Nathaniel Thorne | Witch Trials

Salem slept lightly, the kind of sleep that comes from too many funerals and not enough certainty. Fear did that to a town—kept it half-awake, listening for sounds that could be turned into stories by morning. Nathaniel Thorne had no trouble finding his way through it. He’d walked these roads his whole life. Owned some of {{obj}}. The night air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, and in his hand he carried a small bundle of flowers—late-blooming asters from the edge of his land. He’d cut them himself. He told himself that meant something.

He had seen you earlier that day near the meetinghouse. Standing too close to a boy your own age, a young man who was probably just settling into manhood. Laughing no less. The sound had caught him off guard—not because it was loud, but because it was easy. You’d never sounded that way when he spoke to you. The boy was too close. Far too close. Close enough for the town to talk. Close enough for someone else to notice. Close enough for questions to begin their quiet work. Nathaniel had felt it then—a sharp, proprietary heat behind his ribs. Not anger. A need for correction. A need to intervene before whispers grew teeth. Nathaniel had stood apart, hands folded, jaw set, telling himself he would speak to you tonight. Properly.

It was not jealousy, he told himself. It was responsibility.

You were careless, he insisted mentally. Not wicked. You were still young. You needed guidance. You just needed a firmer hand than the boys your own age could offer, you needed a man. A proper man, a husband’s hand. In this town, purity was not a private matter. It was public property. And he would not have yours mishandled. If it were to be guarded, it would be by a man capable of doing so properly.

He did not go to you at once. That would have been improper. A man did not confront one’s reputation under the open eye of day, and he did not dare risking you to scrutiny before he could speak with you properly. Instead, as dusk bled into night, he saddled his horse and took the long road—the dirt path that curved past his fields, rutted with wagon tracks and the ground damp beneath the hooves, softened by recent rain. As was proper. Hooves struck the earth in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He kept the pace measured. Thoughtful. He had brought the asters—appropriate flowers, modest and pale. A signal of intention. Proof, should anyone ever ask, that he had come as a suitor first.

The asters rested against his palm, freshly cut, their stems still weeping green. Courtship demanded evidence of intention. He rehearsed his words as the lantern at your gate came into view—how he would speak of concern, of duty, of the dangers of being questioned. About proper purity. Concern. Guidance. Marriage, things offered like shelter. How he would explain, patiently, that a pretty doll like you needed protection before the town decided that you needed punishment instead. He rehearsed his words as the house came into view. Nathaniel did not hesitate when he reached your house. Not really. The sense of purpose had settled into something smoother by then, excitement. He dismounted quietly and tied the horse back from the edge of the yard. It would not do to arrive loudly. Appearances mattered, after all.

That was when he noticed the light in your window from the yard's edge. It wasn't the clean, upright glow of a single candle placed in reverence. This light wavered, low and restless, as though it struggled to stay obedient. Nathaniel slowed, stepping off the path and into the darker edge of the yard. He did not mean to spy—but Providence, he would later tell himself, had intervened.

It was through the window where he saw the bowl. Water stilled in a bowl which was left uncovered, catching the moon’s reflection. Not for washing. Not for drinking. Reflection was a known superstition—used for scrying, for seeing things not meant to be seen. Beside it lay dried herbs, bound with red thread, not white and not kitchen herbs. Not the sort that was hung openly to dry for teas or stews. These were gathered and hidden. Poppy heads among them, their seedpods split. Poppies dulled pain. Poppies quieted the mind. Poppies were whispered about in sermons as tools of temptation. Ministers warned that such plants opened doors that the Devil was eager to step through.

Through that window, he watched as you came into frame- your lips moving, but not in prayer. Not in any psalm he knew. The words were too soft, too irregular, spoken under the breath, inaudible. In Salem, prayer was meant to be heard by God and neighbor alike. This was something else- private, hidden and not meant to be overheard. Nathaniel exhaled slowly. Not in fear but in satisfaction. In another town, in another year, this would have been nothing. In Salem, it was everything.

It was enough. He approached the door of your home, but he did not knock at first. He waited, he straightened his coat, smoothed his cuffs. He let excitement cool into something presentable so that when he finally raised his fist, it was steady and clear. The knock rang clean against the door—authoritative without being rude, steady; confident. The sound carried cleanly through the house. When the door opened, Nathaniel was already leaning into the frame, filling it easily as though he belonged there. His gaze moved past you without apology, confirming what he’d seen. The flowers hung loosely at his side, a visual argument for civility.

“I saw you today,” Nathaniel said, voice low, even. “In town.”

He did not need to describe the boy. He did not need to say why it mattered. The silence between his words did that work for him. “I came because it wouldn’t do for people to talk,” he continued gently. “An unmarried young adult, like yourself alone with a young man. That’s how stories begin.” His eyes flicked again to the room behind you. To the water, the herbs- the candle.

“And then I saw this.”

He straightened fully now, filling the doorway without stepping over the threshold. “You know what they’d say in town,” he murmured knowingly. “A bowl left to catch the moon. Plants known for clouding the senses. Words spoken that don’t belong to Scripture.” A faint exhale. Almost sympathetic. Almost.

He straightened, the ease never leaving him, only rearranging itself into authority. “You know how this town is now,” Nathaniel said quietly. “How quickly concern becomes accusation. How easily a thing can be misunderstood.” His mouth curved—not quite a smile. “People have been hanged for less. Women and men far wiser than you. Far more careful, who now rot underneath us.”

He reached up, tapped the doorframe once with his knuckles, thoughtful. “You’re young,” he went on, tone turning instructive, almost patient. “You don’t always see the danger when it’s right in front of you. That’s not a failing. It’s simply... youth.” His eyes returned to yours, steady, appraising. “This,” he said, gesturing faintly behind you, “is the sort of thing a magistrate would have questions about. And my brother is very diligent. He would be obliged to act if someone brought him concern.” Nathaniel went on. “And men like him don’t ask gently once suspicion has taken root.”

Another pause. Softer now. “But a man,” Nathaniel added, lowering his voice, “has a duty to guide. To correct small missteps before they become disasters. A man's word carries weight. Mine especially.”

He extended the flowers at last, as though this were still a courtship, as though the night had not shifted beneath your feet. “You don’t want your name whispered in church,” he said gently. “You don’t want to stand alone while men decide what you are.” His gaze lingered, not unkind, but certain. Possessive in its calm. “You’re too young,” Nathaniel murmured. “Too beautiful to end up forgotten in an unmarked grave over a misunderstanding... too young to be burned at the pyre or hung on the gallows.” His gaze softened—not with mercy, but with certainty. "That would be far too cruel a fate for you, sweetheart."

Then, finally, the truth beneath the courtesy. “Let me take care of you,” he said. “You don't need to worry that pretty little head of yours for anything. Let me keep you where you belong- with me.” Nathaniel’s fingers tightened briefly around the stems of the asters, not enough to crush them. Just enough to remind himself they were real. “I won’t speak of what I saw,” he continued, almost absently. “Not tonight.” A pause that felt measured, deliberate.

“Not unless I’m asked, of course.”

His gaze drifted, briefly, His gaze drifted briefly past you—into the room beyond. The bowl. The candle. The herbs left too carelessly in the open- as though already seeing the house as others might by morning. When his eyes returned to you, they were calm. Certain. “And questions,” he went on mildly, “have a way of being asked in this town. Especially when a man is seen leaving one’s home after dark. People notice things now. They make it their duty to.” Nathaniel tilted his head slightly, as though considering a matter already decided. “My brother rises early,” he said, his gaze settled, unblinking before they returned to you, steady and untroubled. “He keeps careful records. Names. Concerns brought in good faith.”

A beat.

“I would hate to give him cause to worry about you.” Nathaniel extended the flowers again, patient, as though nothing had shifted. As though this were still the same visit he had planned on the ride over. “A wife doesn’t appear in court records,” he pointed out. “A wife appears at church. A wife is accounted for. Protected, on the arm of {{poss}} husband.”

His eyes held yours, steady and unblinking.

“And a husband,” he finished, “shuts down questions before they ever reach the magistrate.”