The flames from the fireplace danced in the air of the room when I entered abruptly, tearing off a necklace that was around my neck. The coin John had given me before leaving was trapped in a small net attached to the cord, which had always been with me since my choice had been made.

"You told me John was dead," rage consumed my mind.

"It's not like counting sheep, my dear," Tituba picks up the necklace I threw on the table and holds it. "It's more like counting shadows, but that doesn't change anything," her voice was serene and calm.

She approaches me and holds me by the arms in front of the enormous mirror before me. Through it, I can see my face swollen from shed tears mixed with hatred that Tituba's predictions were not correct.

"What is John Aurus compared to everything that lies before you now? Stop whimpering, boy. This man doesn't deserve your tears."

"They're not for him," I finally say. "They're for the boy I once was."

"That boy belongs to another now!" Tituba pulls my hair.

My mouth opens and I let out a scream. The mirror in front of us shatters, its fragments falling to the floor as Tituba releases my hair.

"It was he who left you to the wolves," she continues, her hands touching my neck. "No, child, it was he who saved you from the wolves and raised you to all this. You have a grand vision," her hands caress my chest. "Don't lose sight of it. Tomorrow the moon will be with us, tomorrow everything will begin. Save your anger for Kanaima to feed on. Hasn't he kept his promise? Aren't your enemies now your slaves? Don't you have everything you've always desired?"

Tituba's hands descended to my abdomen and rose again in a tranquil dance while I looked at what remained of the mirror in front of me. My eyes were soaked, and my skin was lifeless. John had taken away all the stability I had achieved. It would have been better for me and everyone else if he had remained dead. But his return to Salem only brought me doubts and fears.

"Wealth, power..." Tituba continued her speech.

"Almost everything," the words left my mouth with bitterness.

A knock. I quickly compose myself as Alberto appears at the door with a serious expression. He bows slightly and looks at us.

"Excuse me, sir, a gentleman wishes to see you."

I give a nod and go down the stairs, walking toward the living room. Sitting in one of my armchairs was Mr. Currey. His white hair contrasted with his flaccid, wrinkled skin. He wore dirty beige pants, muddy and dusty boots, as well as a coat and a hat made of brown bear fur.

"To what do I owe this immense pleasure?"

"I would like to speak with you," I sit down across from him in the opposite armchair, and he adjusts himself slightly. "I had a small farm. First, it broke my heart, then my back. As we both know, the heart heals, the back doesn't. I started hunting with traps. It's a hard life—ruined the Indians, now it's ruining me." He takes out a flask from one of the pockets of his coat and drinks from it.

I look at him without the slightest interest. This conversation was happening at an inopportune time. I was restraining myself from losing my composure and ordering him out of my house. But after the drink went down his throat and he made a grimace, he returns his focus to me.

"One thing about traps is that you catch good game at night, but by morning they'll be another's meal, which is why I stay with the traps."

"Fascinating, Mr. Currey, but..."

"That's why I was there..." I look at him, surprised. "On the night they did that, you and your mulatto friend."

"You waited a long time," I said, looking at him intimidatingly.

"It wasn't anybody's business, but John is back, and we can agree that none of us would like to see young master Sibley being hanged in the public square. And what that could do to John, of course. Would you be willing to kill him for being who you are?"

Birds were singing that morning as I walked toward the cemetery. My steps were the same as those taken by John that morning, as I was following him at a safe distance. I was determined to sort out this entire situation. It wouldn't be an old man who would ruin what I had built. But I stopped when I realized that young Hale was sitting among the tombstones with his sketchbook.

His eyes were concentrated on the drawing he was attempting to make, but the sharp-pointed pen escaped his fingers, causing a cut on his finger, automatically making him bring it to his mouth to stop the bleeding. John approaches him, crouching down since the small artist was sitting on a blanket. Andy looks at him with a wide smile on his face, simultaneously surprised to see him there.

"Not bad."

"Reverend Mather says drawing is idolatry," the Hales' son says as he gathers his drawing instruments. "Just like worshipping nature."

"There are worse things to worship," John says in an amused tone.

Andy looks carefully at John's face and holds it, taking him by surprise with such an act. His fingers touch his goatee, turning his face slightly.

"I wish I could draw you," he says as he releases John's face.

A smile forms on John's face as Andy's fingers release his face and move above the drawing materials.

"I don't know if I'd like to see a portrait of myself," Aurus gives Andy a smile, and both let out a small laugh. "Besides, I don't have time to sit. I'm leaving town."

John's words took Andy by surprise.

"Already? Are you afraid of the witches? Or that they'll think you're a witch?"

"It's a long way to New York," John stands up. "Good day," he bids farewell and continues along the small trail that leads to one of the town's exits.

Andy watches him go down the road and absentmindedly picks up his drawing materials and blanket, walking with his head down, almost bumping into me. Upon noticing my presence, his expression changes. The surprise is evident in his gaze.

"Ah... I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't frighten me," he gives a small smile. "I'm just surprised."

"Yes, of course. Quite a brave young man to be drawing in the cemetery."

"I'm not afraid of the dead," his voice is impetuous, "and much less of the living."

"That's because you know nothing about death. Nor about life," I caress his hair as I continue, "I could teach you. About life and death," I began to seduce him, "and many things in between," I finished with a smile, giving a slight bite to my lips.

"Thank you, Mr. Sibley," he said uncomfortably, his features becoming rigid. "I can only aspire to your wisdom," then he turned and went on his way.

I observed young Andy walking calmly while I played with a small tuft of hair I had pulled from his head without him noticing. Then I give a triumphant smile as I head to the center of town. Usually, in the morning, there is a market that operates in its surroundings, so all the housewives and vendors from the region would be there to make a good sale or a good purchase.

An animalistic scream breaks the usual sound of people coming and going about their business. I would recognize his voice anywhere, and of course, who was with him, screaming like the almighty. Women screamed in fear, and men gave way to young Emment, who was gagged with an iron helmet with a chain guide while drooling like a ferocious dog searching for something.

"Since Emment cannot speak the name of the witches, he will show us the witch," Jacob's voice was triumphant; he was certain he would find what he desired.

The young man began to crawl on the beaten ground in search of the witch. Everyone avoided direct contact with him. He screamed like an animal; his voice was hoarse and reached impressively high pitches. Then he approached me and looked at me. I knew that look, but it wouldn't be that easy. He stood up and showed his full physical stature. He was wearing only his underwear, showing his broad shoulders and defined chest. I could count each rigid muscle from the hard work he did, of course, before I did what I did.

He was going to try to accuse me. Jacob was eyeing me like a vulture over a piece of rotting meat, but with a simple nod of my head, he obeyed the command. I didn't alter my serious countenance for a second, while Jacob now followed Emment, who was running toward a group of people. He screamed again and looked at Currey, pointed his finger at him while screaming, but I wanted a spectacle. So young Emment brought his index finger to his mouth and bit off the tip of his finger, spilling blood while pointing at the old man. He should have known that threatening a witch would be his death sentence.