𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃, and witches were reported.

Both Ann Putnam Jr. and Ann Putnam Sr. had reported seeing more specters in recent days. During Ann Jr.'s show in church, she'd been cleansed by Reverend Parris with the words of God and the wooden cross he carried on his person at all times. But his attempts were futile; her fits continued. Days later, Ann Jr. had cried out, fervently exclaiming how she'd seen a woman she did not recognize sitting in her grandmother's rocking chair. She'd broken down afterwards, sobbing. Last I'd heard, she'd fallen ill with a similar sickness to the other young accusers of Salem.

And her mother? I wasn't sure whether to feel more inclined to believe they were telling some semblance of the truth if adults were also saying they saw spirits, or to laugh in their faces and wonder how so many people were believing this. Ann Sr. hadn't even told anyone what the specter was. Ghosts weren't real, magic was not real, and witchcraft was not real.

But others believed it real enough to push the trial of Martha Corey to today, Monday. Yesterday, we had church, though I was allowed to escort Abigail back to my home after learning Martha Corey was seated amongst the pious. Her presence meant I could have Abigail stay home, and she wouldn't have to witness a group of adults screaming at one another over nonsense.

Martha had nerves I did not, and for that, I respected her. Most, including myself, would have stayed home after being accused, cowering as we awaited our inevitable trials that would lead to our deaths. Martha, however, did not; she'd shown up to church wearing her Sunday best, and smiling as she did so. She couldn't be touched on Sundays, as she was a member of the church and still held her privileges. A supposed nemesis of the town of Salem was able to taunt those who believed the lies and deception tied to her name, and she looked damn good doing it.

I'd heard that on Saturday, Martha had opened her door to a group of men on her doorstep. They held a warrant for her arrest, and they'd insisted she come with them. She'd refused. The sun had set, and there were not enough hours left in the day for them to arrest her. Come Sunday, she was exempt from arrest, thanks to a law making it illegal to serve warrants on the Lord's Day. So today was the day of her trial.

She remained silent, a heavy smile drawn on her lips as she raked the crowd before her with a disdainful glare.

"Martha Corey," the judge began, thick brows furrowing into a tight-knit line as he examined his stack of papers with a pronounced frown. "You stand here before us, and before God, on account of witchcraft. Will you tell only the truth?"

Martha stayed quiet, though she dipped her head in a nod.

Judge Hathorne suppressed a sigh as the corners of his lips twitched. "As we proceed, we will discover the true depth and meaning behind your bewitchment. Others have told the truth of your hidden affairs."

I prayed she would confess. To confess likely meant she would be given another chance. Perhaps not after so many months of lies being thrown about, but at the same time, Tituba hadn't been executed yet because she admitted to being under the guidance of the devil. The court had seen it as involuntary, and she was still breathing today.

"Do you believe there are witches in Salem?" Hathorne continued.

And, of course, Martha parted her lips. "Perhaps there are, but I am not among them."

Murmurs spread throughout the watching crowd like an infectious disease as people turned to stare at one another.

"So you deny what God has told us?" Hathorne asked, voice cold as ice and lip drawn up in a sneer. "That is a sin in and of itself."

"I do not deny what God has said, Judge Hathorne," Martha said, her voice small and not at all rivaling the sliver of a grin that persisted on her face. "I simply deny I am a witch."

"What god do you serve, Martha?"

"The same as you," came her reply immediately, nearly matching the frigidity of the judge's voice.

"Hm." Hathorne sighed deeply, rubbing a large finger between his eyebrows. "And of the children? Do you claim they are lying?"

So close, yet so far.

"Did the children tell what clothes I wore when they saw me?" Martha asked shortly.

"Why ask if the child told what clothes you wore?" Hathorne replied, jowls quivering. Martha's watchful gaze latched onto his strong features, and she frowned.

"My husband told me others said the children had," she said, frown deepening as Hathorne's icy blue eyes narrowed.

"Why did you ask that? What purpose does it serve knowing the answer?"

"Because I heard the children said what clothes were worn," Martha said, a slight bitter edge grating against her voice. I could practically hear her unspoken words that she visibly bit back.

Judge Hathorne looked to the audience, meeting the green eyes of Giles Corey, Martha's husband. He rubbed a hand against his peppered beard as he slightly tilted his head. "Corey, did you tell her?"

"I did not," Giles said, closing his eyes as Martha's eyes widened. She opened her maw to retort something back, but clamped it shut as Hathorne continued.

"Did you not say that your husband told you so? Who hurt these children, if not you? Now look upon them," Hathorne snapped.

I glanced to my left, towards the children. The courtroom was stuffy, a mix of brown hues courtesy of the wooden plank walls and dirt-caked floorboards. Rows of benches seated the eager and the skeptical, and the children who'd caused all this.

"I cannot," Martha said, averting her gaze and focusing on the swirled wood of her chair. I could see her pale cheeks flush red, even from my distance.

"Did you not say you would tell the truth? Why would you ask that question? How did you come to have this knowledge?" The seemingly never-ending barrage of questions was stressing me out, and I wasn't even the one on trial. It was clear Martha was matching my undeserved anxiety as a bead of sweat slowly trickled down her forehead.

"All I did was ask," she said, voice quivering. Gone was the confident woman who'd laughed in the face of her accusers. Now, she sat before them, timid and afraid.

"You dare lie in front of all this assembly? You are now before authority. I expect the truth; you promised it. Speak now and tell who told you what clothes!" The Judge slammed his hands against his stand, making the wood rattle.

I jumped slightly, then scoffed lightly. Quite a man to be losing his temper over something so minimal.

"Nobody."

"Then how did you come to know of this?" When Hathorne was met by tense silence, a low, guttural growl escaped his lips. "Give an answer your husband supposedly told you if you cannot provide one yourself."

Judge Hathorne's eagerness to get a witch indicted was... concerning, to say the least. With minimal evidence compiled against Martha and nothing but the word of children to go off of, it was as if Hathorne was trying to get women executed for no true reason.

"He told me the children said I afflicted them," Martha said, gnawing on her blushed lip. She'd clasped her hands together in her lap, fidgeting with her hands as she didn't quite meet the harsh scowl of the judge.

A young voice, though not quite twinged with innocence, rang out in the small courtroom. "There is a man whispering in her ear."

Judge Hathorne stepped down from the pedestal to stand before Martha, who seemed to shrink into herself. His words were strong and dark as he asked, "What did he say to you?"

"There is no man," Martha replied. "We must not believe all that these distracted children say."

"These distracted children are the souls saving our community from witches like yourself," Hathorne said with a sneer. "What did the man whisper?"

"I saw nobody."

"Did you not hear a man?"

"No."

Hathorne was quiet for a moment before curling his hand into a fist. "How long have you been serving the devil?"

A sharp bark of laughter cut through the blanket of silence covering the courtroom like a shear. To show joy or laugh at all was considered treason against Puritan code, but it was clear Martha didn't care. Her eyes were now alight with the glimmer of amusement as she met Hathorne's gaze. "I do not serve any devil. You are utterly ridiculous for assuming so."

"I am giving you one last chance, Martha," Hathorne said, resting his fist on Martha's chair. "Find God's mercy and confess. It may very well save your life."

"No," came Martha's response. That one word carried power, and Martha knew that as she straightened her spine.

Hathorne stared at her incredulously, lip curling once again as his eye twitched. But Martha wasted no time continuing.

"I am an innocent person. I never had anything to do with witchcraft since I was born. I am a gospel woman." Martha gripped a ball of her skirt fabric in her hands. "No matter how you indite me, it will not change what the truth is. I am not a witch. I am a woman of God."

She would likely die for her admittance. She knew so, and all attendants in the courtroom knew so. Lying was the only sure way to ensure survival anymore.

"Very well," Hathorne said. He turned to face the audience, and I found myself instinctively recoiling at his cruel glower. "Tonight, we see another witch condemned for her sins."

"She's a gospel witch!" one of the young girls snickered, though I could not see who.

"Take her to the jail," Hathorne said, ignoring the child. He gestured towards Martha's hands, which were quickly bound with rope by a man I did not recognize. Though Martha stood with rigidity and a defiant smile, I could see through her facade. She was scared.

And as she was escorted out of the courtroom, she met my eyes. I did not look away, nor did she. She slowly blinked, and I understood.

This was her destiny.

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Word Count: 11,013/20,000

A random bolded word in a chapter indicates where I've passed a milestone!

QOTC: What do you think of Martha's trial? Though it is not the first, it certainly isn't the last! Do you think she could have done anything better?

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