Acceptable Risk

4

Friday, July 22, 1994

Kim’s eyes blinked open. At first, she was disoriented. She didn’t know where she was. There were unfamiliar shutters over the windows dispersing the early morning light. Turning her head to the side, she saw Edward’s sleeping form, and it all came back to her in a flash.

Kim drew the sheet up around her neck. She felt distinctly uneasy and out of place. “You hypocrite,” she silently voiced to herself. She could remember just a few days previously telling Edward she didn’t want to rush things, and here she was waking up in his bed. Kim had never been in a relationship which had proceeded to such intimacy so quickly.

As quietly as possible, Kim tried to slip out of the bed with the intention of dressing before Edward woke up. But it was not to be. Edward’s small, white, and rather nasty Jack Russell terrier growled and bared his teeth. His name was Buffer. He was at the foot of the bed.

Edward sat up and shooed the dog away. With a groan he fell back against the pillow.

“What time is it?” he asked. He’d closed his eyes.

“It’s a little after six,” Kim said.

“Why are you awake so early?” Edward asked.

“I’m used to it,” Kim said. “This is my normal wakeup time.”

“But it was almost one when we came to bed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kim said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed.”

Edward opened his eyes and looked at Kim. “Do you feel uncomfortable?” he asked.

Kim nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said. “I shouldn’t have talked you into it.”

“It’s not your fault,” Kim said.

“But it was your inclination to go,” Edward said. “It was my fault.”

They looked at each other for a beat, then both smiled.

“This is sounding a bit repetitious,” Kim said with a chuckle. “We’re back to competing with each other with apologies.”

“It would be funny if it weren’t so pitiful,” Edward said. “You’d think we would have made some progress by now.”

Kim moved over and they put their arms around each other. They didn’t talk for a moment as they enjoyed the embrace. It was Edward who broke the silence. “Do you still feel uncomfortable?”

“No,” Kim said. “Sometimes merely talking about something really helps.”

Later while Edward was in the shower, Kim called her roommate, Marsha, whom she knew would be about to leave for work. Marsha was glad to hear from her and voiced a modicum of concern that Kim had failed to come home or call the previous evening.

“I should have called,” Kim admitted.

“I take it the evening was a success,” Marsha said coyly.

“It was fine,” Kim said. “It just got so late, and I didn’t want to take the risk of waking you up.”

“Oh, sure!” Marsha said with exaggerated sarcasm.

“Would you give Sheba some food?” Kim added, changing the subject. Marsha knew her too well.

“Your cat has already dined,” Marsha said. “The only other news is that you got a call last night from your father. He wants you to call him when you have a chance.”

“My father?” Kim questioned. “He never calls.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Marsha said. “I’ve been your roommate for years, and it was the first time I spoke with him on the phone.”

After Edward got out of the shower and dressed, he surprised Kim by suggesting they go to Harvard Square for breakfast. Kim had imagined he’d want to go directly to his lab.

“I’m up two hours before I expected to be,” Edward said. “The lab can wait. Also, it’s been the most pleasant evening of the year and I don’t want it to be over.”

With a smile on her face, Kim put her arms around Edward’s neck and gave him a forceful hug. She had to stand on her tiptoes in the process. He returned the affection with equal exuberance.

They used Kim’s car since it had to be moved; it was illegally parked outside Edward’s apartment. In the square Edward took her to a student greasy spoon where they indulged themselves with scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffee.

“What are your plans today?” Edward asked. He had to speak loudly over the general din. Summer session at the university was in full swing.

“I’m heading up to Salem,” Kim said. “They’ve started the construction on the cottage. I want to check on the progress.” Kim had decided to call the old house “the cottage” in contrast to the castle.

“When do you plan to get back?”

“Early evening,” Kim said.

“How about meeting at the Harvest Bar around eight?” Edward said.

“It’s a date,” Kim said.

After breakfast Edward asked Kim to drop him off at the Harvard biological labs.

“You don’t want me to take you home to get your car?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” Edward said. “There’d be no place to park it here on the main campus. To get to work I’ll take the shuttle over to the medical area. I do it frequently. It’s part of the benefit of living within walking distance of the square.”

Edward had Kim drop him off at the corner of Kirkland Street and Divinity Avenue. He stood on the sidewalk and waved until she was out of sight. He knew he was in love, and he loved the feeling. Turning around, he started up Divinity Avenue. He felt like singing. What made him feel so good was that he was beginning to think that Kim felt affection for him. All he could do was hope that it would last. He thought about the flowers he was having sent every day and wondered if he were overdoing it. The problem was, he didn’t have a lot of experience with such things.

Arriving at the biological labs, Edward checked the time; it was before eight. As he climbed the stairs he worried he’d have to wait for Kevin Scranton. But his concerns were unfounded. Kevin was there.

“I’m glad you stopped in,” Kevin said. “I was going to call you today.”

“Did you find Claviceps purpurea?” Edward asked hopefully.

“Nope,” Kevin said. “No Claviceps.”

“Damn!” Edward said. He slumped into a chair. There was a disappointed, sinking sensation in his stomach. He’d been banking on a positive result and was counting on it mainly for Kim’s sake. He’d wanted to present it to her as a gift of science to help alleviate Elizabeth’s disgrace.

“Don’t look so glum,” Kevin said. “There wasn’t any Claviceps, but there was plenty of other mold. One of them that grew out morphologically resembles Claviceps purpurea, but it is a heretofore unknown species.”

“No kidding,” Edward commented. He brightened at the thought that at least they’d made a discovery.

“Of course that’s not terribly surprising,” Kevin said, causing Edward’s face to fall again. “Currently there are approximately fifty thousand known species of fungi. At the same time some people believe that one hundred thousand to a quarter of a million species actually exist.”

“So you’re trying to tell me that this isn’t a monumental discovery,” Edward commented wryly.

“I’m not making any value judgment,” Kevin said. “But it’s a mold that you might find interesting. It’s an ascomycete, like Claviceps, and it happens to form sclerotia just like Claviceps.”

Kevin reached across his desk and dropped several small dark objects into Edward’s palm. Edward nudged them with his index finger. They appeared like dark grains of rice.

“I think you better tell me what these sclerotia are,” Edward said.

“They’re a type of vegetative, resting spore of certain fungi,” Kevin said. “They’re different than a simple, unicellular spore because sclerotia are multicellular and contain fungal filaments or hyphae as well as stored food.”

“What makes you think I’d be interested in these things?” Edward asked. He thought they also looked like the seeds in rye bread. He brought one to his nose; it was odorless.

“Because it’s the Claviceps’ sclerotia that contain the bioactive alkaloids that cause ergotism,” Kevin said.

“Wow!” Edward said. He sat up straight and studied the sclerotium between his fingers with additional interest. “What are the chances that this little bugger contains the same alkaloids as Claviceps?”

“That, I believe, is the question of the day,” Kevin said. “Personally, I think the chances are reasonably good. There aren’t many fungi that produce sclerotia. Obviously this new species is related to Claviceps purpurea on some level.”

“Why don’t we try it?” Edward said.

“What on earth do you mean?” Kevin asked. He eyed Edward with suspicion.

“Why don’t we make a little brew with these guys and taste it?” Edward said.

“You’re joking, I hope,” Kevin said.

“Actually I’m not,” Edward said. “I’m interested in whether this new mold makes an alkaloid that has a hallucinogenic effect. The best way to figure that out is to try it.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Kevin said. “Mycotoxins can be quite potent, as those countless people who’ve suffered ergotism can testify. Science is finding new ones all the time. You’d be taking an awful risk.”

“Where’s your adventuresome spirit?” Edward asked teasingly. He stood up. “Can I use your lab for this little experiment?”

“I’m not sure I should be party to this,” Kevin said. “But you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Very much so,” Edward said.

Kevin led Edward into his lab and asked him what he needed. Edward said he needed a mortar and pestle or the equivalent, distilled water, a weak acid to precipitate the alkaloid, some filter paper, a liter flask, and a milliliter pipette.

“This is insane,” Kevin said as he rounded up the materials.

Edward set to work by grinding up the few sclerotia, extracting the pulp with distilled water, and precipitating a tiny amount of white material with the weak acid. With the help of the filter paper, he isolated a few grains of the white precipitate. Kevin watched the procedure with a mixture of disbelief and wonder.

“Don’t tell me you are just going to eat that?” Kevin said with growing alarm.

“Oh, come on,” Edward said. “I’m not stupid.”

“You could have fooled me,” Kevin said.

“Listen,” Edward said. “I’m interested in a hallucinogenic effect. If this stuff is going to have such an effect, it will have it at a minuscule dose. I’m talking about less than a microgram.”

Edward took a speck of the precipitate on the end of a spatula and introduced it into a liter of distilled water in a volumetric flask. He shook it vigorously.

“We could screw around with this stuff for six months and still not know if it can cause hallucinations,” Edward said. “Ultimately we’d need a human cerebrum. Mine is available right at the moment. When it comes to science, I’m a man of action.”

“What about possible kidney toxicity?” Kevin asked.

Edward made an expression of exasperated disbelief. “At this dosage? Hell, no! We’re well below by a factor of ten the toxicity range of botulinum toxin, the most toxic substance known to man. Besides, not only are we in the microgram range with this unknown, but it’s got to be a soup of substances, so the concentration of any one of them is that much lower.”

Edward asked Kevin to hand him the milliliter pipette. Kevin did so reluctantly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join?” Edward asked. “You could be missing out on making an interesting scientific discovery.” He laughed as he filled the slender pipette.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Kevin said. “I have a comfortable understanding with my renal tubular cells that we won’t abuse each other.”

“To your health,” Edward said as he held aloft the pipette for a moment before depositing a single milliliter on the curl of his tongue. He took a mouthful of water, swished it around, and swallowed.

“Well?” Kevin questioned nervously after a moment of silence.

“A tiny, tiny bit bitter,” Edward said. He opened and closed his mouth a few times to enhance the taste.

“Anything else?” Kevin asked.

“I’m just beginning to feel mildly dizzy,” Edward said.

“Hell, you were dizzy before you started,” Kevin said.

“I admit this little experiment lacks scientific controls,” Edward said with a chuckle. “Anything I feel could be a placebo effect.”

“I really shouldn’t be a part of this,” Kevin said. “I’m going to have to insist that you get a urinalysis and a BUN this afternoon.”

“Ohooo weee,” Edward said. “Something is happening!”

“Oh, God!” Kevin said. “What?”

“I’m seeing a flood of colors that are moving around in amoeboid shapes like some kind of kaleidoscope.”

“Oh, great!” Kevin said. He stared into Edward’s face, which had assumed a trancelike appearance.

“Now I’m hearing some sounds like a synthesizer. Also my mouth is a bit dry. And now something else: I feel paresthesias on my arms, as if I’m being bitten or lightly pinched. It’s weird.”

“Should I call somebody?” Kevin demanded.

To Kevin’s surprise, Edward reached out and grabbed him around the upper arms. Edward held him with unexpected strength.

“It feels like the room is moving,” Edward said. “And there’s a mild choking sensation.”

“I’d better call for help,” Kevin said. His own pulse was racing. He eyed the phone, but Edward strengthened his grip.

“It’s OK,” Edward said. “The colors are receding. It’s passing.” Edward closed his eyes, but otherwise he didn’t move. He still had hold of Kevin.

Eventually Edward opened his eyes and sighed. “Wow!” he said. Only then did he become aware he was gripping Kevin’s arms. He let go, took a breath, and smoothed his jacket. “I think we got our answer,” he said.

“This was idiotic!” Kevin snapped. “Your little antic terrified me. I was just about to call emergency.”

“Calm down,” Edward said. “It wasn’t that bad. Don’t get all bent out of shape over a sixty-second psychedelic reaction.”

Kevin pointed up at the clock. “It wasn’t sixty seconds,” he said. “It was more like twenty minutes.”

Edward glanced up at the clock’s face. “Isn’t that curious,” he said. “Even my sense of time was distorted.”

“Do you generally feel OK?” Kevin asked.

“Fine!” Edward insisted. “In fact I feel better than fine. I feel…” He hesitated while he tried to put into words his inner sensations. “I feel energized, like I’d just had a rest. And also clairvoyant, like my mind is particularly sharp. I might even feel a touch euphoric but that could be because of this positive result: we’ve just ascertained that this new fungus produces a hallucinogenic substance.”

“Let’s not be so lax with the term ‘we,’” Kevin said. “You ascertained it, not me. I refuse to take any credit for this craziness.”

“I wonder if the alkaloids are the same as Claviceps?” Edward asked. “I don’t seem to have even the slightest signs of reduced peripheral vascular circulation, a frequent sign of ergotism.”

“At least promise me you’ll get a urinalysis and a BUN or creatinine this afternoon,” Kevin said. “Even if you’re not worried, I still am.”

“If it will make you sleep tonight I’ll do it,” Edward said. “Meanwhile I want some more of these sclerotia. Is that possible?”

“It’s possible now that I have figured out the medium this fungus needs to grow, but I can’t promise you a lot of sclerotia. It’s not always easy to get the fungus to produce them.”

“Well, do your best,” Edward said. “Remember, we’ll probably get a nice little paper out of this.”

As Edward hurried across campus to catch the shuttle bus to the medical area, he was thrilled with the results. He couldn’t wait to tell Kim that the poison theory involving the Salem witchcraft episode was alive and well.

As excited as Kim was about seeing the progress at the compound, she was even more curious as to why her father had called her. Confident she was early enough to catch him before he left for his Boston office, Kim detoured to Marblehead.

Entering the house, she went directly to the kitchen. As she expected, she found John lingering over his coffee and his clutch of morning papers. He was a big man who’d reportedly been quite an athlete during his days at Harvard. His broad face was crowned with a full head of hair that had once been as dark and lustrous as Kim’s. Over the years it had grayed in a comely fashion, giving him a stereotypically paternal appearance.

“Good morning, Kimmy,” John said without taking his attention away from his paper.

Kim helped herself to the espresso machine and foamed some milk for a cappuccino.

“How’s that car of yours running?” John asked. The paper crinkled loudly as he turned the page. “I hope you are having it regularly serviced like I advised.”

Kim didn’t answer. She was accustomed to her father treating her as if she were still a little girl and she mildly resented it. He was forever giving her instructions on how to order her life. The older she got the more she thought he shouldn’t be giving anyone advice, especially considering what he’d done to his own life and marriage.

“I heard you called my apartment last night,” Kim said. She sat on a window seat beneath a bay window overlooking the ocean.

John lowered his paper.

“I did indeed,” he said. “Joyce mentioned that you’d become interested in Elizabeth Stewart and had been asking questions about her. It surprised me. I called you to ask why you wanted to upset your mother like that.”

“I wasn’t trying to upset her,” Kim said. “I’ve become interested in Elizabeth and I just wanted to know some basic facts. Like whether or not Elizabeth truly had been hanged for witchcraft or whether it was just a rumor.”

“She was indeed hanged,” John said. “I can assure you of that. I can also assure you that the family made a good deal of effort to suppress it. Under the circumstances I think it is best for you to leave it alone.”

“But why does it warrant such secrecy after three hundred years?” Kim asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to you or not,” John said. “It was a humiliation then and it is today.”

“Do you mean to tell me that it bothers you, Father?” Kim asked. “Does it humiliate you?”

“Well, no, not particularly,” John admitted. “It’s your mother. It bothers her, so it should not be a subject for your amusement. We shouldn’t add to her burdens.”

Kim bit her tongue. It was hard not to say something disparaging to her father under the circumstances. Instead she admitted that not only had she become interested in Elizabeth but that she’d developed a sympathy for her.

“What on earth for?” John questioned irritably.

“For one thing I found her portrait stuck away in the back of Grandfather’s wine cellar,” Kim said. “Looking at it emphasized that she’d been a real person. She even had the same eye color as I do. Then I remembered what had happened to her. She certainly didn’t deserve to be hanged. It’s hard not to be sympathetic.”

“I was aware of the painting,” John said. “What were you doing in the wine cellar?”

“Nothing in particular,” Kim said. “Just taking a look around. It seemed like such a coincidence to come across Elizabeth’s portrait, because I’d recently been doing some reading about the Salem witch trials. And what I’d learned just added to my feelings of sympathy. Within a short time of the tragedy there was an outpouring of regret and repentance. Even back then it had become evident innocent people had been killed.”

“Not everyone was innocent,” John said.

“Mother intimated the same thing,” Kim said. “What could Elizabeth have done for you to suggest she wasn’t innocent?”

“Now you are pushing me,” John said. “I don’t know specifics, but I’d been told by my father it had something to do with the occult.”

“Like what?” Kim persisted.

“I just told you I don’t know, young lady,” John snapped angrily. “You’ve asked enough questions.”

Now go to your room, Kim added silently to herself. She wondered if her father would ever recognize that she’d become an adult and treat her like one.

“Kimmy, listen to me,” John said in a more conciliatory and paternalistic tone. “For your own good don’t dig up the past in this instance. It’s only going to cause trouble.”

“With all due respect, Father,” Kim said, “could you explain to me how it could possibly affect my welfare?”

John stammered.

“Let me tell you what I think,” Kim said with uncharacteristic assertiveness. “I believe that Elizabeth’s involvement could have been a humiliation back at the time the event occurred. I also can believe it might have been considered bad for business since her husband, Ronald, started Maritime Limited, which has supported generation after generation of Stewarts, ourselves included. But the fact that the concern over Elizabeth’s involvement has persisted is absurd and a disgrace to her memory. After all, she is our ancestor; if it hadn’t been for her, none of us would even be here. That fact alone makes me surprised that no one has questioned over the years this ridiculous knee-jerk reaction.”

“If you can’t understand it from your own selfish perspective,” John said irritably, “then at least think of your mother. The affair humiliates Joyce, and it doesn’t matter why. It just does. So if you need some motivation to leave Elizabeth’s legacy be, then there it is. Don’t rub your mother’s nose in it.”

Kim lifted her now cool cappuccino to her lips and took a drink. She gave up with her father. Trying to have a conversation with him had never been fruitful. It only worked when the conversation was one-sided: when he told her what to do and how to do it. It was as if he mistook the role of a father to be an instructor.

“Mother also tells me you have embarked on a project at the compound,” John said, assuming that Kim’s silence meant she’d become reasonable about the Elizabeth issue and accepted his advice. “What exactly are you doing?”

Kim told him about her decision to renovate the old house and live in it. While she talked, John went back to glancing at his papers. When she’d finished his only question concerned the castle and his father’s belongings.

“We’re not going to do anything to the castle,” Kim said. “Not until Brian comes home.”

“Good,” John said as he advanced the page of his Wall Street Journal.

“Speaking of Mother, where is she?” Kim asked.

“Upstairs,” John said. “She’s not feeling well and is not seeing anyone.”

A few minutes later Kim left the house with a sad, anxious feeling that was a complicated mixture of pity, anger, and revulsion. As she climbed into her car she told herself that she hated her parents’ marriage. As she started the engine she pledged to herself that she would never allow herself to be ensnared in such a situation.

Kim backed out of the driveway and headed toward Salem. As she drove she reminded herself that despite her revulsion toward her parents’ relationship, she was at some risk to re-create a similar situation. That was part of the reason why she’d reacted so strongly to Kinnard’s sporting trips when he’d had plans to be with her.

Kim suddenly smiled. Her gloomy thoughts were immediately overpowered by the memory of the flowers that had been arriving from Edward on a daily basis. In one way they embarrassed her; in another they were a testament to Edward’s attentiveness and caring. One thing she felt quite confident about: Edward would not be a womanizer. In her mind a womanizer had to be more assertive and more competitive, like her father, or, for that matter, like Kinnard.

As frustrating as her conversation with her father had been, it had the opposite effect of what he’d intended: it only encouraged her interest in Elizabeth Stewart. Consequently, as Kim was driving through downtown Salem, she detoured to the Museum Place Mall.

Leaving her vehicle in the car park, Kim walked to the Peabody-Essex Institute, a cultural and historical association housed in a group of old refurbished buildings in the center of town. Among other functions it served as a repository for documents about Salem and the environs, including the witchcraft trials.

A receptionist in the foyer collected a fee from Kim and directed her to the library, which was reached by a few stairs directly across from the reception desk. Kim mounted the steps and passed through a heavy, windowed door. The library was housed in an early nineteenth-century building with high ceilings, decorative cornices, and dark wood molding. The main room had marble fireplaces and chandeliers in addition to darkly stained oak tables and captain’s chairs. A typical library hush and a smell of old books prevailed.

A friendly and helpful librarian by the name of Grace Meehan immediately came to Kim’s aid. She was an elderly woman with gray hair and a kind face. In response to a general question from Kim, she showed her how to find all sorts of papers and documents associated with the Salem witch trials including accusations, complaints, arrest warrants, depositions, hearing testimony, court records of the preliminary hearings, mittimi, and execution warrants. They were all carefully catalogued in one of the library’s old-fashioned card catalogues.

Kim was surprised and encouraged by the amount of material that was so easily available. It was no wonder there were so many books on the Salem witch trials. The institute was a researcher’s paradise.

As soon as the librarian left Kim on her own, Kim attacked the card catalogue. With a good deal of excitement she looked up Elizabeth Stewart. She was confident she’d be mentioned in some form or fashion. But Kim was soon disappointed. There was no Elizabeth Stewart. There were no Stewarts at all.

Returning to the librarian’s desk, Kim asked the woman directly about Elizabeth Stewart.

“The name’s not familiar,” Grace said. “Do you know how she was connected to the trials?”

“I was told she was one of the accused,” Kim said. “I believe she was hanged.”

“She couldn’t have been,” Grace said without hesitation. “I consider myself an expert on the extant documents concerning the trials. I’ve never come across the name Elizabeth Stewart even as a witness, much less one of the twenty victims. Who told you she was accused?”

“It’s a rather long story,” Kim said evasively.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t true,” Grace said. “There’s been too much research by too many people for one of the victims to have been missed.”

“I see,” Kim said. She didn’t argue. Instead she thanked the woman and returned to the card-catalogue area.

Giving up on the documents associated with the trials, Kim turned her attention to another important resource of the institute: genealogical information on families from Essex County.

This time Kim found a wealth of information on the Stewarts. In fact they took up most of an entire drawer of the genealogical card catalogue. As Kim went through the material it became obvious that there were two main Stewart clans, hers and another whose history wasn’t quite so old.

After a half hour Kim found a brief reference to Elizabeth Stewart. She was born on May 4, 1665, the daughter of James and Elisha Flanagan, and died on July 19, 1692, the wife of Ronald Stewart. No cause of death was given. A quick subtraction told Kim that Elizabeth died at age twenty-seven!

Kim raised her head and stared with unseeing eyes out the window. She could feel tiny gooseflesh rise up on the nape of her neck. Kim was twenty-seven, and her birthday was in May. It wasn’t the fourth but rather the sixth, so it was close to Elizabeth’s. Remembering their physical similarities from the portrait and considering the fact that she was planning on moving into the same house Elizabeth occupied, Kim began to wonder if there were just too many coincidences. Was this all trying to tell her something?

“Excuse me,” Grace Meehan said, interrupting Kim’s reverie. “Here’s a list I copied for you of the people who were hanged for witchcraft. There’s also the date of their execution, including the day of the week, their town of residence, their church affiliation if there was one, and their age. As you can see, it is very complete-and there is no Elizabeth Stewart.”

Kim thanked the woman again and took the paper. After the woman left, Elizabeth dutifully glanced at it and was about to put it aside when she noted the date of Tuesday, July 19, 1692. Five people had been hanged that day. Looking back at Elizabeth’s day of death, she noticed it was the same. Kim understood that just because the dates were the same, it didn’t prove Elizabeth was hanged. But even if it were only circumstantial, it was at least suggestive.

Then Kim realized something else. Thinking back to the previous Tuesday, she remembered it had been July 19. Looking again at the paper Grace Meehan had given her, she discovered that the daily calendar was the same in 1692 as it was in 1994. Was this yet another coincidence whose meaning Kim had to ponder?

Going back to the genealogical information, Kim got a book that summarized the early history of her family. In it she looked up Ronald Stewart and quickly learned that Elizabeth had not been Ronald’s first wife. Ronald had married Hannah Hutchinson in 1677, with whom he’d had a daughter, Joanna, born 1678. But then Hannah died in January 1679, with no cause of death listed. Ronald at age thirty-nine then married Elizabeth Flanagan in 1682 with whom he had a daughter Sarah, born 1682, and sons, Jonathan, born 1683, and Daniel, born 1689. Finally Ronald married Elizabeth’s younger sister, Rebecca Flanagan, in 1692, with whom he had a daughter named Rachel, born in 1693.

Kim lowered the book and again stared off into space while she tried to sort out her thoughts. Mild alarm bells were going off in her head in relation to Ronald’s character. Looking back at the genealogy book, she reviewed the fact that three years after Hannah died, Ronald married Elizabeth. Then after Elizabeth died, he married her sister the same year!

Kim felt uneasy. Knowing her own father’s amorous proclivities, she thought it possible that Ronald could have suffered a similar flaw and indulged it with far more disastrous consequences. It occurred to her that Ronald could have been having an affair with Elizabeth while married to Hannah, and an affair with Rebecca while married to Elizabeth. After all, Elizabeth certainly died under unusual circumstances. Kim wondered if Hannah did as well.

Kim shook her head and silently laughed at herself. She told herself that she must have watched too many soap operas, since her imagination was taking unwarranted, melodramatic leaps.

After spending a few more minutes going over the Stewart family tree, Kim learned two more facts. First she confirmed she was related to Ronald and Elizabeth through their son Jonathan. Second she learned that the name “Elizabeth” never reappeared in the family’s three-hundred-year history. With so many generations, such a situation couldn’t have happened by chance. Kim marveled at the opprobrium Elizabeth had brought on herself, and Kim’s curiosity waxed concerning what Elizabeth could possibly have done to warrant it.

Finally, with her superficial genealogical inquiry, Kim descended the steps of the Peabody-Essex Institute with the idea of retrieving her car and heading out to the compound. But at the foot of the steps she hesitated. The passing question that she’d entertained about Ronald’s character and the possibility of foul play on his part gave her another idea. Returning inside the institute, she asked directions for the Essex County Courthouse.

The building was on Federal Street, not far from the Witch House. It was a severe Greek Revival structure with a stark pediment and massive Doric columns. Kim entered and asked to be directed to court records.

Kim had no idea whether she would find anything at all. She didn’t even know if court records were saved from so long ago, nor did she know if they did exist whether they were available to the public. Nonetheless she presented herself at the appropriate counter and asked to look at any court records of Ronald Stewart. She added that she was interested in the Ronald Stewart who’d been born in 1653.

The clerk was a sleepy-looking woman of indeterminate age. If she was surprised by Kim’s request she didn’t show it. Her response was to punch it up on a computer terminal. After glancing at the screen for a moment, she left the room. She’d not said a word. Kim guessed that there had been so many people researching the Salem witch trials that the town’s civil servants were jaded about inquiries from that era.

Kim shifted her weight and checked her watch. It was already ten-thirty, and she’d not even been to the compound yet.

The woman reappeared with a manila pocket folder. She handed it to Kim. “You can’t take this out of the room,” she said. She pointed to some Formica tables and molded plastic chairs along the back wall. “You can sit over there if you like.”

Kim took the folder over to an empty chair. She sat down and slipped out the contents. There was a lot of material. All of it was written in reasonably legible longhand.

At first Kim thought that the file contained only documents associated with civil suits Ronald had filed with the court for debts owed to him. But then she began to find more interesting things, like reference to a contested will involving Ronald.

Kim carefully read the document. It was a ruling in Ronald’s favor involving a will contested by a Jacob Cheever. Reading on, Kim discovered that Jacob had been a child of Hannah’s from a previous marriage and that Hannah had been significantly older than Ronald. Jacob had testified that Ronald had duped his mother into changing her will, thereby depriving him of his rightful inheritance. Apparently the justices disagreed. The result had been that Ronald inherited several thousand pounds, a sizable fortune in those days.

Kim marveled that life in the late seventeenth century hadn’t been as different as she’d imagined. She’d been under the delusion that at least legally it had been simpler. Reading about the contested will suggested she was wrong. It also made her think again about Ronald’s character.

The next document was even more curious. It was a contract dated February 11, 1681, between Ronald Stewart and Elizabeth Flanagan. It had been drawn up and signed prior to their marriage, like a contemporary premarital agreement. But it wasn’t about money or property per se. The contract merely gave Elizabeth the right to own property and enter into contracts in her own name after the marriage.

Kim read the whole document. Toward the end Ronald himself had written an explanation. Kim recognized the handwriting as the particularly graceful script she’d seen on many of the bills of lading in the castle. Ronald wrote: “It is my intention that if actions pursuant to my mercantile endeavor require my prolonged absence from Salem Town and Maritime, Ltd, that my betrothed, Elizabeth Flanagan, may justly and legally administer our joint affairs.”

After finishing the document, Kim went back to the beginning and reread it to make sure she understood it. It amazed her. The fact that such a document was necessary in order for Elizabeth to sign contracts reminded her that the role of women had been quite different in Puritan times. Their legal rights were limited. It was the same message Kim had gotten from the letter Elizabeth’s father had written to Ronald concerning Elizabeth’s hand in marriage.

Laying the premarital agreement aside, Kim went back to the remaining papers in Ronald Stewart’s folder. After a handful of additional debtor suits, Kim came across a truly interesting document. It was a petition by Ronald Stewart requesting a Writ of Replevin. It was dated Tuesday, July 26, 1692, a week after Elizabeth’s death.

Kim had no idea what Replevin meant, but she quickly got an idea. Ronald wrote: “I humbly beg the court in God’s name to return to my possession forthwith the conclusive evidence seized from my property by Sheriff George Corwin and used against my beloved wife, Elizabeth, during her trial for witchcraft by the Court of Oyer and Terminer on 20 June 1692.”

Attached to the back of the petition was an August 3, 1692, ruling by Magistrate John Hathorne denying the petition. In his denial the magistrate said: “The Court advises said petitioner, Ronald Stewart, likewise to petition his excellency the Governor of the Commonwealth for the aforementioned evidence since, by executive order, custody of said evidence has been transferred from Essex to Suffolk County.”

In one sense Kim was pleased. She’d found indirect documentary evidence of Elizabeth’s ordeal: she’d been tried and evidently convicted. At the same time Kim felt frustrated that the nature of the “conclusive evidence” was never mentioned. She reread both the petition and the ruling in hopes she’d missed it. But she hadn’t. The evidence was not described.

For a few minutes Kim sat at the table and tried to imagine what the evidence could have been. The only thing she could think of was something to do with the occult, and that was because of her father’s vague statement. Then she got an idea. Glancing back at the petition, she wrote down the date of the trial. With the date in hand she returned to the counter and got the clerk’s attention.

“I’d like to see the records of the Court of Oyer and Terminer for June 20, 1692.”

The clerk literally laughed in Kim’s face. Then she repeated the request and laughed again. Confused, Kim asked what was so funny.

“You’re asking for something just about every Tom, Dick, and Harry would want,” the clerk said. She sounded as if she’d just come from the back country of Maine. “Trouble is, no such records exist. Wish they did, but they don’t. There’s no record of that Court of Oyer and Terminer for all the witch trials. All there is is some scattered testimony and depositions, but the court records themselves plumb disappeared.”

“How unfortunate,” Kim said. “Maybe you could tell me something else. Do you happen to know what ‘conclusive evidence’ means?”

“I ain’t no lawyer,” the clerk said. “But hold your horses. Let me ask.”

The clerk disappeared into an office. Seconds later she reemerged with a heavyset woman in tow. The second woman had oversized glasses balanced on a short, wide nose.

“You’re interested in a definition of ‘conclusive evidence,’” the woman said.

Kim nodded.

“It’s pretty much self-explanatory,” the woman said. “It means evidence that is incontrovertible. In other words it can’t be questioned, or there is only one possible interpretation that can be drawn from it.”

“That’s what I thought,” Kim said. She thanked the two women and went back to her material. Using a copy machine in the corner, she made a copy of the petition for a Writ of Replevin and the ruling. Then she returned the documents to their envelope and handed the envelope back to the clerk.

Finally Kim drove out to the compound. She felt a little guilty, since she’d told Mark Stevens she’d be there in the morning and already it was approaching noon. As she rounded the last bend in the road leading from the gate and broke free from the trees, she could see a handful of trucks and vans parked near the cottage. There was also a large backhoe and mounds of fresh earth. But Kim didn’t see any people, not even on the backhoe.

Kim parked and got out of her car. The noontime heat and dust were oppressive, and the smell of the freshly turned earth was pungent. Kim closed the car door, and, shielding her face from the sun, she followed with her eyes the line of the trench that ran across the field toward the castle. At that moment the door to the house opened and George Harris stepped out. Sweat lined his forehead.

“Glad you could make it,” George said. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

“Is something wrong?” Kim asked.

“Sorta,” George said evasively. “Maybe I’d better show you.”

George motioned for Kim to follow him toward where the backhoe was parked.

“We had to stop work,” George said.

“Why?” Kim asked.

George didn’t answer. Instead he encouraged Kim to come over to the trench.

Hesitant to step too close to the edge for fear of its giving way, Kim stretched forward and looked in. She was impressed by the depth, which she estimated to be more than eight feet. Roots hung out of the sheer walls like miniature brooms. George directed her attention to the end, where the trench stopped abruptly fifty feet short of the cottage. Near the bottom Kim could see the damaged end of a wooden box protruding from the wall.

“That’s why we had to stop,” George said.

“What is it?” Kim asked.

“I’m afraid it’s a coffin,” George said.

“Good grief,” Kim said.

“We found a headstone as well,” George said. “It’s an oldie.” He motioned for Kim to come around the end of the trench. On the opposite side of the mound of excavated earth was a dirty white marble slab lying flat in the grass.

“It hadn’t been set upright,” George said. “It had been laid flat and eventually covered with earth.” George bent down and wiped away the dried dirt on its face.

Kim took an involuntary gasp of air. “My God, it’s Elizabeth!” she managed. She shook her head. There were too many coincidences.

“She a relative?” George asked.

“She is,” Kim said. She examined the headstone. It was similar in design to Ronald’s, and gave only the specifics, namely Elizabeth’s birthdate and date of her death.

“Did you have any idea her grave would be here?” George asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory, just curious.

“Not in the slightest,” Kim said. “I only found out recently that she’d not been buried in the family plot.”

“What do you want us to do?” George said. “You’re supposed to have a permit to disturb a grave.”

“Can’t you just go around it and leave it be?” Kim asked.

“I suppose,” George said. “We could just widen the trench along here. Should we be on the lookout for any others?”

“I don’t think so,” Kim said. “Elizabeth was a special case.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” George said. “But you look kinda pale. Are you okay?”

“Thank you,” Kim said. “I’m fine. Just a bit shocked. I guess I’m feeling a little superstitious about finding this woman’s grave.”

“So are we,” George said. “Especially my backhoe operator. Let me go get him out here. We got to get these utilities in before we pour the basement.”

George disappeared inside the house. Kim ventured back to the edge of the trench and peered down at the exposed corner of Elizabeth’s coffin. The wood was in surprisingly good shape for being buried for over three hundred years. It didn’t even appear rotten where the backhoe had damaged it.

Kim had no idea what to make of this unexpected discovery. First the portrait, now the grave. It was getting harder to dismiss these as fortuitous findings.

The sound of an approaching auto caught Kim’s attention. Shielding her eyes once again from the noonday sun, she watched a familiar-looking car kicking up a plume of dust as it followed the dirt road across the field. She couldn’t mentally place the vehicle until it pulled up next to her. Then she realized why it had been familiar. It was Kinnard’s.

With some anxiety Kim walked over to the vehicle and leaned in through the passenger-side window.

“This is a surprise,” Kim said. “What on earth are you doing out of the hospital?”

Kinnard laughed. “They let me out of my cage once in a while.”

“What are you doing in Salem?” Kim asked. “How did you know I was here?”

“Marsha told me,” Kinnard said. “I ran into her in the SICU this morning. I told her I was coming to Salem to look for an apartment since I’m rotating through Salem Hospital for August and September. There’s no way I’m going to live in the hospital for two months. You do remember me telling you about my Salem Hospital rotation.”

“I guess I forgot,” Kim said.

“I told you several months ago,” Kinnard said.

“If you say so,” Kim said. She had no intention of getting into an argument. She already felt uncomfortable enough.

“You’re looking good,” Kinnard said. “I suppose dating Dr. Edward Armstrong agrees with you.”

“How do you know whom I’m dating?” Kim asked.

“Hospital gossip,” Kinnard said. “Since you’ve chosen a scientific celebrity, it gets around. The irony is that I know the man. I worked in his lab the year I took off to do research after my second year of medical school.”

Kim could feel herself blush. She would have preferred not to show any reaction, but she couldn’t help it. Kinnard was obviously trying to upset her, and as usual he was doing a good job.

“Edward is a smart man scientifically,” Kinnard said, “but I’m afraid he’s a little nerdy, even weird. Well… maybe that’s unfair. Maybe I should just say eccentric.”

“I find him attentive and considerate,” Kim said.

“I can imagine,” Kinnard said, rolling his eyes. “I heard about the daily flowers. Personally I think that’s absurd. A guy has to be totally unsure of himself to go to that kind of extreme.”

Kim turned a bright red. Marsha had to have told Kinnard about the flowers. Between her mother and her roommate she wondered if she had any secrets.

“At least Edward Armstrong won’t irritate you by going skiing,” Kinnard said. “His coordination is such that a flight of stairs can be a challenge.”

“I think you are being juvenile,” Kim said frostily when she found her voice. “Frankly, it doesn’t suit you. I’d thought you were more mature.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Kinnard laughed cynically. “I’ve gone on, as they say, to greener pastures. I’m enjoying a new burgeoning relationship myself.”

“I’m happy for you,” Kim said sarcastically.

Kinnard bent down so he could see out through the windshield as the backhoe started up. “Marsha told me you were fixing this place up,” he said. “Is old Doc Armstrong going to move in with you?”

Kim started to deny the possibility, but caught herself. Instead she said, “We’re thinking about it. We haven’t decided yet.”

“Enjoy yourself one way or the other,” Kinnard said with equal sarcasm. “Have a nice life.”

Kinnard threw his car into reverse, shot backwards, and skidded to a stop. Then he put the engine in drive and tromped on the accelerator: With a shower of dirt, small pebbles, and dust he shot across the field and disappeared through the trees.

At first Kim concentrated on shielding herself from flying stones. Once the danger was past, she watched Kinnard’s car until she could no longer see it. Even though she’d known almost from the moment he’d arrived that his goal had been to provoke her, she’d not been able to prevent it. For a moment she felt emotionally frazzled. It wasn’t until she walked back over to the trench that was now being widened and saw Elizabeth’s coffin that she began to calm down. Comparing her troubles with Elizabeth’s at the same age made hers seem trivial.

After pulling herself together emotionally, Kim set to work. The afternoon passed quickly. Most of her time was spent in Mark Stevens’ office going over details of the kitchen and bathroom design. For Kim it was a supreme pleasure. It was the first limp in her life that she was creating a living environment for herself. It made her wonder how she had allowed her career goals to be so easily circumvented.

By seven-thirty Mark Stevens and George Harris were both exhausted, but Kim had gotten a second wind. The men had to tell Kim their eyes were blurry before Kim admitted she had to get back to the city. As they walked her out to her car, they thanked her for coming and promised her things would move quickly.

Driving into Cambridge, Kim didn’t even attempt to look for a parking place on the street. Instead she drove directly into the Charles’ parking garage and walked over to the Harvest Bar. It was filled to overflowing with a Friday-night crowd, most of whom had been there through happy hour.

Kim looked for Edward but didn’t immediately see him. She had to worm her way through the crowd standing five deep around the bar. Finally she found him nursing a glass of chardonnay at a table behind the bar. As soon as he saw her, his face lit up and he leaped to his feet to pull out her chair.

As Edward pushed the chair in under her, Kim remarked to herself that Kinnard would not have made the effort.

“You look like you could use a glass of white wine,” Edward said.

Kim nodded. She could tell instantly that Edward was either excited or self-conscious. His stutter was more apparent than usual. She watched while he caught the waitress’s attention and gave the order for two glasses of wine. Then he looked at her.

“Did you have a good day?” he asked.

“It was busy,” Kim said. “What about yours?”

“It was a great day!” Edward said excitedly. “I’ve got some good news. The dirt samples from Elizabeth’s food bins grew out a mold with hallucinogenic effects. I think we have solved the question of what at least kicked off the Salem witch trials. The only thing we don’t know is whether it was ergotism or something entirely new.”

Edward went on to tell Kim everything that had happened at Kevin Scranton’s office.

Kim’s response was concerned disbelief. “You took a drug without knowing what it was?” she asked. “Wasn’t that dangerous?”

“You sound like Kevin.” Edward laughed. “I’m surrounded by ersatz parents. No, it wasn’t dangerous. It was too small a dose to be dangerous. But, being small, it certainly indicated the hallucinogenic power of this new fungus.”

“It sounds foolhardy to me,” Kim persisted.

“It wasn’t,” Edward said. “I even had a urinalysis and a creatinine blood test this afternoon for Kevin’s sake. They were both normal. I’m fine. Believe me. In fact, I’m better than fine. I’m ecstatic. At first I was hoping this new fungus would make the same mix of alkaloids as Claviceps so it would prove ergotism was the culprit. Now I’m hoping it makes its own alkaloids.”

“What are alkaloids?” Kim asked. “It’s a familiar term but I couldn’t define it to save my life.”

“Alkaloids are a large group of nitrogen-containing compounds found in plants,” Edward said. “They’re familiar to you because many of them are common, like caffeine, morphine, and nicotine. As you can guess, most are pharmacologically active.”

“Why are you getting so excited about finding some new ones if they are so common?” Kim asked.

“Because I’ve already proven whatever alkaloid is in this new fungus, it’s psychotropically active,” Edward said. “Finding a new hallucinogenic drug can open up all sorts of doors to the understanding of brain function. Invariably they resemble and mimic the brain’s own neurotransmitters.”

“When will you know if you’ve found new alkaloids?” Kim asked.

“Soon,” Edward said. “Now tell me about your day.”

Kim took a breath. Then she related to Edward everything that had happened to her, in chronological order, starting with her talk with her father and ending with the completion of the design for the new kitchen and baths for the cottage.

“Wow!” Edward said, “you did have a busy day. I’m astounded by the discovery of Elizabeth’s grave. And you said the coffin was in good shape?”

“What I could see of it,” Kim said. “It was buried very deep, probably around eight feet down. Its end was sticking into the trench. It had been damaged by the backhoe.”

“Did finding the grave upset you?” Edward asked.

“In a way,” Kim said with a short mirthless laugh. ‘ “Thinking about finding it so soon after finding the portrait makes me feel weird. It gave me that feeling again that Elizabeth is trying to communicate with me.”

“Uh oh,” Edward said. “Sounds like you are having another attack of superstition.”

Kim laughed despite her seriousness.

“Tell me something,” Edward said teasingly. “Are you afraid of black cats crossing your path, or walking under ladders, or using the number thirteen?”

Kim hesitated. She was mildly superstitious, but she’d never given it much thought.

“So you are superstitious!” Edward said. “Now think about this! Back in the seventeenth century you could have been considered a witch since such beliefs involve the occult.”

“All right, smarty pants,” Kim said. “So maybe I’m a little superstitious. But there seem to be too many coincidences involving Elizabeth. I also found out today that the calendar in 1692 is the same as this year’s, 1994. I also found out Elizabeth died at my age. And as if that’s not enough, our birthdays are only two days apart, so we have the same astrological sign.”

“What do you want me to say?” Edward asked.

“Can you explain all these coincidences?” Kim asked.

“Of course,” Edward said. “It’s pure chance. It’s like the old cliché that if you have enough monkeys and enough typewriters, you can produce Hamlet.”

“Oh, I give up,” Kim said with a chuckle. She took a sip of her wine.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said with a shrug. “I’m a scientist.”

“Let me tell you something else I learned today,” Kim said. “Things were not so simple back then. Ronald was married three times. His first wife died, willing him a sizable fortune which was contested unsuccessfully by his wife’s child by a previous marriage. He then married Elizabeth within a couple of years. After Elizabeth died he married her sister in the same year.”

“So?” Edward said.

“Doesn’t that sound a little fishy to you?” Kim asked.

“No,” Edward said. “Remember life was harsh back in those days. Ronald had children to raise. Also, marrying within in-laws was not unusual.”

“Well, I’m not so sure,” Kim said. “It leaves a lot of questions in my mind.”

The waitress appeared and interrupted their conversation to tell them their table was ready. Kim was pleasantly surprised. She didn’t know they were planning to eat at the Harvest. She was famished.

They followed the waitress out onto the terrace and were seated beneath trees filled with tiny white lights. It was a perfect temperature after having cooled down considerably from the day. There was no wind, so the candle on the table burned languidly.

While they were waiting for their food, Kim showed Edward the copy she’d made of Ronald’s petition. Edward read it with great interest. When he was finished he congratulated Kim on her detective work, saying that she’d succeeded in proving Elizabeth had indeed been caught up in the witchcraft affair. Kim told him about her father’s comment concerning Elizabeth’s possible association with the occult.

“Which is what I suggested,” Edward reminded her.

“So would you guess that the conclusive evidence had something to do with the occult?”

“I don’t think there is any question,” Edward said.

“That’s what I thought,” Kim said. “But do you have any specific ideas?”

“I don’t know enough about witchcraft to be creative,” Edward said.

“What about a book?” Kim questioned. “Or something she wrote?”

“Sounds good,” Edward said. “I suppose it could have been something she drew as well. Or at least some kind of image.”

“What about a doll?” Kim suggested.

“Good idea,” Edward said. Then he paused. “I know what it must have been!”

“What?” Kim asked eagerly.

“Her broom!” Edward said. Then he laughed.

“Come on,” Kim said, but she was smiling herself. “I’m being serious.”

Edward apologized. He then went on to explain the background of the witch’s broom, and how it had originated in medieval times with a stick that had been coated with an ointment concocted with hallucinogenic drugs. He told her that in satanic rituals it had been used to cause psychedelic experiences when placed against intimate mucous membranes.

“I’ve heard enough,” Kim said. “I get the idea.”

Their food arrived. They didn’t talk until the waiter had left. Edward was the first to speak. “The problem is that the evidence could have been any one of a number of things, and there’s no way of knowing specifically unless you found a description. What about looking in the court records themselves?”

“I thought of that,” Kim said. “But I was told that none of the records of the special Court of Oyer and Terminer remain.”

“Too bad,” Edward said. “I guess that throws you back into that hopeless pile of papers in the castle.”

“Yeah,” Kim said without enthusiasm. “Plus there’s no guarantee it would be there.”

While they ate their meal the conversation shifted to more mundane issues. It wasn’t until they were finishing their dessert that Edward returned to the issue of Elizabeth’s grave.

“What was the state of preservation of Elizabeth’s body?” he asked.

“I never saw the body,” Kim said. She was shocked at such a question. “The coffin wasn’t opened. The backhoe just hit the end and jarred it a little.”

“Maybe we should open it,” Edward said. “I’d love to get a sample-if there is anything recognizable to sample. If we could find some residue of whatever alkaloid this new fungus produces, we’d have definitive proof that the devil in Salem was a fungus.”

“I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing,” Kim said. “The last thing I want to do is disturb Elizabeth’s body.”

“Here we go being superstitious again,” Edward said. “You understand that such a position is akin to being against autopsies.”

“This is different,” Kim said. “She’s already been buried.”

“People are exhumed all the time,” Edward said.

“I suppose you are right,” Kim said reluctantly.

“Maybe I should take a ride up there with you tomorrow,” Edward said. “We could both take a look.”

“You have to have a permit to exhume a body,” Kim said.

“The backhoe already did most of the job,” Edward said. “Let’s take a look and decide tomorrow.”

The bill came and Edward paid it. Kim thanked him and told him that the next dinner was on her. Edward said they could argue about it.

Outside the restaurant there was an awkward moment. Edward asked her over to his apartment, but Kim demurred. She reminded him that she’d felt uncomfortable that morning. Ultimately they resolved the issue, at least temporarily, by agreeing to go to Edward’s to discuss it.

Later, while sitting on Edward’s couch, Kim asked him if he remembered a student named Kinnard Monihan, who’d done research in his lab four or five years previously.

“Kinnard Monihan,” Edward said. He closed his eyes in concentration. “I have a lot of students passing through. But, yes, I remember him. As I recall he went on to the General for a surgical residency.”

“That’s the one,” Kim said. “Do you remember much about him?”

“I remember I was disappointed when I’d heard he was taking a residency,” Edward said. “He was a smart kid. I’d expected him to stay in academic research. Why do you ask?”

“We dated for a number of years,” Kim said. She was about to tell Edward about the confrontation at the compound when Edward interrupted her.

“Were you and Kinnard lovers?” Edward asked.

“I suppose you can say that,” Kim said hesitantly. She could tell instantly that Edward was upset. Both his behavior and speech changed dramatically. It took Kim a half hour of coaxing and convincing to get him to calm down and to understand that her relationship with Kinnard was over. Kim even apologized for bringing up his name.

In a deliberate attempt to change the subject, she asked Edward if he’d done anything about finding a new apartment. Edward admitted that he’d not had a chance. Kim warned him that September would be arriving quickly.

As the evening progressed, neither Kim nor Edward brought up the issue of whether Kim should spend the night. By not making a decision, they made a decision. She stayed. Later, as they were lying side by side in bed, Kim began to think about what she’d said to Kinnard about Edward moving in with her. It had been meant merely to provoke Kinnard, but now Kim began seriously to consider the idea. It had a definite appeal. The relationship with Edward was continuing to blossom. Besides, the cottage was more than ample, and it was isolated. It might even be lonely.