From the Journal of Miss Lucinda Wentworth Jamie hated killing people. Usually, he tried to avoid it at all costs. It seemed that July 4th 1789 was the day he was about break his own rules, though. He was mad enough to shoot every single citizen of Harrisonburg without a flicker of remorse. No one touched his woman. “Am I the only one who understands this is the Age of Enlightenment?” Grace’s voice rang out above the angry shouts of the crowd. “You can’t do this! There’s no such thing as witches! You’re supposed to know that by now!” “Quiet, witch!” Clara Vance screeched with all the zealotry in her shriveled soul. “We all saw you vanish into the ether last Wednesday. You disappeared, right from this very spot, and now you returned…” “Because this stupid tree is bad luck.” Grace interrupted and Jamie could tell she was pointing up at the gnarled oak that loomed over the street like tombstone. For some reason, it had always given him a chill to look at it. “I’m sure of it. I can’t wait until that lightning strike burns it down.”
