LITMIR.BIZ

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was a British colony, and witchcraft was illegal. Could someone really curse his neighbor’s cow with an evil eye? Most probably not. But mixing potions—even herbal potions—could be considered witchcraft and sadly, the punishment for witchcraft could be death. But I don’t believe that any of those caught up in the hysteria at Salem were practicing real witchcraft of any kind. They were just caught up in a miasma of fear. There was so much of the world that was unknown and frightening.”

      “Indeed,” George agreed.

      Mona pounced on the words. “That’s just it, people act out of fear or ignorance. The true Wiccans were not guilty of any evil—they were part of the pagan way that existed before Christianity began to spread. And those who brought Christianity across from Europe were willing to do what was necessary to convince others to follow them. I mean, seriously, we don’t know what day Christ was born, we have settled on a day for it to be Christmas. The high holy day of All Hallow’s Eve coincided with a pagan practice that had long been celebrated. And Easter! The holiday and celebration are even named for Eostre, the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring. The old Anglo-Saxons celebrated spring and rebirth, and the Hebrews celebrated Passover, and Christians celebrate the fact that Christ rose from the dead. Here’s my point, we are all one creation, however we choose to see our deities.”

      “Mom, that’s not at all how the Puritans saw it,” Melody said.

      “No, I’m afraid they weren’t at all accepting of others, and they certainly wouldn’t appreciate anyone pointing out the fact that Easter came from Eostre,” Jake said. “Mrs. Tarleton, this stew is absolutely delicious. Thank you very kindly.”

      “Oh,” Mona said, enrapt with her guest. “That’s so kind of you. It’s just a Crock-Pot stew. I’m so glad you’re enjoying it! And I’m fascinated with what you’re saying, of course, because it’s just terrible to think of the wonderful and kind people who practiced old forms of medicine just to wind up burned at the stake in Europe and Scotland and hanged in England for witchcraft. They were often midwives, or people working with herbs, and as we all know now, many of the natural ingredients cured people.”

      “Mom,” Melody pointed out, “just because something is natural, doesn’t always mean that it’s good for you. Hemlock is natural.”

      Mona waved a hand in the air. “My dear, you’re missing the point.”

      “What is the point?” Keith asked, grinning.

      Melody kicked him beneath the table again.

      “Ouch! Stop that,” he told her.

      “What is going on there?” George demanded.

      “She kicked me,” Keith said.

      “Mother, he’s being obnoxious,” Melody said.

      “Children! We have a guest,” Mona said, shaking her head. “Honestly, George, how old are they now? How can this still be going on? ”

      “Mom, I know the point, and our college genius keeps missing it,” Melody said. “What matters is not always the truth, but rather, peoples’ perception of the truth. And fear is something that often sways our perceptions. When you’re afraid, you may see something that is entirely innocent as something evil. And in the old days, science was often seen as evil, as well.”

      “Was that a dig at me?” Keith asked.

      “Never. Science is something wonderful,” Melody said.

      Melody stood. Jake jumped to his feet. “Please, Jake, sit, you’re a guest. I’m just clearing the table so we can bring out the dessert,” Melody said.

      Keith stood, too. “Mom, Melody and I will handle this. You sit for a change.”

      “All right, thank you,” Mona agreed.

      Melody glared at Keith. He frowned, cocking his head. She hurried to the kitchen, carrying the used plates. When he had entered behind her and the connecting door had swung shut, she turned on him. “What’s the matter with you? You just left Jake in there alone with Mom and Dad!”

      “Jake’s doing just fine. Hey, he’s a cool crazy, Mel. I like him,” Keith said.

      “Get back out there, Keith!” Melody said, piling the plates in the sink to rinse for the dishwasher. “Please, come on, please? Hey, I’m the one who fought for you to keep Cleo, remember?”

      “He’s not a cat, Mel,” Keith said.

      “Get out there!”

      “Going, going—I’ll grab the pie and plates. You bring the coffee.”

      “All right, go. Oh, Keith?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Thanks.”

      He grinned. Her brother left with the fresh-baked blueberry pie Mona had made for dessert and a stack of plates. She quickly rinsed the dinner plates and put them in the dishwasher, then unplugged the coffeepot and headed into the dining room.

      To her dismay, her brother was having some kind of exchange with her father; Jake’s head was lowered and he was listening, fascinated, to her mother.

      They all looked up when she arrived.

      “The cups are in the cabinet, dear. Do you want your old Disney mug? Forgive us, Mr. Mallory,” Mona said. “We all have our favorite cup. What would you like? Traditional, a mug—or a Princess cup?”

      “Any cup will do, thank you,” Jake said.

      Mona passed out mugs and poured the coffee while Melody served the pie.

      “Seen any good movies lately?” George asked.

      A piece of pie nearly slipped onto the table. Melody’s gaze flew to Jake.

      “I’m afraid I’ve not seen anything I could recommend, sir,” he said.

      “I’ve got some DVDs up in my room I’m going to show him,” Keith said. “Hey, I brought a documentary for you, too, Dad. It’s on radio frequencies. You’re going to love it.”

      “Wonderful,” George told him.

      Mona rose. Jake rose. She hesitated, and smiled. “It’s really all right, Jake. Please, I’m just going to go get that diary that I found in the attic. I swear that that author’s last name was Mallory—and that her brother’s first name was Jake. What a coincidence that would be if you were related! Of course, to be honest, throughout the centuries, who knows who is really related to whom? You know, people didn’t always steer the course of the higher road.”

      “What?” Keith asked.

      “She means that women fooled around, so your father may not have been your father,” Melody said.

      “Oh, dear, that’s putting it so crassly,” Mona protested, waving a hand in the air as she went to one of the bookcases.

      “This diary is amazing. I probably could sell it for a mint on eBay. It’s authentic. And sad, really—it doesn’t have an ending. I’ve been meaning to go to the hall of records, though, I believe, a lot was probably lost during the Revolution. And young men died in different places, so…”

      Melody sank into her chair. Mona produced an old leather-bound book from a bookshelf.

      Melody started to reach for it. Mona held back. “It’s extremely delicate,” she said.

      “I’d be honored to handle it quite gently,” Jake said.

      Mona opened the book. “Serena Mallory wrote most of the diary here, in Gloucester. And it ends with her heading to New York City, aware that her brother had been captured and was about to be executed. The diary is absolutely charming. There’s so much of the day-today in it—and so much about the feelings of the general public during the Stamp Act, and then the Boston Tea Party. She has all kinds of wonderful herbal recipes in there—and reference to the

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