A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts!

Short update here, just to keep us moving forward. I'd wanted to add more, but I have unexpected company this weekend. :) I'll try to update again tomorrow!

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 12 – Cautious and Vigilant

Andover Village, Massachusetts Bay Colony - October 29, 1692

When I wake in the morning, I first note that it has now been a full day and evening without my Edward, my Soaring Eagle.

The second thing I note is the pressure upon my chest. 'Tis as if someone sits upon it. Bewildered, I open my eyes only to find the walls of my room closing in on me. They pull in and tighten until they form a box with no windows. As the moments pass, the air grows thinner, and the more I attempt to draw in breaths, the less I am able. Moreover, I find I cannot move my head, and it be stuck in an upward-facing position where I may only glare at the timber roof above me, also drawing closer. When I attempt to open my mouth to scream, I cannot.

In the next moment, I be lying in my bed, alone, able to move freely, and with mine walls and the roof precisely where they belong. The drawn curtains allow in a weak sliver of daylight. My heart races, this time not from making love with Edward nor from fearing what awaits me as Edward's wife – as his mate, as he calls me. My terror is from the surety that I was not dreaming. Yet as the moments pass and reason returns, I realize that, of course, I was dreaming. Walls do not move. And there is no one in the room with me.

Yet, the trepidation remains.

The strange sensation recedes as morning prevails – an undeniably cold one, for 'tis almost November, a prodigiously frigid month in Massachusetts Bay Colony. Yet, although fear and trepidation give way, they be superseded by a disquietude that prevents my heart from resuming its normal pace. I am sure 'tis all brought on by my loneliness, for I am unaccustomed to an entire day and night without my Edward.

I be in this disconcerted mood as Mother, Father, and I break our fast, although I attempt to rise above it. For my time with them grows short, and more than anything, I wish to be present with them until I can no longer be. Still, 'tis challenging to focus on anything beyond mineself. As they discuss the events occurring around us, planning for the days ahead, I pick at my bread, cheese, and porridge with a sluggish sort of appetite and hear only every other sentence they speak. 'Tis only when Father bangs a fist against the wooden table, and I jump in my seat, startled, that the conversation begins to interest me.

"'Tis a loathsome, damnable offense that occurs in Salem!"

"Husband, shush," Mother orders, "lest ye wish to find thyself part of the troubles."

"I shall speak as I see within my walls if nowhere else," Father says, lowering his volume if not entirely submitting to Mother's warning. When she offers a nod, continues he with hissed vehemence. "This…vile clergyman, Cotton Mather, a minister from Boston," snarls he. "He further incites the madness in Salem."

"How?" Mother whispers.

"Know ye they have now convened a court of oyer and terminer to hear the cases brought against those unfortunate enough in Salem to be accused of witchcraft."

"Aye," Mother nods sharply. "This I know."

"I am told Mather writes to one of the judges, proffering advice for a village infested by witches, devils, and immortal souls."

"Immortal souls?" whisper I.

"Aye," Father nods at my question, but his attention remains on Mother. A fortunate thing, for I am sure all blood has drained from my face. "In addition to praying, fasting and meditating for the souls of the afflicted children in Salem, he advises seeking confessions from those these children accuse of sorcery and witchcraft…and hanging all those who refuse to confess."

"Dear Lord," Mother says, clamping a hand over her mouth while I remain stuck to the immortal souls Father mentioned.

"Aye," Father nods in agreement and approval of Mother's reaction. "And as proof that these afflicted children be not merely seeking attention or attacked by fits that have a natural explanation, but be indeed privy to the witches around us, Mather further advises that the court accept spectral evidence."

"What be spectral evidence, Husband?" Mother asks, pulling her hand away from her mouth.

"Spectral evidence be interpreted by Cotton Mather as any form of evidence where the afflicted be tormented by the invisible specters of the defendants."

Mother frown, obviously confused. "But…but that can be anything."

"Precisely. Any person, with any grievance or reproach, whether real or imagined, has been given implied dispensation to raise suspicions against their neighbors." He swallows. "'Tis beyond abhorrent."

"Yet 'tis not difficult to conceive that some of our own neighbors would resort to such false accusations if allowed the opportunity."

For a long moment, we three remain silent round our small table, lost in our own thoughts of the implications of such. Though outwardly, I attempt to show no more than the required expression of disgust, inwardly, my heart grieves to be abandoning my parents at such a time. Yet, if I leave not now, then when? Moreoever, 'tis obvious that Edward and I be in a precarious position. For although I agree wholeheartedly with Father that crimes are being committed against innocents in Salem…not all that is being said be lies. Rumors have begun to circulate about immortal souls…and who has started such rumors…who knows this truth…I know not.

Edward and I have to escape as soon as may be.

But, aye, there shall be questions when one morn, I be not in my bed, and with the madness occurring, only Lord knows what theories shall arise and in what light they shall cast Mother and Father. Fortunately, Edward and I had the foresight to plan for this. Edward shall kill a wolf and leave a trail of blood and fur from my house into the woods. They shall believe that I struggled with a wolf, who eventually won. 'Tis a somewhat gruesome plan but necessary if we are to lay all questions surrounding my disappearance to rest.

"Perhaps, I should not have shown such haste nor replied with such poorly disguised glee when Reverend Newton-"

"Hush, Husband," Mother says sharply. "There is no point in such musings. You did as you saw fit, which is all we may ever do."

With a deep breath, Father nods. "And so, with all that occurs, I would ask that you and Isabella remain close to the hearth as much as may be, at least, until this madness somewhat lets up."

There be another long moment of silence. 'Tis only when Father again speaks that I realize my grave error.

"What be this, Isabella?" Father questions, raising his brows in my direction. "No complaints from thy quarter about being commanded to remain indoors? I expected such aggravated fuss as would rouse our dead ancestors in England."

I swallow hard, for dissembling with Father has never come easy to me. We be too similar. When I meet his gaze, the melancholy increases, for I know soon, I shall never see him again. Yet, I end our relationship with lies. My sadness increases the bout of nausea I have been feeling. I wrap an arm around my stomach.

"I…I have been feeling poorly this morn, Father. What's more, 'tis prodigiously cold, and so-"

"I mean more than remaining home today, Isabella. I mean for ye and thy mother to remain indoors for the foreseeable-"

Mother breaks into the conversation, unwittingly sparing me the need to tell more lies.

"Isabella and I cannot remain home today, Husband," says she decisively. "'Tis Market Day, and the final one before winter. We need supplies."

"What need we beyond what we already have stored?" Father asks.

"We need rye, dried herbs, spices..." Mother's eyes flash to me and the manner in which I hold my stomach, then back to Father. "There is a root called ginger, which I would procure for Isabella. For as she stated, she has been feeling poorly, and this root assists with upset stomach."

Father sighs and sits back, his concerned gaze roaming between Mother and I. "Very well. Procure the last of our winter supplies, and then we shall shutter ourselves within our home for the winter, only venturing forth for Sunday services, lest we be termed demons," he snarls.

Mother and I clean up from the morning fast-breaking, while Father prepares to chop wood. She and I don our cloaks and mittens. Then we retrieve baskets for our supplies. There is a sense of urgency in Mother and Father's every movement, filling me with increasing dread. For, in no more than a handful of days, depending on how long it takes Edward to find and fetch his aunt, I shall not only no longer be here to either comfort or distract them from what occurs in neighboring Salem, but I shall add to their misery. I find myself wishing, not for the first time, that they had been able to conceive more children.

With such dark thoughts, my nausea grows. When Mother opens the front door, the wind that enters verily knocks me over. I shiver and shudder, and an image of Edward and I, in our midnight Eden, flashes through my mind. I be cocooned in Edward's arms, and despite the undeniable coldness of his form, the soft animal furs above and below me, the roaring fire in the hearth, and more than all those, Edward's adoration, keep me warm and safe.

Unwittingly smiling, I look up and find Mother eyeing me.

"Are ye well, Isabella?"

"Aye, Mother. Just…"

"Feeling poorly," finishes she for me.

"Aye."

She says nothing more. Father comes to the door and kisses Mother's cheek, then brushes his lips against my forehead. Vaguely I find myself wondering if 'twas Father's small displays of affection for us, as opposed to the coldness I have witnessed all mine life from the rest of the men in our village toward their women, which kept me eternally wary and indifferent to all the young men in Andover and Salem.

If 'twas that what made me fall in love with a creature cold on the outside but as fiery as a burning flame on the inside.

"Remain cautious and vigilant," Father quietly instructs Mother. "Procure your supplies, and return."

"Aye."

As the door shuts behind us, the last I see of Father is his uneasy gaze…and the small yet loving smile he offers me.

A/N: Thoughts?

A Short History Lesson on the Reverend Cotton Mather, for those who are interested:

Cotton Mather, the minister of Boston's Old North Church, was a true believer in witchcraft. In 1688, he had investigated the strange behavior of four children of a Boston mason named John Goodwin. The children had been complaining of sudden pains and crying out together in chorus. He concluded that witchcraft, specifically that practiced by an Irish washerwoman named Mary Glover, was responsible for the children's problems. He presented his findings and conclusions in one of the best known of his 382 works, "Memorable Providences." Mather's experience caused him to vow that to "never use but one grain of patience with any man that shall go to impose upon me a Denial of Devils, or of Witches."

As it happened, three of the five judges appointed to the Court of Oyer and Terminer that would hear the Salem witchcraft trials were friends of Mather and members of his church. Mather wrote a letter to one of the three judges, John Richards, suggesting how they might approach evidentiary issues at the upcoming trials. In particular, Mather urged the judges to consider spectral evidence, giving it such weight as "it will bear," and to consider the confessions of witches the best evidence of all. As the trials progressed, and growing numbers of person confessed to being witches, Mather became firmly convinced that "an Army of Devils is horribly broke in upon the place which is our center." On August 4, 1692, Mather delivered a sermon warning that the Last Judgment was near at hand, and portraying himself, Chief Justice Stroughton, and Governor Phips as leading the final charge against the Devil's legions. On August 19, Mather was in Salem to witness the execution of ex-minister George Burroughs for witchcraft. When, on Gallows Hill, Burroughs was able to recite the Lord's Prayer perfectly (something that witches were thought incapable of doing) and some in the crowd called for the execution to be stopped, Mather intervened, reminding those gathered that Burroughs had been duly convicted by a jury. Mather was given the official records of the Salem trials for use in preparation of a book that the judges hoped would favorably describe their role in the affair. The book, "Wonders of the Invisible World," provides fascinating insights both into the trials and Mather's own mind.

When confessed witches began recanting their testimony, Mather may have begun to have doubts about at least some of the proceedings. He revised his own position on the use of spectral evidence and tried to minimize his own large role in its consideration in the Salem trials. Later in life, Mather turned away from the supernatural and may well have come to question whether it played the role it life he first suspected.

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