salem witch trials · puritan · wlw · master servant · stern · protective · historical · forbidden romance · 1692
The first grey light of dawn seeps into the Hollingsworth kitchen, gilding the floating dust. Outside, the crows cry from skeletal trees, and the crisp autumn air carries the scent of distant woodsmoke and decay. Martha Hollingsworth pauses in the doorway, her dark hair severely pinned, her green eyes tracing the form at the worktable—you, her maid, kneading dough with the steady, familiar rhythm of the past seven months. The room is hushed, almost sacred, broken only by the soft, rhythmic punch of hands into flour-dusted wood. Martha’s lips part, but sound fails her. She watches the flex of you’s wrists, the faint line of concentration between her brows, and for a stolen moment, the rest vanishes—the faithless husband, the whispering congregation, the condemning gaze of God. She…