"Brothers and sisters, though you sit in this House of God, on these fine pews of wood, fashioned through the sweat of your brow and the skill …" Abruptly, Reverend Watson lost his train of thought. His last word hung there, perfectly articulated as was his wont. She was there, in Philadelphia's most prestigious church, sitting among them. After a moment, he realized that his mouth was hanging open. The entire congregation of Christ Church waited for him. Already, there in the front pew, that hypocrite Benjamin Franklin wore the first wrinkles of a frown.

"Still, you must seek the germ of good in all your fellows," he concluded, with some satisfaction. Franklin's face relaxed a little.

While trying to remember his sermon's theme, he looked at her again: Mistress Hebblethwaite, the most notorious witch in the city. What in God's name was she doing in church, in his church? She'd laughed at his previous invitations to attend. True, perhaps he had bungled his mission by catching her around the waist and pulling her to him. But he had not known her full reputation then, it was an honest mistake, she had a body like the she-demons sent by the Dark One to tempt those silly eremites … and she'd nearly taken half his face off with her nails. The explanation he'd had to tell his wife when he returned home!

And now the Hebblethwaite vixen sat there. Laughing silently at him? No, when he cast another furtive look at her, she seemed curiously placid. Yet Goody Fanshawe, her older sister, sat next to her, wearing a satisfied smile. He was mumbling something—he hoped it was learned and sincere. Was Goody Fanshawe so delighted to have the lost sheep back among them? Had Mistress Hebblethwaite finally seen the light?

Still, she sat there, looking at him with little comprehension. Where had the fire gone?

"Oh, Reverend Watson, I am so happy—all of us are," said Goody Fanshawe, tugging his hand again. "She has come back."

"Most satisfactory." He tried to remove his hand. He waved aside another offer of tea and resettled himself on the hard, hard chair. "But how? She seemed so set in her ways."

"Too true! But three days ago, I came to visit at her cottage across the Schuylkill, and there was no reply to my knock. I went inside, hesitant, because one knows the sort of thing one might find in the home of someone who practices the dark arts." She shook her head firmly. "That's when I found her, dazed and speechless, on the floor. Her face was sooty. Part of her dress seemed seared by some evil flame. A nearby cupboard was all awry. Astarte, her cat, was mewling piteously in the corner. Something terrible seemed to have happened, some botched … incantation? And at first—imagine it!—she did not know me!"

"No!"

"Yes! In fact, she seemed all in a muddle. She barely knew who she was! 'It's I, Goody Fanshawe, your sister,' said I as she looked about her without recognition. 'And who am I, sister?' she said. 'Why am I here in this foul-smelling shack?'"

"She has little memory of who she is?"

"Isn't it a marvel? She has forgotten that she had forsworn the ways of the Lord for the perilous path of --"

"Yes, yes," he interrupted. "Strange are the ways of the Lord! He has brought her back to Him—to us. No recollection of her former ways or powers? One might even say it is a miracle."

"Oh, yes, a miracle! My thought as well!"

"This is the opportunity we have long awaited—to reclaim her for the Lord when she is still young and vibrant, so full of life." Goody Fanshawe nodded vigorously. With a sigh intimating the hard work ahead of him, Reverend Watson rose, brushed his black coat, and thanked his parishioner for her hospitality. So very full of life. "Mistress Hebblethwaite is at her cottage?" He'd have to take Gray's Ferry across the damned river. But perhaps it would be worth it.

"So, Reverend Watson, you say we have done this deed many, many times before?" Mistress Hebblethwaite hesitated as she unbuttoned her dress. Her expression was shy but curious. "Yet I have no memory of it—or even of the act itself."

"Many, many times, my dear." His own hands were swift, and then he was naked before her. Her face turned pink.

"Oh, this is beyond words," she breathed a few moments later, as they rolled on the floor, scattering straw, knocking against the table's stout legs. "Oh! Your touch! … What is this divine gift called?"

"The conjugal act," he muttered, heart pounding.

"Then we are husband and wife?" she asked, clinging to him. "Oh, pleasure absolute!"

Chattering woman! "Yes, but in the spiritual sense," he managed to say. "A holy bond between us." He felt himself near the brink. Her fingers scratched at his back. Her breath was harsh, shattered. He could sense that she was very near as well.

"Lord preserve me!" she suddenly shrieked and her body seemed wracked with a terrible violence. He held on, meeting her savagery as best he could. It was all he had ever imagined. More than he could have imagined.

"Oh! Ooooh!" Then all at once everything seemed to change. "Oh!" she said once more, but her tone was strikingly different.

"Damnation!" he snarled as she threw him off her. Her eyes were bright with hate and disgust. It was, perhaps, a miracle.

"Damnation!" he said again. Indeed, he was correct. She hurled some ancient words at him, and he found himself in a vast fiery cavern, where the howling of lost souls overfilled his brain. Still naked, he staggered to his feet, just in time to see three demons swoop down from their perch, foul teeth dripping, claws still bloody from their last meal.