A Spell for the Revolution Read Online Free PDF Page A

thorough rubdown, then put her in the stall. As he filled her feed bag with oats, she lifted her muzzle and slobbered on his cheek. He scratched her ears then went to store her tack.
    His work was interrupted by an odd
thump
. He glanced around, taking it for one of the cats, then went back to rubbing oil into the leather.
    Another
thump
was followed by the sharp knock of metal on wood. He lifted his head. “Hello? Ezra, is that you?”
    He stepped away from the saddle and froze.
    A sickle lay on the ground, several feet from the spot on the wall where he kept it stored. There was a line through the straw, too much like the line Bootzamon’s tomahawk had drawn through the blood at the Walker house. The sharp, curved blade caught a piece of light from outside, almost seeming to wink at him.
    The constant buzz of summer insects fell silent, just like the crickets in Virginia.
    His hands started to sweat and shake.
    Then something pushed up against his leg and he spun, tense, ready to strike. It was one of the barn cats, the rangy black one with white spots. It lifted its head and meowed at him, and all the sounds came rushing back at once: the insects buzzing outside, the bleating of sheep out in the pasture, the cries of birds in the orchard.
    The encounter with Bootzamon had him spooked, constantly braced for another attack. He would be fine as soon as he realized he was safe here on The Farm. As safe as he could be anywhere. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his breeches and petted the cat’s head.
    “You knock that off the wall?” he asked.
    He retrieved the sickle and hung it back in its place, then finished storing the tack. Then he cleaned his weapons and left them on the workbench while he walked to the well to wash up. He was drawing up a bucket of water when the warning chimes tinkled. He let go and the bucket splashed into the water below. Nothing was visible down by the gate—the same charm that disguised their location made the land beyond the boundary blurry.
    The door banged open, and Deborah ran out to the porch.
    “Somebody’s here,” he said.
    “And they didn’t set off my outer warning,” she said. Her face looked worried.
    “That’s not possible, is it?”
    “It shouldn’t be.”
    The rest of the students poured onto the porch. Magdalena, the old witch from Pennsylvania, hobbled to the front, steadying herself with her cane. She came from one of the Pennsylvania Dutch religious groups who dressed so plainly they made Quakers look as sumptuous as a French royal court.
    “You won’t keep me in the dark this time,” she said in the singsong German accent so many Americans had.
You von’ keep me in der dark dis time.
    “The dark has no place here,” Deborah answered. “Proctor and I were just going down to see who has come by.”
    “Then I am coming you with,” Magdalena said, lifting her cane in a gesture of exclamation. She had been a student of Deborah’s grandmother and a friend of Deborah’s mother, who had helped her hide witches and move them to safety along the Quaker Highway. In her mind, she was the person best suited to run The Farm; she distrusted Deborah’s youth and opposed many of the changes Deborah had made, especially the decision to recruit witches andbring them together instead of helping them escape and hide.
    She was also still weak from injuries suffered during the Covenant’s attack on them a year ago. Lifting her cane un-steadied her, and she began a slow but inevitable topple to one side.
    Ezra, who, at sixty, was closest to Magdalena’s age, hopped forward to steady her. He moved with that peculiar rolling gait that Proctor had seen on other men who’d spent most of their life at sea.
    “But of course you’re welcome to come,” Deborah said as Ezra caught the old woman. Then she turned and left, walking away at a speed that Magdalena couldn’t possibly match.
    Proctor sprinted to catch up.
    “So you two are still fighting?” he murmured under his breath