Welcome to Danvers

To celebrate the launch of my debut novel, read the first chapter of Danvers now. Happy hexing!

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Danvers, Massachusetts. 1692.

The girls and I always sit in the same row during our coven meetings, not out of habit, but out of strategy. It’s an intimidation tactic. We’ve been refining our resting witch faces for years now, carefully calibrating the balance between indifference and menacing, and there is no better testing ground than watching Mayor Saunders squirm under the weight of it when he inevitably makes eye contact with us.

Today, he’s more wily than usual. Unfortunately, however, it has nothing to do with us and everything to do with the fact that Salem, the town just over from ours, is currently unraveling itself in spectacular fashion. It is in the midst of an inquisition. A witch hunt, if you prefer something less dramatic and more accurate.

Most people on this side of the Atlantic wouldn’t give it a second thought. The machinations of a rigid Puritan settlement are usually as predictable as they are tedious and inconsequential. But today, we’re paying attention. Because here, just a broom ride away in the sleepy hollow known as Danvers, we’re actually witches. The critical difference being that the people of Salem don’t know that. And we would very much like to keep it that way.

“We must not do anything to arouse suspicion!” Mayor Saunders proclaims, his voice getting louder as if the volume might compensate for his lack of authority. He looks rather foolish with how high his breeches are pulled, the waistband hovering somewhere just below his ribs as though he’s attempting to keep his organs from escaping.

I snicker softly. Beside me, my best friend Betty rolls her eyes theatrically.

“Oh, Mary, how this moron continues to be voted as our mayor is a bigger mystery to me than how to perfect a summoning circle,” she murmurs out of the corner of her mouth.

In truth, a summoning circle isn’t particularly difficult to perfect, but Betty has never been one for study. She has long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a face that inspires both devotion and poor decision-making, which, in most cases, is more than sufficient. She doesn’t need her love potions, but in a town as small as Danvers, sometimes the thrill of a spell is the only thing standing between us and complete, soul-crushing boredom. Otherwise, even witches can become as dull as the clouds.

According to Mayor Saunders, who is currently yammering from his pulpit with all the gravitas of a man who has never once been taken seriously by anyone who matters, a group of young girls in Salem began pointing fingers a few months ago. Since then, all it takes is a well-timed accusation and a convincing tremble of the lip to have someone you dislike thrown in jail. Writing with your left hand and dancing with the devil in a graveyard appear to be the popular offenses, though any real witch knows he prefers more private venues or in the natural stage of the forest, but that’s beside the point.

The point is this: the largest coven of witches east of the Merrimack River is here with us in Danvers. Aside from a few scattered pockets here and there, the rest mostly drifted south to New Orleans. Rumor has it a convent of vampires had joined them, though I have no intention of personally verifying that claim. I prefer my dangers local and manageable. Here in Danvers, we’ve flown under the new moon since the first settlers arrived from England decades ago.

Salem has started hanging women for imagined magic. Danvers has survived by hiding the real kind. Which, if you ask me, feels like a failure of imagination on their part, and a testament to ours.

“The people of Salem cannot suspect that we, their neighbors, are casting spells right beneath their buckled boots!”

Though dramatic, Mayor Saunders is not wrong. Salem is burning itself alive on rumor and hysteria. And while Danvers has remained untouched, wildfires have a way of spreading. Still, so long as no one looks too closely, they won’t see the pyres we tend to light on our own. In Danvers, we don’t burn witches. We celebrate them. Mostly.

I lean toward my other best friend, Hannah, lowering my voice just enough to avoid notice. She angles closer to me, her shoulder-length dark hair brushing against my cheek.

“Terribly out of fashion,” I murmur. “If they had any actual witches, they’d know laced boots are in.”

They’re also more practical. You can loop protection charms into the laces, reinforce them with sigils, and adjust for a quick exit if necessary, which, given the number of jealous eyes that tend to follow Betty, Hannah, and me, is less of a precaution and more of a necessity.

Mayor Saunders clears his throat from the front of the chapel. It’s dedicated to the many deities of our pantheon—and a few demons to boot—though we’ve taken great care to disguise it as a perfectly respectable Puritan house of worship. Appearances, as always, are everything.

“Now, on that note,” he says, gesturing with unnecessary flourish, “we have two new members joining our coven.”

What?

Betty, Hannah, and I turn in perfect unison, our attention snapping to the back of the chapel as an older woman and a girl about our age begin their walk down the center aisle. As they pass, I lock eyes with the girl. Her long, auburn hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, catching the low light from the windows, while her emerald eyes are bright and curious. She has a perfect button nose and cheekbones as sharp as an athame. Looking at her, I immediately feel two things: envy and suspicion.

“This is Margaret Jacobs and her granddaughter, Abigail,” the mayor announces. “They’ve fled their farm on the far outskirts of Salem due to the ongoing trials and have decided to join us like-minded folk. Say hello, everyone.”

No one does. Nearly one hundred witches stare back at him—and at them—in complete silence. It goes on just long enough to be uncomfortable—which, in Danvers, is generally the goal.

Betty, Hannah, and I exchange a glance, barely containing our amusement at the total discomfort of it all. It’s a mistake.

The mayor clears his throat again and fixes his gaze directly on us. “Mary, Betty, Hannah,” he says pointedly, “Abigail is your age, and I’m sure she would be delighted if you gave her a tour of our town.”

I press my lips together. I’m naturally quite guarded and don’t require more friends. Two is a perfectly reasonable number, and both are already sitting beside me. But the look on Mayor Saunders’s face tells me this is not a suggestion. It is a thinly veiled command, dressed up as community spirit.

“We’d be delighted,” I say sweetly, ensuring my displeasure is just visible enough to be understood.

I make a mental note to remember this the next time he requests assistance removing toad warts. My supply of tonic may suddenly become very limited, and I’ll likely require several days to gather new ingredients.

“Fantastic!” he says, clapping his hands together with misplaced enthusiasm. “We have another refugee from Salem arriving shortly, so let’s reconvene soon. Until then, be hexed, my witches and warlocks.”

“And hexing with you,” we reply in unison.

We rise from the pew perfectly synchronized. Though I consider Betty and Hannah equals, they have a frustrating habit of looking to me for direction. I face enough daily horrors as it is, and being responsible for two perfectly capable women should not be one of them. Still, while the horrors persist, so do I.

I gesture for Abigail to come forward. She approaches cautiously, offering a polite smile that does not quite reach her eyes. She wipes her hand discreetly against her mustard-yellow frock before taking mine.

“I’m Mary Bishop,” I say. “This is Betty Howe and Hannah James.”

“Hi,” she replies. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Hannah looks her over slowly, her mouth curving ever so slightly. “The pleasure is entirely yours,” she says, already rendering her judgment, though she doesn’t look away.

I elbow her lightly in the ribs. “We’re planning to gather mushrooms in the forest,” I add, smoothing over the moment. “Would you like to join us?”

I neglect to mention that the mushrooms are intended for a hex currently in development, one aimed at a particularly irritating member of our coven who took it upon herself to inform Mayor Saunders about the anonymous letters we’ve been sending regarding his leadership and a series of unpopular decisions. In our defense, if the coven refuses to express dissent publicly, it is only reasonable that someone take initiative privately with ink and parchment.

Abigail glances at her grandmother. The older woman gives a subtle nod.

“That sounds nice,” Abigail says.

I lead us down the aisle of the musty chapel, past angled heads and watchful eyes, and push open the doors into the autumn-thick air. The dirt road stretches through the town square and past several municipal buildings before giving way to uneven grass and the thin line of forest beyond. Danvers sits along the coast; the woods are thin, but wide-reaching and rich with flora for spellcraft. I suspect that’s why our grandparents settled here, though Betty insists it was merely because the winters reminded them of England.

“A few things you should know about Danvers,” I say as we walk. “First, no spellcasting on the main road. Save it for your home, the graveyard, or the woods. Second, jinxes are common, especially from the less imaginative and covetous members of our coven. Most are poorly executed, but you should carry a charm regardless.”

“I’ll remember that,” Abigail says quickly.

“But the most important thing,” Betty adds, cutting in with renewed interest, “is that every third full moon, a witch named Jessica visits our town. She brings potions that keep one young forever.”

“Forever-ish,” I correct.

“They’re expensive,” Betty continues, undeterred, “and occasionally result in mild bruising, but the results speak for themselves.”

Abigail’s eyes widen.

“Betty’s family hosts her,” I add. “We call them Pretty Potion Parties.”

“Attendance is technically optional, but socially mandatory,” Hannah tuts, looking Abigail up and down again, something flashing in her eyes that I can’t quite place. Hannah has always had a tendency to want the things she can’t have, and it usually begins like this.

“So choose wisely,” she adds.

“The next one is in a few days,” Betty says. “You’ll want to decide quickly.”

Abigail’s eyes widen slightly, something like intrigue replacing her earlier nerves.

“You don’t have to participate,” I say. “But it is fun. There’s a certain… thrill to it.”

Abigail smiles hesitantly, and I return it, partly as welcome, partly as precaution. First impressions matter and I would prefer that, when she inevitably casts her first hex in town, it is not directed at me.

As we reach the edge of the woods, the forest greets us with a cool hush, the ground soft beneath our boots and the air thick with the scent of damp earth and moss. Sunlight filters weakly through the sparse canopy, catching on the edges of leaves and the pale caps of mushrooms scattered at the base of the trees. At one particularly generous trunk, I crouch and twist a cluster of chanterelles free, demonstrating the motion before handing Abigail my spare basket.

“Like this,” I say. “Twist gently. You don’t want to damage the root. It’ll lose its potency if you do.”

She mirrors the movement carefully, her brow furrowed in concentration. For a moment, she looks almost earnest. Then her gaze shifts, drifting deeper into the woods.

“Aren’t you worried that someone from Salem might see us?” she asks quietly.

“No one comes into these woods besides us,” Hannah replies, making it a point to look directly at Abigail.

“Oh,” Abigail says after a brief pause. “That makes sense. I assumed someone like you would understand the risks better than I do.”

Hannah straightens slightly, her displeased expression faltering only so subtly.

Abigail wrings her hands. “But… who is that?”

I follow the direction of her gaze around the tree and stop. My breath hitches in my throat, and the forest goes quiet around me. Even the wind seems to pause, caught somewhere between the branches like it too has found someone to halt its whispers. Betty and Hannah stop what they’re doing, their reactions mirroring mine when their attention locks onto the same distant point.

Danvers is small. We know everyone. We’ve grown up with them, assessed them, categorized them. The girls became busybodies. The boys became disappointments.

Which is why we stare.

Because standing just beyond the trees is someone we have never seen before, someone who very clearly does not belong here.

And is why we keep staring as the most gorgeous man I have ever seen steps towards us, the filtered light catching on him just enough to make the moment feel… intentional.

And then he lifts a hand in greeting.

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Keep reading Danvers here.