still she marched on. Her feet stepping one after another, searching for what her mind knew not of. She drew her nightshirt closer to her, swathing herself in its warmth.
From deep within the shadows, a light grew, reaching out to Isabella, beckoning her. Her pace quickened, body racking with cold tremors. Light meant heat and heat she needed.
A singsong voice floated along the fog to her, enveloping her in its melody. She was not alone. Another traveler sought out the heat in this damp night. She trudged on, not moving the chaos of branches that scratched her face, wanting nothing more than to search out the light.
The forest broke into a clearing. A small fire sent shadows jumping into the thicket of trees, reaching farther out into the dark. Breathless and shaking, Isabella stepped into the light. The heat of the flames warmed her in an instant.
A woman stood across the clearing, her back to Isabella and the fire. Her hands stretched high above her head as she sang a beautiful melody.
Isabella stepped forward, needing to thank the woman for the use of the fire.
The woman’s head cocked to the side, a small smile played against cracked lips. “I see you,” the woman said.
Isabella stumbled backward as the woman turned, the blaze flickering on her face.
Mrs. Shipton.
Isabella awoke with a jolt. She sat straight up in bed, her chest heaving fast and her aching, tightly stretched muscles begged for release. Her blonde hair so damp it clung to her neck and face. Her gaze darted around the cold, black room. Searching. Fog clouded her vision, disturbing her, but she finally locked on her target. The desk.
It glowed crimson in the early morning light that reflected off the window.
The door to her bedroom burst open. Her mother stood in the entryway, gasping for air, her hair wild and eyes wide like before.
Isabella clenched her bed sheets, tangling them in her fists and bringing them tight around her neck. It was time.
Tears streamed down her face. She knew she needed to be silent, yet they kept coming as sobs broke her chest.
“Dear Isabella, are you well?”
“They have come.”
“Who has come? I heard your screams.”
“They have come to take me.”
Mrs. Lynne flew to the bedside and gathered Isabella in a hug. “Oh no, Child. I came because you were screaming. Are you well?”
Isabella lifted her head to the desk. It did not glow. Mrs. Shipton was not before her. Her cries quieted. "I must have had a nightmare,” she breathed.
“The screams were terrible. I thought you were inflicted.” Her mother hugged her tighter to her, sinking that word through her skin and into her insides so fast that Isabella wanted to choke on it.
Inflicted. On Sundays, the fearful word was hammered into her by the Reverend Samuel Ludington at the meetinghouse. It meant horrible, tortured, unfathomable things.
“But of course you are having nightmares,” her mother continued. “We are living in the devil’s hell. One cannot tell whether we are awake or if sleep has taken us.”
Her mother looked deep into her eyes. “Of what were you dreaming?”
Isabella tried to smile. She did not know what she saw or the reality of it. One cannot tell whether we are awake of if sleep has taken us. But she knew of infliction and of the images that conjured. “I do not remember, but I assure you I am well."
Mrs. Lynne’s eyes grew lighter and she sighed, smoothing Isabella’s hair from her face. “Oh, my dear, you scratched yourself."
Isabella’s heart thundered inside. She barely felt anything as her mother took the blanket from the bed and wiped at her face. Smears of red came away
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