Christopher squinted into the distance, making certain he was still traveling toward the light he'd glimpsed earlier.  The path was becoming obscured by the new-fallen snow, and it was with great relief that he realized he could make out the shape of a house.  The wind tugged at his cloak, and he wrapped it more tightly around his body, coaxing his fatiguing horse into a trot.

As he neared the house, the door opened and a large, genial man stepped out to meet him.  "I am Christopher Kirkpatrick of Boston," Christopher introduced, and dismounted somewhat stiffly.  He'd been too many days on the road, and had been anxious to arrive in Salem.  "Are you-"

The other man grinned broadly and clasped his hand.  "Joseph.  Welcome, and please, warm yourself while I tend to your animal."  He led Christopher inside, before taking the horse's reins and disappearing into the dark.

It was a suitable house, much larger than Christopher had anticipated, and he looked round the room, taking in what would be his home for as long as business kept him in Salem.  From the corner stepped a young man with eyes of a startling green, who took his hat and cloak without any greeting.  A servant, then.  After the servant hung the garments on a hook, he brought a chair near the fire and gestured for Christopher to sit.  The odd behavior made Christopher uneasy, but he was nearly frozen through, and took the chair gratefully.

The door banged shut, and Joseph bolted it with a heavy plank.  The servant went to him immediately and took his outer garments, shaking the wet snow onto the floor.  The wind had chilled the room even in those few seconds, and Chris edged nearer to the fireplace.  Joseph joined him.

"Your journey was long," he said, scratching at his dark beard.  "Let my servant fetch you some food and drink."  Chris nodded.  His stomach ached with hunger.  "Lance," Joseph instructed.  "Heat some stew for our guest, Mr. Kirkpatrick."

"He does not speak," Christopher observed.  "He is dim-witted, then?"

"No."  Joseph frowned, seeing his servant's eyes flicker up and toward them at the mention of himself.  "He merely holds his tongue."

"Some might see such as a sign of disrespect."

Chris had already noticed a kindness in Joseph's eyes, a quickness to smile that was lacking in most men, but it was gone with Christopher's words.  Joseph turned a wary eye on his guest.

"Some will.  But his insolence is my affair, mine to address as I see fit."  His message was not lost on Christopher, who had no desire to trouble his host.

"Of course.  I meant no harm."

Joseph seemed to accept this reply, and stood, slapping his hands on thick, sturdy, thighs.  "Would you like to see your room?"

Chris followed him up a creaky stairway to a narrow hall that boasted two doors.  Joseph pointed to the room on the right.  "This will be yours.  I hope it will suit you."

"I need very little," Christopher assured him.  "Most of my time will be spent on business."

"Still," Joseph said, and entered the room, taking a candle to the large bureau.  "I wish for you to be comfortable.  Lance will help you with anything you need, as well."

How can he help me, if he cannot even speak? Chris wondered.  It was unheard of.  If the boy wasn't dim, then only thing afflicting him could be easily remedied with a beating.  "My thanks."  He placed his parcels on the floor, near the bed.  The linens were lush and beautiful, too much so for a mere farmer.  Still, this was his first visit to Salem, so perhaps things were different here.

"My wife," Joseph said, as though reading his thoughts.  "Her family had some wealth.  She passed on two years ago.  We were married but a few months."

"My condolences," Christopher said.  He knew he ought to say something now about God's will, but he'd always hated being given those words, and refused to give them to anyone else.  Instead, the wind spoke for him, persistently battering at the shutters.

"Who keeps the other room?" Christopher asked quickly, before the melancholy could take hold.  He was simply weary and vulnerable to the grip of sadness in these dark, New England winters.

Joseph began back down the stairs, toward the delicious aroma of a simmering stew.  His smile was back.  "Justin Parris," he said fondly.

"Kin of the Reverend Parris?" Christopher asked.

"You know the family?"

"No, no.  I know only of their name.  I know of the dissent between Salem Town and the village, and that the Reverend Parris is a source of contention."

"Aye."  Joseph nodded and took the ladle from his servant, who glowered openly at Christopher.  So the lad did have wits.  No manners, though.  "Justin belongs to the Reverend," Joseph explained. "His uncle.  Justin was sent here because of rumors in his own hometown."

Joseph set the bowl before Christopher, along with a large piece of bread.  He took a moment to bless the food, and then poured a mug of ale.

"Rumors?" Christopher asked.

"When Justin were only five years old, some townsfolk claimed him to be the child of a mulatto.  His mother was of questionable lineage, but she was no mulatto!"  He laughed, a great, bright sound that startled Christopher and caused ale to slosh from the rim of his mug.  Surely this was no laughing matter.  A man's reputation was everything.  "So," Joseph continued, "they brought him here and haven't a clue what to do with him.  Half the time he spends here in my employ, working my fields or my farm.  I haven't ever help enough, it seems."

Chris looked to the servant at this comment, but he didn't appear to take offense at Joseph's words.  If anything, he seemed to share the joke, a muted smile on his lips.

"No, not Lance," Joseph corrected.  He seemed able to see Christopher's thoughts.  "You can see that he is strong, but my lands are great and there are few workers to spare."

Christopher could only nod, chewing his mouthful of stew.  It was delicious, especially for a household that boasted no women to speak of, so far.

"What do you plan for your stay?" Joseph asked.

Christopher thought on the question.  "I wish to visit the town, become acquainted with the folk.  From there, I know not."  He dared not reveal too much.  Word had come to Boston of a dark kind of discord in Salem, and Christopher was to keep an account and report as much.  He was not certain whether or not the rest of the community was aware of what brewed in their midst.

Joseph nodded and stared into the fire.  "You are here concerning the talk."

"Talk?"

"Aye.  There have been accusations.  Talk of witchcraft and hexes.  They try to keep their peace, but there is talk, Mr. Kirkpatrick.  I fear the outcome."

So, word had spread.  Christopher nodded.  "I have heard such talk.  My duties are to observe the happenings as they occur.  And I fear the outcome, as well," he added

Although he was curious about what Joseph had heard, the night was late and his journey had been exhausting.  He thanked Joseph and took his leave, trudging up the stairway to his room.  Inside it was cool, but unlike most two-story buildings, there was no draft.  The bed dressings were more than sufficient and he knew he would be quite comfortable.

After undressing, he crawled under the covers and listened to the night.  Some sounds were familiar, like the wind, but he could also hear Joseph's voice, loud and cheery.  Strange, he thought, that a man would waste his breath on someone who refused to respond

***

"Mr. Kirkpatrick will be with us for many months," Joseph predicted from his seat by the fireplace.  "I have a dreadful feeling about these goings-on in Salem Town, Lance.  More than ever, now, we ought keep to ourselves."

Lance, gathering the dishes from the table, stilled momentarily before continuing with his work.  Joseph sighed, having hoped for a nod, a blink, any sign that his servant would heed his words.

After the death of his bride, his home had been too empty for Joseph to bear.  He had been quick--perhaps too quick--to purchase this servant from his previous master, Joseph's own brother.  Stephen had been frustrated to the point of violence with his servant's belligerence, tendency to run away, and unwillingness to speak, so Joseph had agreed to take Lance off of Stephen's hands for the cost of ten pounds, as he was still seven years indentured.

Lance continued to harbor much anger and would speak not a word, yet Joseph still found comfort in the companionship.

"Lance," he said, and waited until his servant turned.  "They speak of hexes and spells," Joseph said slowly.  "I fear what they might say of you."

When there was no response, Joseph tried to ignore the unsettling disappointment.  After a year of working together he had grown fond of Lance and at times, the silences, the glares…were more than he could tolerate.  He shut his eyes and tried to enjoy the fire's heated caress on his face.

There was a soft touch at his shoulder, and Joseph's eyes flew open.  Unbidden, Lance had fetched Joseph's pipe, packed with tobacco.  The pipe was handsome, intricately carved and imported from Turkey, and Joseph always enjoyed using it because he loved beautiful things.  Just holding it in his hand, tracing the finely crafted curves, brought him comfort.

Lance offered it with downcast eyes, and before he could withdraw his hand, Joseph caught it in his own.

"My thanks," he murmured.  He peered into his servant's face and tried to see past the walls that made him such a secret.  The dancing shadows of the fire only shrouded him deeper in mystery, though, and Joseph released him abruptly.  Lance scurried over to the far corner of the kitchen and pretended to busy himself with his work.

Joseph smoked until the fire waned.

***

Christopher awakened early and dressed quickly, anxious to get downstairs and begin his task.  Perhaps he might get to town today. Joseph's home boasted two fireplaces, one on each end of the great room, and he hoped to find both of them burning away the chill.  He wasn't disappointed.

Joseph was washing at a basin, dragging a cloth quickly over his face and chest, shivering in the frigid morning air.

"Lance!" he called, splashing his face with more water.  "More logs on the fire, please."  Lance obeyed, first giving Christopher a sidelong glance.  When he had finished, he retrieved a towel and placed it over his master's broad shoulders.

"Good morning," Christopher greeted them.

"Same to you, Mr. Kirkpatrick.  Are you well this morning?"

"Aye.  I-" his words were interrupted by a heavy knock on the door.  Lance waited for Joseph's nod before unbolting the lock.

"Joseph!" A slight, handsome man entered and sought immediately to greet Joseph in an embrace.  "What on earth is that stench?  If I did not know any better, I would suspect that someone has been taking a smoke of Indian weed!"  His words were stern, his eyes merry.

"Aye.  It is Lance," Joseph replied, straight faced.  "Come nightfall he runs with the savages, and here be the result."  He shook his head reproachfully, and the stranger chuckled.

"If that is the case, then I must ask your kind servant for a plate of bread and preserves as payment for keeping his secret."

Christopher watched the exchange with great interest.  The stranger jested, as did Joseph. Even Lance, somehow, seemed to be in on the jollity.  He wondered if such inappropriate, idle banter was the way of everyone in Salem.  It seemed unlikely.  All his life, Chris had been known for finding small amusements where others found none and had been reprimanded for it time and time again, but such restrictions did not seem to exist here in Joseph's home.

"Joshua, meet our guest, Christopher Kirkpatrick of Boston.  Mr. Kirkpatrick, Joshua Chasez."  Joseph kept his arm around his slim friend while making the introductions.  It was agreed that Joshua would join them for their morning meal, and they all sat together at the long, wooden table.

"Joshua is the schoolteacher of Salem Town," Joseph said with pride.  He had lived alone too long, and rested his elbows on the table without care.  "There is talk, however, that he may defect to Salem Village."

"If you should have your way," Joshua said dryly.  "The magistrates would have my head!"

"They would just as soon have your head!  Joshua," he explained to Christopher, "prefers Milton to the Scriptures as a teaching tool."

"I am a fine teacher!"

"You are but a poet at heart," Joseph said fondly.  Christopher couldn't help his amusement at Joshua's feigned dismay.

"Please, pardon my dear friend," Joshua implored Christopher.  He chewed happily on a crust, leaning in close.  "I hope you don't think us too objectionable, but the winters are long and we tire of gossip and needlepoint."

Another jest, Christopher realized, after staring at Joshua for one brief, startled moment.  Joshua smiled kindly, and then turned serious.

"What be your business in Salem, Mr. Kirkpatrick?"

The room fell silent.

"I am only a messenger, sent to gather facts and report to my uncle."

Whether or not he understood Christopher's duties, Joshua accepted this and continued to take his meal.   When they were nearly finished, Lance brought his own plate and sat next to Joseph.  Christopher thought it strange that the servant ate along with his master, especially since there were guests in the house, but Joseph seemed pleased.  He slid over to make room for Lance and so they ate, shoulder to shoulder, in silence as always.

***

"Joseph!"

Christopher started at the loud interruption.  The door was flung open, sending dust scattering everywhere, confirming his suspicion that Lance's housekeeping skills were lacking.  A boy of about eighteen years stuck his head inside and hollered boorishly.

"Joseph!" he shouted again, and Christopher shut his journal.  He could see that Joseph's home was not to be a place of quiet rest.

"You will find Joseph in the barn," he said, just as the boy's curious eyes lit on him.

"Who are you?"

"Christopher Kirkpatrick.  I rent a room from Joseph for the time being, until I return to Boston."  The boy's eyes widened and he shut the door behind him, trotting over to Christopher and the fire.

"My name is Justin."  He grabbed Christopher's hand and shook it with fervor.  He was a tall, smiling, young man, and though his eyes were the clearest blue, Christopher could see where the rumors had originated in the way his hair curled wildly on his head.  "It is a rare thing to see a stranger."

"Aye," Christopher agreed.  "I have heard as much.  But I assure you, Boston is not entirely different than Salem."

"Pity," Justin said, his young, lovely face twisting into a frown.  "For you and for Boston."

Christopher felt the young man's words.  "Calm yourself," he told him.  "And count yourself lucky to be aligned with a house such as this, which be unlike any in Boston or your fair Salem."

Justin's eyes lit up suddenly like the fire that warmed their backs.  "You know not how true your words are, Mr. Kirkpatrick," he said.  "Were it not for Joseph, I would be but a servant in my uncle's house.  He allows me to be a man, when all others refuse to see me as such."

A man?  This coltish creature?  Barely.  Christopher wanted to chuckle, but he was still the object of intense scrutiny, so he merely nodded.

"Tell me of Boston!" Justin demanded, moving away only when he caught sight of his plate on the table.

Christopher watched him scarf down his food as though he hadn't eaten in a long while.   Perhaps Lance had known of Justin's hunger.  It seemed likely, judging by the way he had shoveled out the largest portions onto Justin's plate.

"What would you like to hear?" he asked.  "Of the grand parties, the brilliant minds…the beautiful women?"

Justin's eyes went round with wonder.  Christopher laughed.

"It is none of that!  I tell you, it is Salem, and thrice as crowded."

Justin smiled, a delightful sight, before stuffing a large piece of bread into his mouth.  Christopher would have loved to continue speaking with him, but at that moment, a violent wind took the door and flung it open.  A flurry of new snow rushed into the room, bringing with it Joshua, Joseph and Lance, who stamped their boots and made noise about the chilling weather.

"There shall be no services tomorrow!" Joseph declared.  "We will be digging ourselves out come Monday."

Justin, it seemed to Christopher, was inordinately pleased by this news.  Joseph noticed it, too.

"Oh, I fear we have inconvenienced the dear boy," Joseph said, handing his garments over to Lance.  "Perhaps we could arrange a sermon of our own, that you might not feel shorted on your spiritual growth."

Justin ducked his head and blushed.

"Do you not keep the Sabbath in your home, Joseph?"  Christopher asked, sounding too sharp even to his own ears.

"Of course I do.  I am a gospel man, but the Lord cares not where I sit during my worship."

Christopher looked around at the other men in the room, all of whom looked steadily back at him, without abashment.  At the very worst it was blasphemy, at very least a misguided notion.  There were rules that governed this behavior, rules that governed every aspect of their lives in these colonies.  "Perhaps," he said slowly.  Lance glowered at him from his master's side.  "But would you speak as such before the Reverend, the magistrates?"

"The pleasure of one's own home is the freedom."  Joseph may have been a hard-worked man, but he was also well-spoken, and his voice held all the strength of his convictions.  "What we speak, sing and live within these walls," he continued,  "is no business of anyone but me and my God."

"I…"  Christopher began, his head spinning dizzily.  Such opinions were not allowed, and he had not known that other people believed so.  A stroke of luck had brought him to this place.  "I did not know," he said quietly, wishing to retreat back to his room.  "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Joseph replied.  "While in my home, Christopher, it is my hope that you speak your mind as well.  I recognize you as a friend, and as such you will be treated."

Christopher could only nod.

***

It snowed all that day without letting up, and by nightfall the outdoors, including the road, had been swallowed by white.  After dinner, they sat around the fire and listened to Christopher's tales of Boston and Joshua's tales of France.

Christopher could feel Justin's eyes on him the entire evening.  The younger man did not even attempt to hide his intense fascination over the newcomer, and Chris felt Justin devouring every word he spoke, much as he had devoured the food that Joseph so generously served previously that evening.

"Where were you schooled?" Justin asked eagerly when Christopher mentioned his days at school.

"Cambridge," he replied. He stared into the fire, away from Joshua and Justin's admiring faces.  There was nothing to admire.  "My uncle wished the best education for me, but it is wasted back home.  He already has two sons to assist him, and all that is left for me is to fetch his pipe."  He scowled at the memory of his cousins' smug, condescending faces.  He would hate them, were they not so utterly stupid.

"My uncle will not school me!" Justin exclaimed, and lay a sympathetic hand upon Christopher's knee.  In the dim lighting, his cheeks flushed pink.  "He thinks it a waste when I shall end up being only a farmer.  The indignities that an uncle will inflict are such that a father would never dream!  At least, I like to imagine so.  A father-"

"-Justin," Joseph broke in, kindly, wanting to spare them all this familiar tirade.  "Shall we beg Joshua to sing us a verse?"

This pleased everyone, especially Joshua, who brought out a small stringed instrument that made some of the sweetest sounds Christopher had ever heard.  Joshua sang just as sweetly, and Justin joined him after a few minutes.  Together they sang of the trees, ocean and sky.  There was no mention of the Lord, and aside from a few bawdy drunks in the tavern back home, Christopher had never heard a tune rendered for pleasure and not praise.

It was lovely.

When the last note had been played, Christopher clapped generously and remarked that he had never heard the song before.

"Aye," Joshua said proudly.  "I penned every word myself, and Justin fashioned the tune.  In another life, perhaps we would have been minstrels," he smiled.

"Perhaps I shall be one yet!" Justin said boldly.  "I shall catch a ship that will carry me away from this place."

Joseph's eyes rolled toward the heavens.  "And how many years of service would you have to pledge in order to gain passage?  Justin, you worry me with your grand plans.  You are kind, yet the world is not."

"He is right," Joshua added.  "Come landfall you would be indentured to a man like your uncle, or worse!  What life is that for you, or for anyone?  To be a slave, I would sooner die…"  He stuttered on his last words, and Christopher recognized the cause, for Joshua had only just then remembered Lance, who blinked rapidly through the sudden sting of betrayal.

There was nothing to be said by anyone as Lance jumped to his feet and bolted from their cozy circle by the fire.  In only a few seconds, he had dressed and departed from the house in a quick gust of winter air.

Christopher watched Joshua clasp and unclasp his hands, a nervous habit that ought to be done away with.  His face was clouded with regret.  "My apologies," he whispered to Joseph.  "I forget myself, I forget his station."

"It has little to do with you," Joseph sighed. "My brother was fond of the whip, and I know nothing of Lance's thoughts.  How can I, when he will not speak?   Yet here in my home he is changed, however small the difference.  In my brother's home he treated servant and master alike with contempt that earned him even more lashings.  He ran away at every opportunity."

Justin's earlier vivacity had vanished, and though Christopher wished to see it return, he knew that this marked the end of his first evening in Salem.  "I bid you good night," he said, rising to his feet.  Joshua and Justin did the same, and followed him up the stairs.

When he stepped into his room, Justin lingered in the doorway, leaning bashfully on the frame.  "There is a trundle underneath," he said, pointing to Christopher's bed.  "Joshua has taken the other room…" he trailed off uncertainly.

Christopher stood in the shadows for a moment, caught by a strange notion, but he shook it away.  "Of course," he finally relented.  He stood aside and motioned Justin into the room.  There was room enough for both of them.

**

Joseph waited until everyone had gone on to bed to gather his cloak, hat, and boots.  He was grateful for their quick retreat, and suspected that it had been for this very reason.

He blinked, saw blood, and suddenly his fingers seemed too large and clumsy for the fastening of his boots.  He cursed softly and took hold of a lantern before venturing out into the darkness.  Lance would no doubt be in the barn.  It was perhaps the coldest winter Joseph had ever lived through, and he couldn't even breathe until he was within the walls of the barn.  Inside, it was dark, stale and earthy

He climbed the ladder to the hayloft, the ladder that Lance had helped him build.  It held his weight easily, and he knew that he would find Lance at the top

He was there, sitting quietly in a corner, surrounded by loosely baled blocks of hay that shielded him from the cold.  Joseph put the lantern on the floor and sat next to it on the dusty floorboards, facing his servant

"Joshua meant no harm."

Lance nodded, and in the small movement Joseph glimpsed a glimmer of moisture on his face.  There was a matching streak on the back of his hand, and Joseph's throat closed up with something that was most certainly stronger than compassion.  Lance had never thought to weep even when Stephen had been at his cruelest.  Joseph had seen him bear lashes and cruel words with no response but a haughty stare.  Yet here they were

"Lance," he sighed, searching for some words of comfort.  His search ended abruptly when he saw a small garden tool lying on the floor between Lance and a bale of straw.  Blood, he remembered, and lunged forward, pinned Lance against the wall.

"Where?" he demanded, and pulled at his servant's cloak.  "Where are you injured?" For a futile moment Lance tried to protest, but Joseph was a large man and quickly gained the upper hand.  He sat on Lance's legs and waited for his surrender, that he might strip Lance of his cloak.

His face was stone when Joseph took his wrist and rotated it around to examine the deep, weeping wound that crossed his forearm.

"You thought to harm yourself!" he said angrily, squeezing his fist punishingly around the injured limb.  Lance's breathing hitched in a high-pitched gasp, and the sound struck Joseph as a physical blow.  He was responsible for Lance in the same way that he had been responsible for Kelly, his wife, yet here was Lance, hiding in the cold and bleeding by his own hand.

"A pity," he finally hissed, "that the first sound I should hear from you would be one of pain.  It is no wonder you were so oft beaten by your last master!"

Lance stubbornly shut his mouth, his bottom lip caught in the vicious trap of his teeth.  Part of Joseph perversely wished to squeeze harder, to do anything required to make him cry out again, this time in full voice, and his own thoughts horrified him.  He struggled for control of his unruly temper and released his servant to fall back onto the dusty floor.

After several long, deliberate breaths, he spoke.

"I shall not ask you why," he told Lance, "because I know you will not answer."  Beyond that, he could think of nothing to say, so he pulled Lance to his feet and brought him back to the house where he ordered him to sit by the fire.

He warmed the water for a bit before soaking a rag and sitting next to Lance, who was stiller than Joseph had ever seen him.   "Remove your shirt," he instructed.  Lance flinched at his words, but complied, his long fingers working quickly on the buttons until he could shrug his shirt onto the back of his chair.  He looked neither sad, nor contrite, nor angry, to Joseph…in his face, there was nothing.

Joseph had always found comfort in caring for others, and this was no exception.  After all, Lance had been as much of a companion to him as Kelly had been, and caring for him came as naturally as caring for his own family.  He took Lance's hand and guided it until his arm extended from his body so that he might trickle water onto the wound.  Lance's hand was cold, but warmed quickly in his own, and by the time Joseph finished cleaning the blood from Lance's arm, he was reluctant to let go. It was pleasurable to hold another's hand in his own, and for a foolish moment he let himself pretend that Lance had offered the gesture out of friendship. 

But Lance had offered nothing.

Joseph relinquished the hand back to Lance before cutting a portion of white bandage from a larger roll.  He could feel Lance's eyes moving on him, warily following his every move, and why would he not?  Joseph had always claimed to be a peaceful master.

"You will not do this again," he said firmly, and wrapped the bandage around the afflicted area three times before tucking it into place.  Lance had run away from Stephen so many times that eventually he had been confined to the house, but he had never harmed himself before.  Joseph did not know what to make of it.  While a servant's life was not the best, he considered Lance more like family.  Surely death was not preferable to the life that Joseph had tried to offer him.

Lance nodded wordlessly, and  Joseph watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed hard.  There was no telling the nature of his thoughts, and he gave nothing away with his eyes, which were the rarest shade of green.  Joseph searched them anyhow, and when he found nothing, lowered his gaze to the broad shoulders, the strong arms.  Lance was a fine worker and his body was well-built for the labors of a farm.  In the firelight, his skin took on a golden glow.  Even injured, he was beautiful to Joseph, who had always loved beautiful things.  In one smooth, heedless movement, his hand slid from the bandage to the slight curve of Lance's chest.

In contrast to the gold of his skin were two flat, dark nipples, and Joseph's thumb swept gently against the nearest one.  When he dragged his thumb back, he found it hard and tight against his hand.  His stomach tightened similarly, and all at once Joseph fully recognized what was happening, what he was feeling, what he had just done.

Appalled, he yanked his hand back and stood abruptly, sending his chair clattering backwards.  A questioning sound drifted down from Joshua's room, but nothing came of it.  Immediately, his eyes sought Lance's for some type of reaction to this improper breach of trust, but Lance was intent on the fire, unblinking, hardly breathing, tense belly quivering.  As always, he said nothing, but this silence felt different, accusing, damning.

This time, Joseph did not bother with an apology.

***

"The road is traversable at last."  Christopher heard Joseph's words as he descended the stairs, and practically leapt down the final three.

"Praise God!" he exclaimed, wanting to dance in celebration.  "Do not take this amiss, dear Joseph, but I should be happy to see something other than the inside of your home!"

Joshua and Justin were already dressed out to their doublets, ready to go, and they seemed to share Christopher's sentiment.

"You jest not!" Joshua crowed.  "My many thanks for your hospitality, but I shall be even more grateful to sleep in my own bed tonight, to read my own books and see someone other than the four of you!"

"I take no offense…for you shall be back before the Sabbath," Joseph grumbled.

"We shall!" Justin agreed, and clapped his hand down upon Lance's shoulder.  Lance smiled happily at Justin and offered out a fresh roll.  Justin, more than anyone, appreciated Lance's baking efforts.  When no one was looking, he slipped a basket containing five more rolls into Justin's pack.

"My uncle will think me a deserter if I do not send news soon,"  Christopher said as he packed his own day sack.   If he were not so thrilled to be beginning his work here, he would feel the fatigue of the past week.  Justin, while providing the most amusing conversation, possessed a fondness for lying awake half the night, asking Christopher endless questions.

He was glad to be getting to town where he might seek the answers to his concerns, but there was another reason for his relief: Joseph and Lance.  They'd been acting strangely all week, ever since the night that Joshua had made a careless comment in regards to Lance.

Joseph had confessed that there had been a row later that night, and although Christopher did not understand how one might row with a mute, he could see that things were strained.  Lance seemed unchanged, but Joseph would scarcely look at his servant, much less speak to him.

"I shall see you this evening," Christopher told him, and mounted his horse to follow Joshua, who had already departed with Justin.

***

Joseph couldn't bear the suddenly silent house, so he fled to the outdoors to begin his chores.  Normally, Lance would work alongside him but Lance had been baking since sunup and Joseph was happy to leave him inside.  If he did Lance's chores as well, then the work would keep him outside half the day.  He was grateful for it.

He first fed and watered all the animals, then put out fresh straw for the swine.  The day was cold but his work was heavy, shoveling out the stables and caring for all his stock.  Winter proved hard for the animals and hard on humans, as well.  Being confined indoors all winter was merely a breeding ground for idleness, which Joseph believed a good explanation for his unseemly actions.

Even thinking about it now, out in the solitude of the shed, the thick poison of shame spread through Joseph's throat, his chest, down to his stomach.  He held a gloved hand against his heart and pressed, as though he might stifle what he felt.  It was not that easy, he found, because when he removed his hand, there it remained.

Eventually, though, the sun began to wane and Joseph could invent no more tasks for himself.  There was nowhere left but home, and he trudged wearily inside.

Regardless of their quarrel, Lance remained a good worker.  He went to Joseph and helped him from his outer clothing.  It was then that Joseph noticed his filth.  He would need a bath, preferably before Christopher returned.  Lance was in apparent agreement because he dragged the tub from the far corner and began working to fill it before Joseph could instruct him as such.  It would take some time to bring in and heat enough water to make the bath comfortable, so Joseph rested himself by the fireplace in wait.

After far too long of a silence, he spoke.  "Lance," he said quietly.  It was the first word that had been uttered since morning.

Lance stopped his work and waited for his master's words. He was a statue, carved from the finest marble and as untouchable as any piece of art Joseph had ever seen.

"I owe you many apologies," he offered.  Lance was a young man, but Joseph was not much older and in spite of his brief marriage, inexperienced in matters of relationships.  His words felt jumbled and inadequate.

"That night in the barn.  Please rest assured, I do not feel the words I spoke.  They were cruel."

Lance nodded and set a new pot of water over the fire to warm.

"And even later still," Joseph pressed on, even though it shamed him and sent a telltale blush creeping across his servant's cheeks.  "What I did.  It was--insanity.  And please take heart, you must know that I shall never again act in such a manner.  I give you my word."

He could only hope that his word still held some value to Lance.

When the bath was ready, he stripped off his dirty clothes.  Lance had already brought a clean set and lain them near the fire.  Along with the clothes, Lance brought a sweet-smelling ball of soap, which he tossed into the tub.  When the displaced water leapt up and drenched Joseph's face, Lance tossed a sly smile over his shoulder.  Joseph laughed his relief out loud, for  Lance's smiles were rare and hard-earned.  He prayed that this one meant forgiveness.

The warm water chased every ache from his frozen, tired body, and Joseph sank into it, enjoying the small pleasure.  He slid the soap across his skin and it cleansed his body in the same manner that Lance's smile had cleansed his troubled conscience.  It was a perfect end to a perfectly terrible week, and he was about to ask for a drying towel when he was struck hard by an impression that made his head ache.

"Lance," he said, and pressed his hands to his eyes.  "Warm some supper for Christopher.  He brings bad news, and suffers for it."

Lance shot him one brief, tense glance before going immediately to work preparing things for their houseguest.   All Joseph could do was gather himself and dress.  In his room, he fumbled at his waistcoat, which would not cooperate, and hurled it to the ground, leaving it at his doublet and trousers.  His shaking hands would not still, but the Lord's prayer could be recited seven times before his knees began to protest.

When he emerged from his room, Christopher was at his table.

"Good evening."

Christopher chewed the rest of his mouthful and stood to greet his host.  "Greetings," he sighed, noticing that Lance, as always, gravitated to Joseph's side.  So they had made amends.  Gratifying, yet it could not erase the dreadful displays that had awaited him in Salem Town.

"I cannot believe what I have witnessed today," he said.  Joseph did not seem alarmed; merely resigned.  "Are you acquainted with Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne?"

"Aye," Joseph said grimly.  Lance pressed into his side, his attention fixed on Christopher.

"They have been taken--arrested for witchcraft.  The town is madness!  They accuse these women of doing the Devil's work!"

Joseph merely nodded, and Christopher received the distinct impression that he was not bringing a great revelation.  "Justin's servant, Tituba, is charged, also."  He could not forget Justin's shock and great distress at this news before he had been hurried off by his uncle.

"Who is responsible for this mischief?" Joseph asked, and seated himself at the table, his handsome face darkened with worry.   

"I know not," Christopher whispered.  It was only a small lie.  There were too many to name, and if he were to give names, Joseph would be even further disheartened.

"What do you believe, then?" he demanded.  "Is this the work of the Devil?"

"Joseph," Christopher replied, and lay his napkin down on the table.  He could eat no more, for his stomach rebelled against the day's events.  "It would be careless for me to cast a judgment so soon.  I  can say this, though: it eases my mind to be here in your home tonight, away from the accusing tongues. 

"They accuse the weak."  Joseph stood and strode to the cupboard.  He poured a mug of ale and looked into the drink.  "They accuse those who have no kin to speak for them."

"They terrorize Tituba," Christopher added.  "The Sarahs Good and Osbourne deny any accusation of witchcraft, but Tituba has confessed to every charge."

"And what says Justin?"

"Far too much." Christopher managed a shaky smile.  "As you might imagine, he found it difficult to hold his tongue regarding the matter.  His uncle nearly took his ear off in his efforts to drag the boy from the proceedings."  He left the story there, knowing it would draw a smile from Joseph.  It would do no good to mention the tears of grief that Justin had shed for the woman who had cared for him since childhood.

The town officials had allowed Christopher to observe the proceedings, and what he had seen had been intriguing.  The very thought of witches working their will on helpless young girls!  He might have thought it unfathomable, yet he had been witness to the afflicted girls wailing in misery, convulsing in terror as visions appeared before their very eyes.

"I will be returning in the morn, for there is talk of sending the accused to Boston.  I shall send my first report on with the escort and inquire about Justin.  He seemed…unwell."

"Take care with your business," Joseph warned.  Christopher raised a questioning eyebrow, for he always took care.  The words were for Christopher, yet Joseph looked to Lance when he said, "There will be others.  Other innocents will be accused, and I beg you to keep on your guard, Christopher."

"You doubt the truth of these claims?"

Joseph shook his head and dragged a frustrated hand through his hair.  "I doubt no particular charge.  Yet further accusations shall come, some of them false."

He seemed so convinced in his belief that Christopher could find no reason to argue.  "I understand."

With that, Joseph begged off for bed, claiming a headache.  Lance remained in the main room and readied the house for bed, eyeing Christopher carefully the whole while.

***

Joseph woke sometime when the moon was still high, shining through onto his embroidered bedspread, where he spotted an unfamiliar shadow.  Something had awakened him.

He rubbed at his eyes and sat up, feeling the weight at the edge of his bed.  "Lance?"

There was no reply, so he reached out and felt along the blanket until his hand bumped against the side of Lance's trousers.

"Is something the matter?" he asked, uselessly, but it mattered not.  He was fairly certain of the answer.  Lance had been frightened by Christopher's tale.

"If you worry of witches, then I assure you, there are none.  Is this what troubles you?

Lance shook his head.

"Do you worry of accusations?  You might have no kin, Lance, but I shall always speak for you.  No harm shall come to you."

Lance said nothing.  The moonlight filtered through his green eyes when he turned them toward the window and the bed was still, unnaturally so.  He was all mysterious, ethereal beauty, and Joseph couldn't help but wonder if the town had truly been bewitched.

"If you would only speak your worry, I might give you all the reassurance you desire," he whispered.

When Lance first came to his home, Joseph had wasted much breath in his attempts to force a word from his servant.  He had long since given up, which saved him the trouble when Lance rose to go, of asking why he would not stay.

***

Christopher stayed to his own side of the common house, but he saw everything.  His quick eyes missed nothing- not the deep frown lines that covered the faces of the magistrates nor the wild look of terror in the eyes of the accused.  It was insanity, and from what he could see, it stemmed from the women of the town.  Christopher himself had four sisters and knew firsthand how hysterical they could become at the slightest provocation.

No one else seemed to share his opinion…perhaps it was because Magistrate Hathorne had no wife and knew no better.  The rest of the magistrates had good and proper wives who spoke not unless they were asked.  Regardless, they took every girl at her word, and Christopher was torn between fascinated belief and terrified disbelief.   Every so often, he remembered to take down notes on what he witnessed, but for the most part he watched in abject fascination, unable to look away.

If these girls' accusations were false, then Christopher feared for their souls.  If they were true, then he feared for everything, for the things that they suggested were chilling.  Did the Devil truly approach the ordinary man, or in these cases, woman?  If so, then Christopher didn't know how he could close his eyes at night in rest, for he feared the Devil as much as any Christian man ought.

Sometime during the afternoon, Joshua arrived and slipped in the back door to seat himself next to Christopher on the rough, wooden plank.

"Is it terrible?" he whispered, wearing a troubled expression.  "I have heard many things."

"Aye," Christopher replied.  "It is.  Many have been arrested, among them Martha Corey."

"Martha Corey!"  Joshua shook his head, not wishing to believe, but he could see that Christopher spoke the truth.  "She is a good woman."  His heart ached for Joseph, who loved Goodwife Corey as his own mother.

"I have heard Joseph speak of her," Christopher admitted.  "Therefore, I may be somewhat biased.  Yet she seems an honest lady."

"I can assure you of her honesty," Joshua said.  "But Christopher, let us walk in the outdoors," he invited, and tugged on the loose fabric of his sleeve.  Christopher gave one last glance toward the magistrates, their heads bent together in conference, and gathered his papers.  They slipped outside unnoticed and walked in the brisk, late afternoon air.

"You have not missed a day of the proceedings and your every moment is spent making record of what happens.  I have seen you coming from the boarding house every morn this week!" Joshua scolded.  Justin had been asking about Christopher, and Joshua had promised to inquire.  "You do not tire of the chaos?"

Christopher stopped in his tracks, stunned.  He faced Joshua and gestured widely.  "Are you mad?  Do you imply that I enjoy watching this wickedness?  I have heard things in the past weeks that chill me to my very core!  Animals that speak, humans that partake of blood and drink, torturing with pins and blades, all in the name of the Devil!"

"Then rest, dear friend.  I shall be spending this Sabbath at Joseph's; let us fetch Justin and be on our way.  There will be no proceedings tomorrow, nor the day after."

"I have many reports to construct…"  Yet Christopher could think of nothing he wanted more than to retreat, especially if Justin could be convinced to join them.

"You can write just as easily in the comfort of Joseph's home."

"He does not expect guests; I don't wish to inconvenience him."

Joshua's face broke into a wide grin as he threw an arm around Christopher and began leading him in the opposite direction, toward the Parris home.  "He will expect us," he said, and took Christopher's heavy satchel.  He slung it onto his own shoulder to demonstrate what good could come of sharing a burden with others, and Christopher's step was far lighter than before.

"Very little comes as a surprise to Joseph," he ventured, feeling brave.

Joshua gave only a moment of pause before lowering his voice for privacy and replying, "I suppose not."  He looked around nervously before adding, "It is his gift."

Christopher was startled by Joshua's admission, but not by what he had revealed.  "A dangerous gift in times such as these," he said, though he felt no threat at the moment.  It was the opposite; he was nearly giddy with anticipation of three full days away from these hearings.  Gratefully, he hooked his arm around Joshua's slim waist and promised, "I shall tell no one."

"Brother Chasez!" From behind a wooden fence a woman stepped toward them.  Were it not for the red, silken scarf that wrapped her hair, she would appear as every other woman in the town.

"Bridget Bishop," Joshua said, and clutched at Christopher's arm.  He appeared terrified.  "Good afternoon."

"How is my Joseph?" she asked, but her eyes were on Christopher, bottomless pools of blue that invaded his mind.  A witch for certain.

"He is well."  Joshua stumbled on his words and quickened his step, no longer looking in the woman's direction.  "I shall give him your best wishes."

"And the boy Lance!" she called after them, laughing until she broke into violent coughing spasms.

"Ignore her," Joshua instructed, and Christopher was happy to oblige, for the past days had brought far too many of these moments where his skin chilled with warning.  Better to just move, onward and forward to Justin.

Justin's home sat at the edge of town, modest and clean.  Inside, it crawled with visitors.  Young Betty Parris had improved remarkably since her strange illness, and the girls of the town  were drawn to her in flocks.  They giggled and whispered when Christopher and Joshua called on Justin.  Christopher greeted them with kind words, but was afraid to look them in the eye.

Reverend Parris came out to greet them personally, flanked by a few men that all proclaimed their pleasure over meeting Christopher.  Loudly, they agreed on the tragedy of the currents events and clucked softly about the poor afflicted girls.  

"God forgive them," the Reverend kept saying.  "I pray the rest of us will be stronger; resist the evil spirits sent upon us."  Everyone agreed loudly and with fancy words.  Someone quoted scripture, and Christopher listened with only half an ear, for he was more interested in catching a glimpse of Justin, who had been most difficult to track down in the past weeks.  He was nowhere to be seen, however, and when he inquired over the boy, his uncle shrugged distractedly.

"Who knows where that boy might be off to.  No doubt holed up somewhere, sulking over the lashing he earned himself this morning."  The reverend waved his hand toward the stairs.  "Does Joseph have work for Justin?

"Yes," Joshua quickly replied, and gave the Reverend a placating smile.  "Shall I check the servants' quarters?"

"I suppose so," the Reverend sighed, suddenly weary.  "You will not catch young Justin in the house with us, not when there are coloreds out back to amuse him.  I swear, Joshua, were it not for you and Joseph, I would fear for his soul."

Christopher found it all most insulting, but Joshua seemed to take it in stride; perhaps he was accustomed to hearing Justin spoken of so poorly.  Surely Justin did not deserve such treatment, though.  Christopher couldn't think of anyone with a more friendly and open disposition than Justin; there was a purity to him that was rare even in a town of good people.

However, Christopher had yet to decide whether or not this were a town of good people.

"We are leaving directly," Joshua said, and gently pushed Christopher toward the door.  Perhaps he was as eager as Christopher to leave this place, after all.  They were nearly to the blessed door when Justin rushed in carrying a bundle of firewood, barely missing crashing into Christopher.

"Christopher," he breathed, blinking in disbelief.  He had not been off practicing imprudence as his uncle insinuated; he had been working.  It was evident in his red, sweaty cheeks and open collar.

"We have come to fetch you for Joseph," Joshua blurted, and stepped to the side that he might pass with his load.

"Have you?"  Justin found his composure once again and tipped his head at Christopher in question.  "Just like that?"  

"Are you otherwise occupied?" Christopher asked, frowning at the way Justin's lips were curving into a broad smile that spread slowly across his face. 

"Not at all," Justin replied.  "What my uncle must think, that an educated gentleman like you has come to call on his lazy, ragtag nephew," he said softly, only for Christopher's ears, and beckoned Christopher to follow him to the other room where he began stacking the logs near the far wall.

His uncle followed as well, and Justin seemed fully aware of his uncle's discomfort…he almost seemed to relish it.  Christopher realized that Justin was far more intelligent than his uncle gave him credit for.

"Uncle," he said while he still knelt at his task.  "My work is done, and they say that Joseph wishes me to visit."

The Reverend did not seem at ease with his nephew, and was quick to grant permission.  They would see him at worship on Sunday, Christopher promised as they left.

***

"Why do you allow the afflicted girls to the services?"  Goodwife Baker complained loudly from the front pew.  The majority of the congregation pretended to hear nothing, but many protested the presence of the jittery, mumbling girls.  "They do nothing but disrupt our worship!"

Reverend Parris was troubled, but handled the angry questions with grace.  "Should we let the Devil achieve what he has set out to accomplish?" he replied patiently.  "It would be his will to see these girls kept out of the Lord's house."

Joseph kept his eyes forward, away from the commotion.

Justin, in his youth, couldn't resist the urge to turn his head toward the commotion, but when Christopher elbowed him sharply with a reproving frown, he stilled himself.  He calmed himself the same way he had since childhood, by imagining himself far removed from this place, on the deck of a ship that sailed to the Indies.

Joseph stretched out his long legs and turned his attention to quieter things.  He was only just beginning to say his prayers when Lance stirred beside him.  Before he could fully comprehend what was happening, Lance was on his feet in front of God and the congregation.

Joseph couldn't imagine what Lance was doing; he could only stare at his servant along with everyone else.  No one was as shocked as Joseph when Lance opened his mouth and in a strong, bass tone that Joseph had never heard, shouted,

"George Burroughs comes to me at night, joined by the Devil himself, and bids me to harm my master with a scythe!"

The crowd gasped as one and then fell silent.  Lance stood firm, looking to the Reverend for some kind of response.

"Lance!" Joseph reached for Lance's hand, which trembled before him.  He closed his fingers around the hot, damp skin, and the gesture stopped the trembling, but not his servant's confession.

"George Burroughs became angry with me because I refused to do his evil deeds; he walks with the Devil and I cannot hold this secret any longer!" Lance repeated intently.

Reverend Parris needed only a moment of silence to absorb the accusation.  There was nothing to decide, for the matter had been settled the second Lance made his notice.  The townspeople had needed but an excuse to rid themselves of Burroughs and his argumentative nature, and Lance had provided their salvation.

Finally, Reverend Parris mopped at his forehead and grasped the edge of the pulpit with bony, eager fingers that reminded Joseph of claws. 

"My dear child," he said, addressing Lance.  "I cannot imagine what you have gone through.  Will you testify in a court as to George Burroughs' evil doings?"

Joseph, Christopher, Joshua and Justin were unable to take their eyes from Lance, yet Lance didn't look away from the Reverend.  Slowly, he nodded and made his vow.

"I will."

***

The devil was in Salem.  No one could speak of anything else, and though Joseph was sometimes lax about keeping the Sabbath in the strictest sense, by sundown he could take no more of the foolish talk.  All it took was one question from Justin over the nature of witches, and Joseph exploded in a fit of rare temper.

"Enough!" he shouted, and buried his face in his hands.  A terrible loneliness threatened to smother him and he longed for his mother's skirts, his father's wisdom.  Here he had a house full of men who expected his comfort, yet he had none to give.

"May I sit?"  The question held a world of warmth, and perhaps he had been too hasty in his despair of comfort.  A hand came to rest on his knee, and though he opened not his eyes, he could clearly see the image of Lance kneeling at his side.

"Leave me," he intended to say, but it emerged from his lips as "Forgive me."  He muttered the words into his hands, unable to face his friends.  The weeks had proven too much, and he had proven too weak to weather what had come.  Shame forced him into this hiding place, and when he finally raised his head toward the flickering blades of the fire, only Lance remained, still kneeling and full of worry.

"You lie," Joseph whispered, and the words caught in his throat as though he might weep.  "In the Lord's house."

Lance nodded, head down, so near and full of trust.  Any other master might already have a whip in hand, but Joseph would not mar such innocence as he found in his servant, despite the lies.  "Aye," Lance replied.

"George Burroughs will hang," Joseph choked out.  "Do you understand?"  He could see it then, clearly in his mind.

Lance nodded again, but with less certainty.

"Tell me!" Joseph demanded.  "Do you truly understand?"

Lance's chin came up to meet Joseph's challenge, and his eyes held Joseph captive with their crackling green embers. "I understand that if you say it will be, then it shall be."

With a jarring thump of his heart, Joseph was silenced.

Though he was troubled, this did not surprise him.  He had never been able to conceal himself from his friends, but they would never judge him.  Even Lance, who was bound to him by law and contract, had never shown any judgment in those razor-sharp eyes of his.   Joseph knew that the people of Salem would be far less forgiving if they knew of his unnatural sight.   The sight sometimes had proven useful but now, tonight, it betrayed him and fed him enticing, unbidden images that he knew could not be.  He let himself think on it, forgetting Lance for the moment.

"What do you see?"

Joseph ignored the question, but Lance's hand tightened on his knee, where he had forgotten its presence. "Tell me," Lance pleaded.  "It troubles you."

It did, and was far too troubling for him to share.  "It is nothing," he whispered.  Some foolishness, perhaps, or merely wishful thinking.  It was his own fault for allowing himself to think on Lance too often.  He wished to leave the room, but feared his legs would be far too unsteady to hold him.  In addition to the bewildering day, he was unaccustomed to conversation with his servant.

"Now it is you who tells the lie," Lance said softly.  His voice rumbled against Joseph's leg and washed over him, dark and thick like molasses.

"Sometimes a lie is better than the truth," Joseph managed to say, despite the drugging effect of Lance's words.

"You need not protect me."

He looked down at Lance, at the disheveled tips of his golden hair, at the long fingers that curled tightly around Joseph's knee.  To anyone entering the room, it would've appear that Joseph held Lance on his lap, but it was the other way around; Joseph felt held, cradled by a soul as familiar as his own.  "Perhaps I protect myself," he said with caution.

"Then you worry in vain," Lance replied, a bare whisper.  "With me, you have nothing to fear, for I cannot be shocked and nothing shall ever sway my loyalties."  He lifted his head and laid his cheek to Joseph's chest, strong hands sliding around the tender sides of his belly.  At first Joseph knew not what to think.  It had been years since anyone had moved their hands on him in such a familiar way, but Lance did not make him guess, just lifted his face and said, "I wish to show you something."

His hands were as steady and sure as ever when he brought his fingers to Joseph's shirt buttons, unfastening one after the other until his chest was bared.  Joseph clutched the sides of his chair, not understanding.  When Lance pushed the fabric aside and ran feather-light fingers down the center of his chest, Joseph shivered and almost spoke, only to have his words stolen by pleasure.  Electricity gathered and burst in the sensitive peak where Lance's fingers touched lightly.

It was a mimicry of what he had done to Lance.

"I have given you my apology," he said, mindful of the terrible days that had followed his misstep.

"Yet it was not an apology you left me wanting."  Lance whispered his confession, and Joseph found it all impossibly charming.  For such bold words, Lance could not suppress the rise of color in his face, nor could he meet Joseph's eyes when he fitted between Joseph's legs, placing his wet mouth on all the places that his fingers had just traveled.  Joseph moaned quietly and tried to still his hips, which wanted so much to move on the chair, push into the warm weight of his servant.

"Come to my bed," he breathed into the top of Lance's head, and Lance surged to his feet, clinging to him all the while as though afraid Joseph might float away.

Together they slipped into the dark cavern of Joseph's room.  Though they hurried to come together, Joseph spared the time to light a candle.  He loved beautiful things, and nothing could be more lovely than the naked expanse of Lance's chest, hips, and lean thighs that fit perfectly into Joseph's hands.  His fingers stroked eagerly, tracing smooth lines across every part he could reach, for it had been so, so long and he loved the way that Lance lay beneath him, shifting restlessly on the mattress with breathless sighs.