The sound of a shattering windowpane punctured the stream of conversation; the Deans of the College turned toward the now-amplified sound of shouting in the streets.

A rock lay on the floor, surrounded by tiny, shining splinters, and wrapped with a piece of parchment and a fine pink satin ribbon.

The Chair of Fine Arts stooped over to pick it up. “ ( Read more... )

New England, 1672.

( I only speak to the dead because they don't accuse me of witchcraft. )