Once she was alone in her jail cell, Maria began to write in her journal. She did so with her cuffs in place, biting at her skin. She kept the book hidden behind a loose brick. She wrote for the future, for her daughter and the granddaughters she might have one day.

Beware of love. Know that for our family, love is a curse.

He should have been my enemy, instead I thought I fell in love with him and I made the mistake of declaring my love. I was wrong to think that was love. I was too young to know any different.

The constable’s wife was brought in to cut off Maria’s black hair with a rusty tool she used to shear sheep. Hair was known to make women powerful, and in fact Maria moaned as if in pain while the constable’s wife cut her hair so short that her scalp shone through. Then she was paraded through town to the courthouse in the sharp sunlight. Maria was still in her muddy nightdress, wearing nothing underneath. Men and young boys came to stare, although when she stared back they quickly glanced away, mortified and shocked by their own dark thoughts. Maria remained in chains, and by now her wrists were bleeding, yet she’d managed to write all night, until there was no longer any ink.

The courthouse on Endicott Street was built of granite brought down from the cliffs of the White Mountains. Maria was chained to her seat to face three magistrates. John Hathorne was among them, and she hoped he would not act against her and that what they’d once had would fill his heart with compassion, but when he looked past her as if she didn’t exist, she knew she was alone here. Maria was asked her name and her date of birth, both of which she gave freely, and then she was asked the name of her husband, to which she replied, “None.” The letter the court had received was then read aloud, accusing her of all manner of evildoing, including turning herself into a crow who flew above the fields, and a succubus who stole the souls of men. In spite of herself, Maria laughed.

“Does this list of evil amuse you?” the oldest magistrate asked.

“I find it to be ridiculous.” She turned to John, who looked away. “Some among you know these are lies,” she dared to say.

“Do women not come to you for potions?”

“For herbs to cure illness, yes.”

“For magic, for vengeance, for spells, for the devil’s work.”

“No.” She was freezing, as if a block of ice had been set upon her. Even now John said nothing. “I’m a healer.”

“Did you not think of enchanting the sheriffs who came for you and consider killing them?” she was asked. But these were not questions, she understood that now, they were statements of facts in these men’s eyes. This is the way it must have begun for Hannah. With lies, with fear, with a man who refused to look at her.