Betty Parris
Late December 1691
Salem Village Parsonage Kitchen
“Please, Tituba! Show us who we will marry! I want someone who has lots of firewood,” Abigail pleads.
Tituba shakes her head. “Nuh, ma’am. Massa don’ like Tituba do such things. Tol’ me an’ John it be devil worship.”
Devil worship?
I pull Abigail’s sleeve.
“We can play cat’s cradle instead,” I whisper.
“No, why should we? Yer parents aren’t here. And Tituba won’t say anything, will ye?”
“Ah’ll git ye string,” Tituba says.
“No.” Abigail stamps her foot. “I want to know who I’ll marry. Tell me what to do, or I’ll tell Aunt Parris ye told our fortunes.”
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