He put one hand at her waist and began tugging at her dress with the other, and just like that, she was back down on the ground of the schoolyard in Hartsboro, a circle of children around her, taunting, tugging at her clothes, exposing her, looking for the devil’s mark.

What they didn’t know, what she herself didn’t fully understand until that day, was that mark was not out on her skin but somewhere deep inside her.

She felt it surface once more as she gathered all her strength, planted her hands on Tom’s chest, and shoved. He stumbled a step backward, his rump hitting his desk. Jane lunged for the door but stopped when he spoke.

“You’ll finish up your day today,” he snarled, eyes furious. “And then you’re fired.”

“You can’t do that!” she said.

He smiled a sickening smile. “Are you sure about that, Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“I’ll tell my husband,” she said.

He laughed. “Tell him that you made improper advances toward me in a pathetic attempt to keep your job after I told you cuts would have to be made? Do you really want to go stirring up that kind of trouble, letting the whole town hear about the sort of woman you really are?”

Tears blurred her vision. She hurried back to her looms, blood pounding in her ears. She began to work, walking around the looms, checking the warps, watching the thread unspool, feeling the quality of the cloth as she always did. But a rage boiled inside. She pictured Tom Chancy’s face, his filthy hands, and imagined terrible things. She imagined him suffering. Screaming.

Jane remembered her daughter’s words: Something bad is going to happen. You’re going to make something bad happen.

And she felt for the matches in her pocket. They were always there, waiting, making her feel safe, powerful. A talisman.

Punish him, the voice inside told her. Make him pay.

She went over to the corner, to one of the bins of cotton just outside the door of Tom’s office. She glanced around—none of the other workers were watching, all focused on their looms, perhaps hoping to avoid getting involved in whatever trouble Jane Whitcomb might be in. They certainly wouldn’t hear the quiet scritch of the match striking over the din. She lit the match, held it to the cotton, watched it catch. Just like that, she was a little girl again, hearing her mother’s voice: The spirits will protect us.

She saw a little curl of smoke drift up from the bin and walked calmly back to her loom, doing her best not to smile.