The Devil & Me

Before

They say the devil strode into town one rainy afternoon in 1673. The town was well established, with three hundred occupants, it was near big enough to be the colony seat. And the residents were proud of what they had.

Until the devil walked in.

He was young, and dapper, with dark hair and eyes that looked like honey wine. And was rich⁠⁠—from one of those eastern families that sailed from England on one of the first ships. His family has already been in the new land two generations, maybe three.

His name was William Ambrose, and he was most surely the devil.

The school had been young then, just a collection of brick buildings clustered together, open to boys only. That was the year the miller's daughter, Mary, turned fourteen to his fifteen. He saw her for the first in line for the well, laughing, with those being the days drawing water was a time for gossip and news from the old country.

Something in him clicked. He resigned to terrorize her.

It started off simple enough. He'd thrown eggs at their house, pulled her hair as she walked to the school to launder sheets, and mocked her in front of his friends.

Then it grew worse. He cut off a lock of her head when she twisted it around her finger while looking at a village boy. He'd followed her home on the road, taunts following all the way home. He'd run her father's business out of town by promoting another one. His wealth has simply drowned them out.

By the time she turned sixteen, things weren't good. Her mother was long gone, her father destitute, her options dwindling to one. It looked like she'd have to sell herself to care for her younger siblings and all because of Ambrose.

It was one rainy night in 1676 when she knocked on the school doors. The housekeeper let her in. "I'm here to do the laundry," she said, between chattering teeth. Mary nodded and she stepped into the building. Her shoes left puddles on the ground as she shucked off her wet cloak and boots and put her feet into slippers. She tied her apron around her waist.

After many years of dealing with Ambrose, she was not one to give in without a fight. She had the calluses from lye soap to prove it. Her work was ritual now. She balanced well water in two hands and heated it in a big kettle before dipping the starched uniforms inside. Her hands ached and she held in a hiss as she dipped them in the water. The blue became a sopping black as she mixed in the soap. She repeated her mantra to herself⁠⁠—"even if I have to work until my hands peel, even if I⁠⁠—"

"What if you didn't have to?"

She stopped, her heart yanking in her chest as she turned around. There he stood in his school coat and breeches. "Master Ambrose." She steeled herself. He was here to pull her hair maybe? Maybe cut it again. She touched the jagged locks. They'd return to their original length in a year, maybe two.

"I do miss your long hair," he said.

She went stiff. "You were the one that cut it."

Surprisingly, a laugh rumbled through his chest and he stepped closer. "I did do that, didn't I?"

She stepped further away. The infernal son of satan⁠⁠—if he wanted a lock of her hair, she could've just given it to him. She'd had boys ask for locks of her hair before. Instead, he had to wrench her by the braid and with a kitchen knife hack her hair off. He never gave any explanation for it, turned off with his braid in her hand as she wailed on the ground. Later, his father had come to visit hers and apologized as his son refused to do it himself.

"This is the laundry room," she said, "you're not to be down here."

"This is my school. I do what I wish."