Морган Райс - Loved

“Forgive us,” Caleb said gracefully, “but we need just a few minutes. I’m afraid we cannot return tomorrow.”

“It’s five after five,” she snapped. “We close at five. Every day. No exceptions. Those are the rules. I can’t keep this place open for everyone who comes in late. Like I said, if you want to come back, come back tomorrow. Good night.”

She began to close the door again, but Caleb held it open with his hand. She stuck her head back out, twice as annoyed.

“Listen, do you want me to call the cops –”

Suddenly, she froze mid-sentence, as her eyes locked with Caleb’s. She just stared at him, for several seconds, and Caitlin saw her expression change. It softened. Then, amazingly, she broke into a smile.

“Well, hello folks,” she said, completely cheery. “So happy to see you here. Please come in,” she said, opening the door widely and stepping back with a smile.

Caitlin looked at Caleb, shocked. What had he just done?

Whatever it was, she wanted to learn it herself.

Don’t worry, you will .

Caitlin looked at Caleb and was twice as shocked to realize that he had just sent her a thought, and that she had heard it.

They had the museum to themselves as they walked down its narrow, dimly-lit hallways. Pictures, plaques and paraphernalia lined the walls, all of witches, judges, and hangings. It was a solemn place.

As they continued, they came to a large display. Caitlin began to read, and was so taken by it, she decided to read it aloud to Caleb.

“Listen to this,” she said. “‘In Salem, in 1692, a large group of teenage girls suddenly fell ill. Most of them lapsed into a fit of hysteria, and screamed out that they had been attacked by witches. Many of these girls went so far as to name the witches who were afflicting them.

“Because their illnesses were so mysterious, and because many of these girls died suddenly and there was no other explanation for it, the townspeople fell into a frenzy. They hunted down the people accused of witchcraft.

“It is worth noting that, to this day, no one has ever been able to determine the nature of the illness that struck these girls, or why they were all struck by such hysteria.”

“It’s because they were coming of age,” Caleb said softly.

Caitlin looked at him.

“Just like you,” he said. “They were our kind, and the feeding pangs were beginning to overtake them. They were not sick. They were hysterical. They were overwhelmed by what they were becoming, and unsure how to handle it.”

Caitlin thought hard. Teenage girls. 1692. Salem. Coming-of-age. Going through the same exact thing that she was going through now.

It was overwhelming. She felt such a connection to history; she no longer felt alone with what she was going through. Yet she was terrified at the same time. It validated her. But she didn’t want validation. She wanted someone to tell her that this was all not true, all just a fantastical nightmare, and that everything would be back to normal soon. But the more she learned, the more she was overcome by a feeling of dread. The more she realized that things would never go back to normal for her.

“Here it is,” Caleb said, from the other side of the room.

Caitlin hurried over.

“The list. The 133 accused.”

They both slowly looked over the long list of people, handwritten in an antique scrawl. It was hard to decipher the handwriting, and it was slow-going.

But at some point, close to the end of the list, Caitlin suddenly froze. She reached out with her finger and pointed at the glass.

There was her last name. Paine. Spelled exactly like hers. On the list of the “Accused.”

“Elizabeth Paine. Accused of witchcraft. 1692.”

Elizabeth? A woman?

“I knew it,” Caleb said. “I knew there was a connection.”

“But…” Caitlin began, so confused, “… Elizabeth . That’s a woman. I thought we were looking for my Dad?”

“It is not so simple. Remember, we are dealing with generations. It could be that we are looking for Elizabeth. Or it could be that we are looking for her father. Or husband. We don’t know where your ancestry begins or ends. But we do know there is a connection.”

“Look at this!” Caitlin said excitedly, hurrying a few feet away, to a different exhibit.

They both stood and stared. It was incredible. An entire exhibit devoted to Elizabeth Paine.

Caitlin read aloud: “Elizabeth Paine was unique among those on the Accused list. She would go on to great notoriety, immortalized in The Scarlet Letter . It is widely accepted that its famous heroine, Hester Prynne, was actually based on the life of Elizabeth Paine. She was the centerpiece of the greatest work of a longtime Salem resident, Nathaniel Hawthorne.”

Caitlin suddenly looked at Caleb, her eyes open wide in excitement.

“That’s it,” she said, breathlessly. She was hardly able to contain her excitement.

“What?” he asked. He still didn’t see it.

“Don’t you see?” she said. “The riddle. It’s a play on words. Hawthorne. The rose and the thorn .

The thorn is Haw thorne . And the rose is scarlet. As in, The Scarlet Letter . In other words, it’s about Hawthorne. And Paine.”

At that moment, the old woman entered the room again, seemingly coming back to her senses.

She looked at them both, and said, “I’m sorry, but I really do need to close up now –”

Caitlin hurried over to her, grabbing her arm. “Where did Hawthorne live?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nathaniel Hawthorne,” she said excitedly. “It says he once lived in Salem.”

“Young lady, we know exactly where he lived. Thanks to our historic trust, his house was preserved. In fact, it still stands here, to this day. Perfectly intact.”

Caitlin and Caleb looked at each other.

They both knew where they had to go to next.

The sun was setting as Caitlin and Caleb approached Hawthorne’s house. The simple, red house was set back about 50 feet from the sidewalk, with its walkway and bushes, looked like any other small, suburban house. With its dark red paint and shutters, it had an antique simplicity about it. It was modest.

Still, one could tell it was different. It exuded history.

They both stood there, looking at it, and a silence fell over them.

“I thought it would be bigger,” Caitlin said.

Caleb stood there, furrowing his brows.

“What’s wrong?”

“I remember this house,” Caleb said. “I’m not sure from when. But I seem to remember it being somewhere else.”

Caitlin looked at him, at his perfectly sculpted features, and marveled at how much he remembered. She wondered what it was like to remember so much. Hundreds of years—thousands.

He was carrying around things, experiences, that she could never even dream of. She wondered if it was a blessing or a curse, and she wondered if she would even want that for herself.

She took a few steps forward, to the iron fence enclosing the property, and as she tried the latch, she was surprised to find it locked. She looked at the sign: 9AM to 5PM Weekdays .

She checked her watch: 5:30. Closed.

“Now what?” she asked.

Caleb looked furtively around, and she did, too. There was no one in sight on the suburban street. She got what he was thinking. He looked at her, and she nodded.

He reached over the metal latch and in one smooth motion, ripped it off its hinges. He looked around again, saw no one coming, and opened the fence and motioned for her to hurry through. He closed the gate behind them as best he could, gently laid the metal latch down in the grass, then hurried after her down the walkway.