It was afternoon by the time Stella got to the terrible part, the part that took place not ten feet from where she was now hunkered down, beneath a blue sky that was overcast then. They dragged Rebecca Sparrow along this path, which was overgrown with brambles in those days, not caring that her feet were so torn from the rocks in her boots that blood began to seep through the leather. It was January, far too early for the snowdrops to appear, yet everywhere Rebecca’s blood fell snowdrops grew. Everything else was burned away. Grass never grew there again, even thistle would not sprout here, not milkweed, not even thorn apple. The men’s breath billowed out in smoky clouds. There seemed to be no color in the world on this day: the skies were leaden, the reeds, dull brown, the hay in the fields, pale and flaxen, sprinkled with frost.

They had held off, waiting for the ice to melt, but every day was more frigid than the last. But when one of the Hapgoods took to his bed and two of the White cousins died, they decided they could wait no longer: a group of boys were sent to chop a hole in the ice. Hours had been spent in discussion of what strength of rope to use. As she read, Stella wondered if Rebecca would have escaped if she could. In a footnote, Matt suggested that the idea that witches could fly at night might have been due to hallucinogenics. Flying ointments had been around forever, Matt noted; even Francis Bacon had suggested a toxic concoction that included hemlock, nightshade, saffron, and poplar leaves.

Many of these poisonous ingredients were easily found in the fields surrounding Unity, but what would an individual see if she were high above town? Wouldn’t she miss everything that was truly important if there was so much distance between herself and the rest of the world? Rebecca was grounded, tied to the village by the presence of her baby daughter, left in the care of the Hathaways. She didn’t even try to run, let alone fly. She had nothing, yet she was weighted down by devotion. Everything she owned in this world had fit into a single basket: the bell, the compass, two dresses, several bars of barley soap that could wash away any stain, be it tar or gravy or blood. Some of the women were handed shears and told to cut off her black hair. Though it was winter, the sparrows sang as if it were already spring. The turtles moved beneath the ice, floating below the surface as though they were logs.

Many of those in attendance couldn’t understand why Rebecca refused to say a word, and several referred to this fact in their journals. But from reading Charles Hathaway’s recollections of the day, Matt knew that her last words had already been said, in Hathaway’s kitchen, where Samuel’s widow held tight to Rebecca’s baby girl, though she clearly preferred her own child.

I forgive you.

They had to listen carefully, and even then were unsure, for afterward Rebecca was mute. Not that her promises or lies were needed. If proven innocent, she would be asked to take her place among the good wives who had sewn rocks into the hems of her clothes. But she who survived a drowning was never deemed innocent, not with stones to weigh her down. She’d been burned and pricked, she’d stepped on glass and been struck with arrows, and she hadn’t felt a thing. When her boots were removed, they were so full of blood the snowbank turned crimson. As they sent her beneath the ice the first time, they could hear gulping sounds from deep within the lake. The sparrows set to chattering and the ice groaned. They pulled her up with the rope they had decided upon, the strongest of all, and asked her to confess. When she would not, they sent her back below. Perhaps her lips had frozen shut, perhaps she lost her voice from the cold. They dunked her twice more, but on the next attempt, when they pulled the rope, it came to them too easily. Nothing was attached but a bundle of weeds.

The bell and the compass and the star and the braid of dark hair were locked away in Charles Hathaway’s desk drawer, but at night Hathaway could hear them, even with the drawer shut. No matter if he was safe in bed, they spoke to him. Before long, he couldn’t hear anyone’s voice but Rebecca’s, he couldn’t discern his wife calling to him or the thunder on stormy days and he often was found wandering through town. He had grown so fearful of water that he would not wash his hands or face. He stank and grew filthy and even his own horse shied from his presence; his wife and his daughter-in-law and his grandson would not sit at a table with him.

Sarah Sparrow was raised by the Hathaways, but when she turned thirteen she opened the desk drawer where her mother’s belongings had been stored. She had heard Rebecca calling to her just as surely as her grandfather had. She looked around the Hathaway household and remembered that she didn’t belong. Hathaway went after Sarah when she ran off, for she was his natural granddaughter, but as he neared the lake, he heard Rebecca’s voice again. He’d never really stopped hearing it, it had merely grown quiet. Now it was roaring loud. Maybe it was this voice that spooked his horse, which took off running from the very spot where Stella was now sitting, the place where nothing grew, where clouds of mosquitoes still rose at this hour, where the sky fell down in blue waves. Stella put away Matt’s thesis; it was too dark to read, and she had mostly finished, anyway. Now that she knew what had happened, she had the urge to keep the thesis. Why should it be shared with the town that had done this? Stella packed up and headed for Dead Horse Lane. She could hear the catkins move in the wind, and the hollow reeds rang out, like bells. The lane was inky with shadows, and even though Stella’s mother and grandmother were less than five hundred yards away, in the big old house, it was lonely out here. She thought about Rebecca, in her bloody boots. She thought about Sarah, raised by a woman who despised her. She thought about the horse that had bolted and ran right over the water until it sank, somewhere in the center of lake, which people said had no bottom.