Lux et Tenebrae

Nearly a month passed without incident. June was called in to help a young woman deliver twins down in Salem Town, but apart from those few days away, she was constantly by Sherlock's side. Sherlock, for her own part, was restless but not destructive (as was often the case when deprived of crimes to unravel) and spent most of her time observing the decomposition rates of various dead animal carcasses; collecting strange, often disgustingly pungent herbs and plants; and taking long walks through Salem Village. June watched her companion carefully whenever she could afford to—Lestrade's warning about the dangers facing unusual women in the village had lodged itself in her brain—and never allowed Sherlock to go within a quarter mile of the village center without accompaniment.

It was mid-winter, sometime late in January, when the news got out that the doctor who'd been called in from Salem Town to diagnose the strange behavior of Reverend Parris's daughter and niece couldn't determine a physical cause for their sickness. He had therefore concluded it was witchcraft, and acted accordingly. When June heard that Parris's servant, a woman named Tituba, had been arrested on suspicion of witchcraft, she raced back to hers and Sherlock's house at once. She burst in, breathing hard, and slammed the door behind her. She bolted it, then moved toward the fire, holding out her hands as if to warm them. They were shaking, she realized, but not from the cold.

Sherlock, who was sitting at their table carefully examining what appeared to be two identical samples of reddish clay, looked up at June's dramatic entrance. “What's wrong?” Her question was sharp, pointed. June could feel her companion's pale blue-green eyes tracing the lines of her body, her hands, her face. Searching for an explanation in her posture and physical condition before any words could leave her mouth.

June shook her head. Her blond hair was tangled, messy from being under a hood all day. “The doctor from Salem Town says it's witchcraft.”

Sherlock looked momentarily confused, and then her face relaxed into an expression of understanding. “Oh,” she said. “The girls. The Reverend's niece and daughter. I expect they've accused their servant, then. Which is why you've returned looking so flustered.”

June turned to Sherlock, frowning slightly. “What? Why would I be that bothered by an arrest?”

“You're afraid that Tituba will accuse others of witchcraft in order to put off her own execution, and to cast of the brunt of the blame. Rightly so; she's clever enough to know that our lawmen will fall for that. The officials are like their bloodhounds: if they're on the scent of a single stag, they'll pursue it diligently until it's fallen. But if they're on the scent of an entire herd, most will escape unharmed—possibly all, if the attention is spread thin enough.”

June clenched her teeth together, shaking her head. “She'll accuse you, Sherlock. You know she will.”

Sherlock shrugged, somehow managing to look nonchalant about the prospect of being blamed for a capital offense in a village full of hyper-religious, superstitious puritans. “If she does, I can explain to the good doctor and Reverend and whoever else will listen what's really going on.”

“They won't listen.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “Of course they won't. Not initially. But if I can bring enough evidence against their claims, and persuade Tituba to admit that she has no real accomplices, I can stop this whole thing before it begins.”

June's heart sank, heavy as a stone, inside her chest. “Maybe I can look at the girls. See if the town doctor missed anything.”

Sherlock looked up at her. The firelight caught in her eyes, making them shine like cut gemstones. June watched as Sherlock traced patterns in the dirt samples with one forefinger, stubbornly avoiding her gaze.

“They won't allow you anywhere near the girls.” Sherlock's voice was low, but not soft. It trembled with suppressed energy. June could see Sherlock's body tensing beneath her cloak, muscles rigid with anticipation or anxiety—June could never distinguish between the two when it came to her companion. “If you ask, they'll suspect you of being involved. They'll arrest you, too.”

June sighed, and scrubbed a hand across her face. “Yeah, okay. You're probably right.”

“When am I ever wrong?”

June snorted. “A lot more often than you'd like everyone to think, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. She sat down at the table, and swept the two dirt samples back into their respective jars. She corked them and set them aside. “The doctor won't allow you to see the girls, because he knows that his diagnosis is false. If someone as well-trained in healing as you--”

“--Thank you--”

“--you're welcome, were to examine Abigail and Elizabeth, I believe it's extremely likely that physical signs of disease or illness would be discovered. He can't risk that.”

June realized in an instant what Sherlock was saying, and let out her breath in a sharp hiss. “The doctor, he wants us to panic, doesn't he? That's why he trudged all the way up here in the middle of winter. He wants to spread the idea that people inside the village are witches.”

Sherlock offered up one of her rarest, most genuine smiles. Reserved, as always, for June. “Precisely. You're a lot smarter than you let on, June.”

June raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure whether to be insulted or flattered. She settled on the latter, and returned Sherlock's smile. “So I'm right, then.”

Sherlock nodded. She stood up, moving around the table and pacing before the fireplace. Her cloak clung to her hips, and billowed around her booted calves. “Yes, you're right.”

June bit the inside of her cheek as a wave of nervousness rushed through her. “But… why? Why cause a panic? What does the doctor want?”

Sherlock reached the bed, and threw herself down. She rolled onto her back, pressing her palms together and steepling her fingers under her chin. Her eyes slid shut, and her expression turned to one of reflection. “You know exactly what he wants.”

June sighed. She couldn't help the sting of irritation that pierced her at that comment. Crossing her arms, she moved closer to the fire, seeking out its radiant heat. “No, Sherlock. I really don't.”

Sherlock didn't move. She remained perfectly still on the bed, body tense and eyes tightly closed. “Salem Town. The people there are unhappy with our choice of Reverend. They believe that the settlers of Salem Village are un-pure, and possibly falling into favor with the Devil. They can't risk that.”

June frowned. She turned her full attention back to Sherlock. “So the doctor is here to stir up suspicions about Reverend Parris?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “If villagers of our settlement are suspected of witchcraft, then it's clear that the Reverend is not doing his job correctly. He will be seen as incapable of protecting his flock, and will be ousted from his position, just as our previous governor was chased away last year for similarly perceived incompetence.”

June unfolded her arms, and shook her head. She moved to the bed, and sat down on the edge, watching Sherlock's face carefully. “You're a clear target for suspicion, Sherlock. You know that.”

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly. In the half-light, her pupils dilated, black nearly eclipsing sea-foam green. “I've removed anything from this house that could be used as evidence against me in a trial.”

“Trial. Right.” June inhaled deeply. She exhaled slowly. “Let's not let it come to that, yeah?”

Sherlock's eyes slid shut again. “I'll do my best to avoid that outcome, yes.”

“Good.”

They were silent for a long time after that.

. . . . . .

Over the next few days, the news got out that three women in total had been arrested on suspicion of cursing Abigail Parris and Elizabeth Williams using dark magick: Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborn. June and Sherlock stayed in their house, careful not to go out unless absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, at this point, Sherlock was getting far too restless for their temporary refuge to last long, and June was worried that her companion would either die of boredom, or else do something drastic and dangerous to alleviate that boredom in the not-so-distant future.

“They'll try to reverse the curse using whatever methods the Reverend and Tituba suggest. When those things doesn't work—because they won't; the girls aren't actually bewitched—they'll resort to killing the women whom they believe to be witches in the hopes that destroying the witch will break the curse.” June awoke to the sound of Sherlock's lowered voice, and looked over to see her housemate standing before the fire, hands clasped behind her back, staring down at the flames. It was early in the morning—the sun was only just peering over the distant horizon—and June was wrapped up in her sheets, warm and comfortable in her bed.

Sitting up, June blinked, and rubbed her eyes. She pulled the blankets up around herself, curling her legs under herself in an effort to keep them warm. “Sherlock, why're you up?”

“I didn't feel like sleeping.” Sherlock's tone was dismissive. “Besides, there are things I need to do.”

June sensed the intent behind those words, and was out of bed and half-dressed in seconds. “Oh, no, you don't.” Her words were firm, leaving no room for argument. Not that Sherlock cared. If Sherlock wanted to argue, then there was nothing in the world that June could do to shut her up.

June felt Sherlock's gaze on her as she pulled on her clothes, wrapping herself in her warmest travel cloak. The temperature had fallen dangerously low during the night; June was suddenly very thankful that Sherlock had been awake to keep the fire going all night. Midwinter was the worst time to fall ill, she'd observed in her many years studying the sick and injured. Even the strongest, healthiest men and women were far more likely to be killed by a simple fever or wound during the colder months. Especially in small villages, like Salem, where good doctors were rare and hard to contact, and sudden, dangerous sickness was more likely to end in a funeral than a recovery.

“I didn't say what I was going to do.” Sherlock looked away, back toward the fire.

June sighed. She pulled a strap tight around her waist, tugging on the warm cotton cloth until it settled just right on her form. “You're going to visit the Reverend, and try to see the afflicted children.”

“Mmm, nope.”

“Then you're going to try to meet with the accused. Sarah Good, Tituba, and Sarah Osborn.” June crossed her arms, body tensing with anticipation and anxiety when Sherlock didn't immediately reply. “It's not going to happen, Sherlock. You'll just get in trouble.”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. Turning her whole body toward June, she fixed her companion with an icy stare. “I have to know.”

“I thought you already knew.”

“Knew what?”

June threw up her hands. “I don't know! What do you need to know, then?”

Sherlock's gaze softened slightly. She moved across the room until she stood directly in front of June, just feet away. Not for the first time, June was struck by how tall and lithe her friend was. Like a panther: compact, quick both mentally and physically, and, when she wanted to be, a vicious, dedicated hunter. “I need to know what connects them. If I can find a reason for Abigail Parris and Elizabeth Williams to want these women… removed… from their lives, then I might have some evidence to support my theory that they're acting.”

June swallowed, doing her best not to let her eyes linger too long on the pale, smooth skin of her companion's throat, or the sharp, clean lines and planes of Sherlock's face. “And if they're not?”

Sherlock tilted her head slightly. Her blue-green eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips in an expression of deep contemplation. “Then I'll visit the Parris's house and see if I can't find anything suggesting that the girls' food was poisoned, or otherwise unfit for consumption.”

“What if you get caught?”

“I won't.”

“You might.” June gritted her teeth, trying hard not to let the dread she felt at that possibility show. “And if you're caught, they'll accuse you on the spot, Sherlock. No matter how clever you are, or how good your reasons or excuses, Reverend Parris won't forgive an intrusion like that.”

“I'll ask if I can look around first.” Sherlock half-smiled. “Of course I'll ask. I'm not an idiot.”

“Yes, you are.” June tried not to sound fond when she said this—she was aiming for accusatory, not love-struck—but the words came out sounding like an endearment regardless of her intent.

Sherlock snorted, and rolled her eyes to disguise the small smile June saw beginning to form. Sherlock stepped back, away from June, and returned to her spot in front of the fire. She climbed into her armchair, tucking her knees under her and folding her hands in her lap. She stared into the flames, motionless and poised. Like a hawk perched on the highest tree in a forest, searching for a rabbit in a vast field far below.

“Sherlock.” June followed her companion's lead, settling herself into her own armchair. She braced her elbows on her knees, and cupped her chin in her palms. She watched Sherlock, noting the tension in her housemate's face. “If you ask permission to search his house, Reverend Parris is definitely going to be suspicious. I don't know if you remember, but you're not actually an official. You're an amateur… a female amateur, in fact. A disgraced, foreign woman amateur. I don't think someone like Parris is going to appreciate being second-guessed by you, no matter how smart you are.”

Sherlock let out a deep, gusty sigh. “Oh, June. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to let little things like that get in your way.” She was on her feet in an instant, pacing again, every muscle in her body tight with suppressed emotion. Back and forth, back and forth. A tigress pacing in a cramped, airless cage. Hungry and desperate for the hunt.

June straightened up, blinking. The sudden shift in Sherlock's behavior wasn't unusual—Sherlock's moods were always shifting—but it seemingly marked the beginning of the inevitable breakdown that June had been anticipating ever since she'd banned Sherlock from interfering with local law and investigations. “Leave it alone, Sherlock. As long as you don't make it worse, the authorities will soon sort this out. And then you can go back to poking around dead bodies and making the officials look like idiots right away. I promise you.”

Sherlock shook her head, and continued pacing in tight loops between the two armchairs. “Tituba, Sarah Good, and Sarah Osborn have done nothing wrong. The Reverend and the officials might kill three innocent women if I don't interfere.”

June swallowed hard. Guilt rose up inside her, weighing on her heart, and in that moment, she knew that Sherlock was right. If they could do something—anything at all—to spare the lives of three innocent women, then it was worth the risk. Any risk. With a heavy sigh, June nodded. “Okay.” She sat up straighter, meeting Sherlock's gaze directly as her friend paused in her pacing and turned to face June. “Alright, fine. But Sherlock, please, I'm begging you. Be careful. For me.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a smile. Her eyes glittered with excitement. “You know me.” She started toward the door, reaching for her favorite travel cloak—the long, dark one with the heavy collar and red stitching around the button holes—and pulled it around herself with a soft whooshing of fabric. She opened the door, and stood in the doorway, framed against the first light of dawn, looking back over her shoulder at June. “I'm always careful.”

June snorted disbelievingly, but couldn't help a fond smile. She shook her head. “You're a terrible liar.”

“Yes, well. I can't be good at everything, or the rest of you would feel inadequate.” Sherlock's returning smile was warm, and her eyes were alight with mischief. “More than you already do, I mean.”

“Shut it.” June laughed, rising from her chair and moving back toward the bed. “Now get out of here. Go talk to the Reverend. See if you can make him see sense.”

Sherlock hesitated. She shifted from one foot to the other, and, in June's opinion, looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Well, I'm not going to the Reverend's house yet, June. I'm going for a long walk to kill time until after everyone's asleep.”

June turned to her, eyes widening and heart sinking. “No. No, Sherlock, that's a terrible idea. If you get caught breaking in at night, it'll be worse than if you ask outright for permission!”

“Then I won't get caught.”

June shook her head, adamantly opposed. “No. No way. You can't know that for sure.”

“If you're so worried--” Sherlock took a step outside the house, half-closing the door so that only her face and a strip of her body was visible to June, “--then why don't you come with me, and make sure I stay out of trouble?”

Inhaling deeply to steady herself, June let her eyes slide shut for a long moment. And then she nodded, slowly, regretting her words before they even left her mouth: “Fine, Sherlock. Alright. But you have to promise me one thing.”

Sherlock practically beamed. “Anything for you, June.”

“If we get caught, you let me take the blame.”

Sherlock's elated expression fell away immediately. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and her gaze froze over. “That's absurd.”

June hardened her own expression, and straightened her stance to show she wasn't about to back down without a fight. “It's the only way I'll go, Sherlock. Or let you go.”

Sherlock snorted. “Since when do you let me do anything?”

June cocked an eyebrow. “Just because I've never had to hold you down or knock you out doesn't mean I'm not perfectly capable of doing so.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “June. You can't honestly expect me to--”

June cut her off. “You can't honestly expect me to stand back and watch them arrest you for a capital crime without doing something, Sherlock! If we're going at all, it's on my terms. If we get caught in a compromising position, I take the blame. You do everything you can to get away, no matter what. Do you understand?”

Sherlock glared halfheartedly for a long moment, but then the ice in her eyes melted, leaving behind an expression that was half regret, half irritation. “We won't get caught, June.”

“But if we do. Promise me you'll do everything in your power to avoid being accused.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Sherlock closed her eyes. For a long moment, her face was entirely devoid of emotion. Carefully blank, just like her next words. “I promise you I won't get caught, June. Meet me at midnight outside the Reverend's house.”

Before June could answer, or protest her friend's choice of words, the door had slammed shut and Sherlock was gone.