The Ashes of Salem

The first time Josiah saw her, she was gathering herbs near the river, her dark hair caught in the wind, her hands deft as she tied the stems with twine. Mary Mordell. The town whispered about her, about how she knew too much of the natural world, how her mother had been seen speaking to crows before she was taken away. And yet, Josiah could not look away.

They had grown up in the same village, had passed each other in the market, had once even danced at a harvest festival before the world grew dark with suspicion. Before neighbors turned on each other. Before the word witch became a death sentence.

He had never feared her. Not when she mixed tonics for the sick or whispered to the wind when the crops wilted. If anything, he feared how much he wanted her, how she had become the one light in a town consumed by fear.

But now, standing inside the damp, stinking cell beneath Salem's meeting house, he feared that wanting her had doomed them both.

The trial had been swift. The accusations quicker. A young girl, wild-eyed and desperate to be believed, had pointed a trembling finger at Mary in the town square, claiming she had seen her conjuring demons in the woods. And when Mary refused to kneel before the magistrate and beg for forgiveness for sins she had not committed, the whispers became certainty. The crowd turned against her.

They turned against him, too.

He had spoken out—just once, just enough to cast doubt on the girl's words. Just enough for the townsfolk to look at her differently. Hadn't Josiah Clarke been spending time near the Mordell girl? Hadn't his father's cattle fallen ill just last winter? Hadn't he been seen with her near the river, their voices hushed?

And so, when they came for Mary, they came for him, too.

A rat scurried along the cell's damp stone floor. Mary sat beside him, her wrists bound, her face pale in the dim light.

"Josiah," she whispered, her voice hoarse from days without water. "We must go."

He turned his head, studying her. "There is no leaving this place."

"There is." Her fingers brushed his lightly, a brief moment of warmth in the cold. "There is a guard who might be bribed."

"With what?"

She swallowed. "I know things. I've seen his wife. She will not live the winter if she does not drink feverfew tea. He will listen."

Josiah hesitated. He had never believed in magic, not truly. But he had seen Mary heal the sick, had seen her knowledge work where prayer had failed. And now, what choice did they have?

That night, when the guards came with their meager scraps of food, Mary spoke to one of them in hushed tones. The man's face hardened, then wavered. He said nothing but returned an hour later, unbolting the door.

"Go," he hissed. "And pray that the devil does not follow you."

They ran. Through the darkened streets of Salem, past homes where candlelight flickered behind shuttered windows. Past the church where the magistrate would stand the next morning and declare them both guilty. Through the fields, into the woods where the town dared not follow.

They ran until their breath was ragged, until Mary stumbled, until Josiah caught her in his arms and held her close.

"We are free," she whispered.

But freedom was fleeting.

The dogs came before dawn.

Torches burned through the mist, shouts of men closing in around them. There was nowhere left to run.

Josiah gripped Mary's hand. "I will fight," he said, his voice shaking. "I will—"

She silenced him with a kiss. A desperate, final thing. A promise, a farewell.

"I love you," she breathed against his lips.

Before he could speak, before he could say it back, they were torn apart.

They were dragged back to town in chains. They were sentenced before noon.

By sundown, the rope burned against Josiah's throat, the sky above a deep, endless blue.

And across the square, Mary stood with her head high, unbroken, as they placed the noose around her neck.

Their love had not saved them.

But as the world faded, Josiah swore he heard the wind whisper her name.