Colonial Madness (13 page)

“They don't burn people at the stake anymore, do they?”

I cleared my throat. “I think the smell of burning hair discourages them.”

Mom smirked at me. “They could shave our heads first, you know.”

I flopped down on the bed. “Maybe we should create back-stories for ourselves. Really get into character for the trial.”

Mom laughed. “You want us to . . .” She paused and then stared out the window. “Maybe that would work.”

“So, I was thinking I could be me but add a few details about what a good person I am.”

“Not too many details,” said Mom, chewing a fingernail. “You want it to be believable.”

Even deep in thought, Mom could insult me.

“And you could be—”

Mom held up a hand. “I have something in mind. Just let me think it through.”

She pulled a chair in front of the window and sat. I watched her for a few minutes and then got up to visit Angel. When I knocked on her bedroom door, however, she barely opened it a crack.

“Listen, Tori, I love you like a cousin—”

“We
are
cousins,” I interrupted.

“But I can't be associated with you right now. Not when my family is so close to taking this contest. If people think
we're
witches too . . .”

She let the thought trail, and I frowned.

“Seriously? You're afraid of catching my witchcraft cooties?”

“I knew you'd understand! Love you, bye!” she said, closing the door in my face.

I didn't even bother knocking on Aunt Zoe and Uncle Deke's door. I had a feeling I'd get the same response. I went back to our bedroom, where Mom was still sitting in the chair, staring out the window.

“A watched sun never sets,” I told her. “Which would actually
work well for us, since the trial's tomorrow after breakfast.”

Mom just nodded, so I let her be. When it was time for bed, she was finally willing to get up from the chair, but she was still too deep in thought.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said, “I don't want you to disagree with anything I say.”

I propped myself on my elbows. “Why? What are you going to say?”

Mom shook her head. “Just trust me. I have a plan.”

The next morning, after a breakfast neither of us could eat, we were led to the clearing behind the manor, where rows of benches had been set facing a table with two chairs. Mom and I knew our place and took our seats.

“These chairs came out much nicer than ours,” she said, wiggling her butt in her seat. “I wonder if we can take them when we leave. As souvenirs.”

“ ‘Sorry you turned out to be witches, but here's some lovely furniture'?” I asked. “Please take this seriously.”

“I am,” said Mom. “But it was giving me forehead wrinkles, so I had to lighten up a bit.” She put a hand on my arm. “Don't worry. Everything is going to work out.”

The back door creaked open, and the rest of the families came out to fill the seats.

“I hope you're right,” I said. “Because here come our judge, jury, and executioners.”

Eli, Felicity, and Caleb marched over from their quarters, and Eli's eyes shone with excitement. He really
was
going to enjoy this. After a brief introduction, Eli asked Mom and me to introduce ourselves. With a deep breath, I launched into my story.

“My name is Victoria Porter,” I said. “I'm the daughter of a seamstress and a soldier. I take care of wounded animals in the woods—”

Eli was staring at his fingernails, completely ignoring me. I caught Caleb's eye, and he shrugged.

So much for playing the game.

“And I'm lead singer for a band named Plymouth Rock,” I finished.

Eli strolled in front of our table. “Are you a witch?”

“Nope,” I said, getting up. “That was easy!”

“Sit down,” said Eli. “We are not finished.”

“Oh.” I sat.

Mom leaned over. “You didn't read up on the Salem witch trials?”

Eli slammed his fists on the table between Mom and me, and we jumped back, startled.

“Conspiring as witches do?” he asked.

“Actually, she was complimenting your beard,” I said. “It's quite fluffy. Do you volumize?”

Eli narrowed his eyes. “You speak in words well beyond your years. As a witch would.”

“As a well-educated girl would,” I corrected.

“And your tongue is barbed,” he said with a frown. “You show little respect to your elders.”

“Only the ones who deserve it.” I retorted.

“She didn't show my dad any respect!” Dylan called from his bench. “Burn her at the stake!”

I tugged on Eli's sleeve and pointed at Dylan. “If I was really a witch? He'd be a smoldering pile of ashes right now.”

Several people gasped.

“Exactly what a witch would say!” whispered Felicity.

I rolled my eyes.

“Exactly what a witch would do!” she whispered.

I sighed and leaned back. “So you think I'm a witch because I found a camera and roll my eyes?”

“And levitate!” someone called from the back.

“Who . . .” I craned my neck to see. A random half-cousin I didn't even know that well. But she and her family were in fourth place, right behind Mom and me.

“You saw me levitate?” I repeated. “Where's the proof?”

“I saw Tori levitate too,” said Dylan.

I scowled at him. “I saw you turn into a pig. Why aren't
you
on the stand?”

“Silence, witch!” said Eli. He turned to my mother. “What say you?”

Mom folded her hands in front of her and leaned forward. “I say . . . that I am your long-lost sister.” She glanced at Eli's wife. “Hey, sis!”

Eli blinked in confusion. “What?”

“I am your long-lost sister, and Tori is your long-lost niece.” She gestured to me. “You and your wife planted us in the contest to steal the old bird's fortune. But yesterday I told you we would no longer help you perform such a vile deed, and you retaliated by accusing us of witchcraft.”

“This . . . this is preposterous!” blustered Eli. He faced his wife, who did not look pleased.

“Why do you think we've been winning challenges?” Mom asked the audience. “Because my brother”—she winked at Eli—“helps us. But he can't let us win all the time, so that's why we occasionally do so bad.”

The family members began whispering among themselves.

“Do you think it's true?”

“They
are
pretty incompetent.”

I couldn't help feeling mildly insulted.

“This is not about me, it is about you!” Eli pointed at Mom
and me. “Your daughter is a witch! She knows of magic!”

“Because
you
taught her, remember?” said Mom. She looked out at the crowd and rolled her eyes, laughing. “So forgetful.”

Eli's face was now the color of a sliced watermelon. “We are not related!”

Mom spread her arms open. “Prove it. My accusations are as valid as yours.”

“I . . . you . . . she!” Eli grabbed at his hair.

Mom leaned forward and whispered, “Nobody here knows my side of the family, so my words have weight. Unless you want to mention DNA testing, which didn't exist in colonial times and would make
you
look like a witch, drop the accusation or everyone will think you're cheating and mass chaos will ensue.”

The clearing was completely quiet, as if even the birds were waiting for an answer.

“I may . . . have jumped to conclusions,” Eli said begrudgingly. “It is possible that these two strangers are simple humans.”

“Very simple!” called Dylan.

“Are you looking in a mirror?” I asked.

Mom nudged me into silence. “Then it is possible we are not actually related,” she said.

“This trial is over,” said Eli, shoulders slumping, “and all witchcraft charges are dropped.”

Everyone on the benches applauded.

Now
they were supportive.

“Please follow me to the barn for the morning challenge,” he said in a dull tone.

Before I could do that, I had to turn to Mom and throw my arms around her.

“That was brilliant!” I said.

“The best defense is a good offense,” said Mom, hugging me back. “I told you I'd come up with something.”

Angel approached the table with her parents.

“Looks like you live to fight another day!” she said, hugging me.

“Congratulations,” added Aunt Zoe. “I'm not sure if that's the smartest move I've seen or the most foolish.”

Mom and I looked at one another and then at Aunt Zoe.

“What do you mean?”

“I have a feeling you're going to start finding this contest a lot more difficult,” said Aunt Zoe.

“You personally insulted Eli and his family,” said Uncle Deke. “He's not going to forget that. Neither will they.”

I swallowed hard.

Caleb.

Y
ou want cheese omelets?” Mom asked the next morning.

“Huh?” I turned away from our bedroom window. I'd been sitting in the window seat since sunrise, watching Caleb's craft hut.

Mom gave me a sympathetic smile. “He still hasn't seen your note?”

I shook my head. “I tried to talk to him after the trial, then after the first challenge, then after the
second
challenge. He keeps avoiding me.”

“I can't believe he's so upset,” said Mom. “It was all in good fun.”

I buried my head in my hands. “Mom, you implied he and his family were a bunch of cheaters. Even if it wasn't true, you still made them look bad.”

“Well, he needs to get over it, and
you
need to get over
him
,” she said. “Now
do
you want a cheese omelet?”

I poked my head through the neck hole of my dress. “Kraft singles haven't even been invented yet. Where are you going to get cheese?”

“I made a batch,” Mom said.

“Milk you accidentally left on a sunny windowsill isn't cheese,” I informed her.

“Ha ha ha,” she said, pulling her hair into a bun. “For your information, I found a ‘book of cookery' in the library and boiled the cheese the proper way. Then I sampled it to make sure we wouldn't die.” She smacked her lips as if remembering the taste. “It wasn't half-bad.”

I regarded her shrewdly, then shrugged. “Okay, I've never had homemade cheese. Why not?”

“Great!” said Mom, opening the bedroom door. “And we can . . . ACK!” She tumbled face-first into the hallway.

“Mom!” I ran to help her up. “Are you okay?”

She twisted onto her backside, and I could see a long, narrow box underneath her legs. Someone had positioned it just outside our bedroom door.

“What's that?” I asked, kneeling beside her.

“A mother slaying device,” she said, taking the hand I offered.

We both faced the box, which was latched on the front with a simple turn clasp.

“What do you think's inside?” I asked.

“Only one way to find out.”

Mom popped open the lid, and we peered into the box. Two beribboned scrolls sat on top of a set of metal cuffs that had iron balls attached with chains.

“This doesn't look promising,” she said, trying to heft one of the balls out of the box.

I grabbed a scroll and slipped off the ribbon. Written inside the curled paper was a note.

To Whoever Selected This Scroll:

It appears you're still in the contest, thriving like the majestic cockroach.

It is now my pleasure to inform you that you've developed beriberi, a common colonial illness that, left untreated, will cripple your muscles and kill you.

I lowered the paper and looked at Mom. “I have beriberi.”

“Sounds delicious,” she said. “Maybe we can make cobbler-cobbler.”

I shook my head. “This isn't funny! It's a disease that's going to kill me!”

Mom gave me a withering look. “I'll admit Great-Aunt Muriel was mean, but she wouldn't kill any of us. She couldn't legally get away with it.”

“What does
she
care? She's dead!”

Mom took the letter from me. “You didn't read the whole thing.” Clearing her throat, she continued:

Since, sadly, I could not afflict you with the actual illness, this is only a hypothetical scenario. The ankle weights will simulate your muscle depletion. Don them as soon as you finish this letter. If you “die” from the disease before the sun sets, you might as well go home.

“It's like getting a hug from her,” I mumbled, hefting one of the balls and chains out of the box. Mom helped me fasten it around my ankle. “What did the other scroll say?”

“That I have a family member afflicted with beriberi,” she
said, making a face. “And that I have until sunset to find the cure.”