"Maritime," Megan said.

He swept an arm out. "This way, then."

"Hey, I'll be seeing you again tonight!" Gayle called to them.

"Terrific, thanks," Megan said. They were a few steps behind Mike as they walked. "I think she means that she'll see you tonight!" she whispered lightly.

"Strange little thing," he replied softly.

"She knew right where to hone in," Megan murmured.

He was startled. Megan seemed to be feeling little bits of jealousy now as well.

"Not my type!" he assured her. He was annoyed to realize, however, that he was thinking of the girl, still picturing her in his mind's eye. Little bits of character and build that he hadn't noted at first were filling his thoughts. She was small, compact, with a tiny waist, emphasized by the belted, dark wool dress she'd been wearing. Plentiful chest. Exceptionally well shaped legs; she worked out, evidently. Huge lips—

Angelina Jolie lips. He remembered the way she had zeroed in on him, intimately. He wondered about her mouth. What it would feel like…

"Can you even begin to imagine, Finn?"

Megan was talking.

He hadn't even realized that they had come to a room. There was a model of a three masted ship in the center of the room. Display cases were filled with harpoons, from very old ones to newer, mechanized designs.

"Pardon?"

"Can you imagine? Being out on a ship for years—the whalers were sometimes gone for up to three years at a time!" she said.

"It wouldn't be my line of work."

"For a lot of New Englanders, it was a way to riches," Mike said. "And naturally, there were many disasters as well. That's why you'll see so many of the coastal houses with their 'widow's walks.' Wives, children, lovers, used to pace those walks, waiting for the ships to return."

They moved on to a display that explained the many uses for whale oil. He forced himself to concentrate.

Another case was filled with tiny models of ships, showing changes in design from the sixteenth century through present day. Another case was filled with little miniatures that the sailors had whittled from whalebone. He kept walking, glad of the total normalcy of the tour, wondering why he wanted to escape so badly. Smith really seemed to be a decent sort—the total academic, just as Megan had described him.

"Actually, you should see the part of the museum dedicated to the witch trials," Smith said, pausing, running his fingers through his sandy hair. "We've really done an incredible job."

"Sure," Finn said.

They exited the maritime section down a back stairway, but Mike walked them around to the entry so that they could view the exhibit in the proper order.

The exhibit began with a picture of Roger Conant, the founder of Salem, with a tribute to his steadfastness when he began the new plantation at "this place called Naumkeake." It was 1626, right after the failure of the English settlement at St. Ann.

The following displays began with the Puritan ideology, and continued on to the determination that the Pilgrims would leave England. The hardships of settling in New England came next, and then, an overview of the concept of "witchcraft" and the terrible events going on in Europe at the time. Finn found that he was intrigued, especially after a display on the beginnings of the craze in New England, with scientific theories on what might have caused the accusing girls to have gone into such hysteria. Life-size tableaus followed, with the one of the hanging scenes so well done that it might have brought tears to the eyes. Both the incredible tragedy was brought fully to light, along with an understanding of how the suppressed citizens of the time might have believed with their whole hearts that the devil had come to Massachusetts, and that they were in danger of losing not only their lives, but their souls. He was intrigued to realize that a "confessed" witch was not hanged; only those who believed so deeply in the tenets of their faith that they refused to admit—for fear that their immortal souls would be damned for such a lie—to such a travesty went to the gallows, as it turned out. There was a scene, labeled as having taken place in Germany, that showed the executions of thousands on a single day, to demonstrate what a real fear witchcraft had been in the different cultures of the so-called civilized world.

"Oh, Lord!" Megan exclaimed suddenly. "Finn—it's seven o'clock!"

"It's all right," he said easily. "We're really set for the evening." He looked at Mike Smith who had given them such a down-to-earth, matter-of-fact tour that even he had become completely absorbed—

forgetting what nonsense had plagued him, he had a new respect for the man. Something about being here had seemed to put darkness, shadow, myth, legend, and even dreams in retrospect. He shook the man's hand. "I'm only sorry that we forced you to stay so long."

Smith grinned. "That's all right. That's all right. I'm never forced to stay here; I love the place. It's my baby. And my only plans for the evening were coming to watch you two tonight."

"Oh, well, great, then."

He stood awkwardly for a moment, not sure where to go from there.

Megan solved it. "Want to grab some coffee or something with us and head over?" she asked Mike Smith.

"Thanks for the invitation. I've a few things to catch up on, though. I'm happy to take a rain check on that offer, though."

"Terrific," Finn said. "We'll get going then."

Switching off lights as they went, Smith led them out. Past the tableaus. Finn found himself looking into the eyes of poor, deaf, old Rebecca Nurse as the noose was set around her neck. In the half light that then illuminated the museum, the scene was hauntingly real. He felt as if the mannequin could come to life, and perhaps turn and damn them all for what they had done to her.

At his side, Megan shivered.

He was startled to hear himself reassure her. "She was, if I've understood this all, almost a sainted old woman in truth. She wouldn't wish evil on anyone."

"Rebecca?" Smith said affectionately, almost as if he'd had a personal acquaintance with the victim. "She was possibly the saddest case in the debacle. She was judged innocent at first. But the girls put up such a hew and cry that the judges went back and deemed her guilty."

They reached the front, and Mike locked them out. Megan looked at Finn, smiling. "Great place, huh?"

"I agree. Let's get that coffee, and head on to work."

"Sounds good to me. No ordinary coffee, though. I want some kind of a wickedly rich mocha latte, with whipped cream."

" Wickedly rich?" he teased.

"I'm picking up my New England mannerisms, huh?" she murmured.

"We both seem to be picking up a little local atmosphere," he agreed. "Come on. We'll find you a wicked good mocha latte."

The book lay open before her. The great and ancient book of wisdom. It wasn't one that she kept out for any casual visitor to see. It was kept locked away. She wore the key around her neck at all times.

As she read, she smiled. She had managed to obey all the instructions with incredible precision.

She looked out the window. Night.

Almost all was done. Even the one who served her, about whom she had to admit to great trepidation, had served well. He knew what reward lay in obedience— and what punishment might lie in failure.

She looked out the window and saw the darkness of night. The moon was shining down with its strange and eerie blue cast. The fog would come again tonight.

Just a little more to do…

And then the night would come.

All Hallow's Eve…

And the world, and the future, would be hers…

They found a great place that advertised coffee in almost every shape and form. It was pleasant With

'Salem's Haunted Happenings' going on, the streets were still busy. They were able to find an intimate little table at one of the coffeehouses anyway, and for a few minutes, they discussed the virtues of the museum, across from one another, but with their heads bent close together. An intimate little tête-à-tête.

Finn felt good. He loved his wife. She loved him.

"Strange, isn't it?" she murmured suddenly.

"What?"

She laughed ruefully before explaining. "We live in New Orleans. We're surrounded by ghost and vampire tours—we walk home through them all constantly. Horrible things went on there at times. And yet… I don't know. I'm from here—from near here, at any rate!—and it all seems so creepy. I mean, we live in the 'zombie' capital of the States, for heaven's sake!"

He found that he could laugh as well. "It's Halloween season, that's all," he assured her. He ran a finger over her hand where it rested on the table before him. "We started out our first night with some major fanciful tales. But all we have to do is look around. In the street right now, see? They have a kids' table right there, and they're all busy making jack-o'-lanterns. We've just been suckered in by stories, huh?"

She nodded. When they rose, she walked in the arc of his arm. They meandered to the car, and once in it, Finn started to head straight out to the hotel.

"Ah, hell," he murmured. He glanced at her. "We need to change clothes!"

"We're just supposed to appear kind of Gothic, right?"

"Yes."

"We'll just run by Morwenna's. She has black shirts and capes—that will do, won't it?"

"I suppose. We could just go back to Huntington House—"

"And you won't have a chance to do a sound check. We're right by Morwenna's. We'll just stop there."

He wanted to argue with her. He felt uncomfortable in the witch shop. Except that what she was saying made perfect sense.

"All right," he conceded grudgingly.

He found a place for the car and they hurried through the busy streets to Morwenna's. Joseph was sitting guard at the door, monitoring the number of people in and out of the shop.