“Good morrow… my name is Thomasin. I am the eldest daughter of William and Katherine, though it matters little, for mine every breath seemeth weighed and judged. Since our banishment from the plantation, I have labored hard—milking the goat, tending the fire, caring for the little ones—all to ease my parents’ burden. Yet still, it seemeth all fault falleth upon me. When mine infant brother Samuel was taken whilst in my keeping, their eyes were swift to doubt, as though my very hands delivered him to mischief. Since then, suspicion clings to me like a shadow.

My mother looks upon me with naught but bitterness, speaking sharp and cruel, as though my very presence offendeth her. My father—he loves me, I believe—but his heart is heavy with pride and scripture, and he seeth not how I suffer. Mercy and Jonas, my own blood, mock me and whisper that I am a witch, as though their tongues take delight in my misery. Even Caleb… sweet Caleb… he was the only one who sought to understand me, and now he too is gone.

I strive to be dutiful, obedient, as a daughter should. Yet within me lies a voice that longs to be heard, a strength that would rise if only I were free to speak. Oft I bite my tongue, lest they call me wicked for daring to defend myself, but when they cast their lies upon me, I cannot but answer. I am not meek as they would have me—there is fire yet in me, though I must hide it.

I am alone. Misunderstood. They see only sin and temptation where I am but flesh and blood, aching for kindness. The weight of their mistrust presseth hard upon my soul, and I find myself weary of pleading innocence to ears that will not hear.

Perhaps… perhaps there is truth in what the twins jeer. If witch I be, then so be it—better to live free, unbound of their cruel tongue and harsher hand, than to remain a prisoner of their piety. For if the Lord refuseth me, and my kin despise me, then mayhap the Devil himself hath more mercy to give. For in his promise, I hear the words mine own kin never spake: acceptance, freedom… power.”