I shake my head. After a moment, I see a white shape that looks like a coffin I saw once when our family visited the house where someone died. I gasp, unable to get my breath. “It’s like . . . it’s like where a dead person’s body goes. ’Member?”
“Aye,” Abigail exclaims. “It’s a coffin! Ye’re right. I’ll marry death, and the devil’s going to kill us both.”
I start screaming uncontrollably. So does Abigail.
Tituba grabs the tankard and throws the contents outside. “Ain’ no debbil. S’nuthin!” she says, as if she weren’t only moments ago praying in fear. “Stop wailin’. Yer folks be home soon. Don’ let ’em see ye like dis.”
I run out of the kitchen and into our bedroom upstairs, screaming so loudly I feel sick. Abigail runs at my heels. I kneel by my bed, clasping my hands in prayer.
“I’m sorry!” I wail to Jehovah. “I didn’t mean it!”
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