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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that
this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed
to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received
any payment for this stripped book.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written
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write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557
Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gold, Maya.
Spellbinding / Maya Gold.
p. cm.
Summary: When sixteen-year-old Abby traces her deceased mothers
family to the Salem Witch Trials, the nightmares she has been having
begin to make sense, but soon she is caught up in a love triangle and an
age-old quest for revenge.
ISBN 978-0-545-43380-8
[1. Witchcraft Fiction. 2. High schools Fiction. 3. Schools
Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs) Fiction. 5. Revenge Fiction.
6. Salem (Mass.) History Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775
Fiction. 7. Massachusetts Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G5628Spe 2013
[Fic] dc23
2012016692
Copyright 2013 by Maya Gold
All rights reserved. Published by Point, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.
Scholastic, Point, and associated logos are trademarks and/or
registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
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Prologue
The girls shriek and writhe on the
floor of the meetinghouse, tearing their hair, their white
aprons. Their screams are unearthly, like night sounds of prey
as an owl swoops down, talons ripping through flesh as it carries some helpless thing off to its death. But the girls are alive,
fully alive, and whatever is tearing at them cant be seen.
The room is shadowy, lit by firelight and guttering candles. Hard wooden benches, a sour odor of fear. The men wear
dark clothing. They mutter and frown, passing judgment.
A woman leaps to her feet, wild-eyed. She put a curse on
my daughter! she cries.
Shes pointing directly at me.
The ground seems to shift underneath my feet. Theres a
swirling through darkness, and suddenly I am outdoors. Dusty
planks turn into mud, rutted by wagon wheels, littered with
straw. My wrists chafe in ropes. My hair has been hacked off
My eyes are wide open. Above me, a black fringe of treetops rims the night sky. Is the boy with the green-and-blue
eyes still up there somewhere? His words echo inside my head.
We shall be together. How? How can I not fear? Help me, I
think. Whoever you are, come and get me.
My lungs burn. My limbs feel so heavy. I stare up at the
full moon through water, deep water, struggling to reach him,
unable to breathe. . . .
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I bolt upright, wide-eyed and gasping. I
try to shake that vision out of my head. Im not at the bottom of a dark pond, unable to get to the surface, lungs
ready to burst. Im on a bright yellow school bus, which
has just parked outside my other nightmare, Ipswich High
School. This is real life, hello.
But Ive still got goose bumps. I cant believe I fell
asleep on the bus and had one of those dreams. Its bad
enough waking up from a nightmare in my own bedroom,
with birds doing their morning warbles and sun pouring
over the little-girl wallpaper I cant bear to change because
my mom picked it out. But freaking out on the school bus?
Not cool.
I glance around, feeling self-conscious. Luckily, my bus
is half-empty this year, so no one sits next to me, ever.
And the few kids around me are too busy grabbing their
its job, like too much sensation gets in all the time.
Everything scrapes on my senses like sandpaper. Maybe
this is the flip side of being invisible: Nobody sees me, but
I notice everything.
The parking lot looks like a mass migration of kids, all
carrying backpacks and wearing some variation of jeans
and T-shirts. It reminds me of a film they showed us in
freshman biology, about salmon moving upstream to
spawn. The stream widens out as I get through the tunnel
of buses and reach the section where kids with cars park.
Theres nothing on earth I want more than a car of my
own. A car is like oxygen. It means freedom, autonomy,
getting to go where you want, when you want. Ive had my
drivers permit for six long months, and Im finally taking
my road test tomorrow. My friend Rachel Mendoza is
driving me to the test site. Rachels a senior, and she got
her license last year. In fact, there she is now, getting out of
her sensible navy blue Volvo.
That car is so Rachel. Rachels parents both play in
the Boston Symphony. She got her glossy black hair from
her Venezuelan-born father, her wide-set gray eyes from her
Irish-American mother, and her musical talent from both
she plays the cello beautifully. Shes polite, hardworking,
and totally brilliant shes been tutoring me after school
for my trigonometry class. All in all, shes the kind of girl
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playing downstairs. Minus the sound effects and the shouting, of course. I track down the Portuguese Silvas in no
time, and then get to work on Moms side of the family.
This takes a little more doing, because theyve been
here for centuries. Luckily, some distant cousin Ive never
met has already posted a family tree tracing her ancestry
back to Ethan Dale, a foot soldier in the Revolution. Thats
kind of cool. But she couldnt get any further, and neither
can I. Closing my eyes, I try to summon up anything Mom
might have told me about her family when I did a project
about the Pilgrims in fifth grade. That was right before she
got sick.
Suddenly, I remember Mom saying that her uncle Ben
was named after a cabin boy ancestor with the unforgettable name of Benevolence Fletcher.
I grin and type in FLETCHER, BENEVOLENCE.
After a couple blind alleys, his name pops up on a ships
registry from 1636. Bingo! I feel a flicker of excitement.
Benevolence landed in Plymouth, where he married a
woman named Mercy Gilbert.
Mercy and Benevolence, whoa. What did they name
their kids?
All too soon, I find out. Caleb, Jeremiah, Miles,
William, Annabel, Silas, and Prudence. I let out a sigh.
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Well, the thing is, I did. I found the first two generations, but then theres a gap of about ninety years. Did
Mom ever say anything about her ancestors?
Ann wouldnt have cared. She thought all that New
England blue-blood stuff was nonsense. Good thing, or
shed never have married the son of a Portuguese fisherman. Dad chugs his coffee, checking the time on his
sports watch.
I know hes right. Mom was a botanist, and didnt hold
stock with purebred anything, not even dogs. Mutts make
the best pets, she used to say. Hybrid vigor. But that
doesnt explain why her line disappeared altogether for
almost a century.
Ready! says Matt, skidding into the kitchen in his
green-and-gold uniform with Kevin right behind him.
Great. There go my two minutes of focus. Dad, its for
school. She never said anything?
Dad stands up, grabbing his coach jacket off a hook.
Nope. But one of her great-uncles took me aside at our
wedding and said, Joe, your bride may be lovely, but shes
got witch blood. They were hanging her people at Salem.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Really? I
say at the same time as Matt says, No way!
That great-uncle was a loon, says Dad. The witch
part was probably a joke, but I do think a few of her
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