One October in Salem
Then my eyes caught on a name.
Major Whitlock.
I stayed bent over the case while the two words worked their way through recognition, because Whitlock was not an unusual enough surname to mean anything by itself and Major certainly wasn’t, but together they opened a door in my memory so quickly that the rest of the room seemed to soften at the edges.
I leaned closer to the glass and tried to decipher the lines around the name. Something about a horse. Something about Thomas. Then a sentence beginning The Major insists, after which Abigail’s handwriting shrank toward the binding and the angle of the page defeated me.
I was still trying when a man’s voice came from somewhere behind me.
“That entry’s worse than the others.”
Recognition came before reason did. My body knew the voice before my mind agreed to the possibility.
An entire country lay between the place I had last seen him and the room I was standing in.










