About the Book:
In 1692, they live and work in their father's tavern, where they must watch helplessly as the witch trials unfold in their village, threatening everyone. With the help of a handsome childhood friend, they search for the truth behind their mother's mysterious death, risking everything to expose a secret that could save their lives--or be their undoing.
In 1912, Hope dreams of becoming one of the first female pilots in America, and Grace works as an investigative journalist, uncovering corruption and injustice. After their parents' orphanage is threatened by an adversary, they enter a contest to complete a perilous cross-country flight under the guidance of a daring French aviator.
The sisters have already decided which timeline they will choose, but an unthinkable tragedy complicates the future they planned for themselves. As their birthday looms, how will they determine the lives--and loves--that are best for both of them?
Excerpt:
Our mother in 1912, Maggie Cooper, was a time—crosser and had passed the gift on to us. Hope and I had been born with Mama’s mark on the backs of our heads that sent us between 1912 and 1692. When we went to sleep in 1692, we woke up in 1912, and when we fell asleep in 1912, we woke up in 1692 without any time passing while we were away. On our twenty—fifth birthday, October twelfth, we would choose which path to keep and which to forfeit forever.
We both knew we would not stay in 1692, but Hope had always wanted to leave early, and the only way to do that would be to knowingly change history in 1692. If we did, we would forfeit our lives here. Our physical bodies would die in 1692, and our conscious minds would stay in 1912.
But it was much too dangerous. It would be easier—and safer—to bide our time.
“We cannot change history,” I whispered as I clutched the bundle of food. “It could set into motion events that are not supposed to happen. We could cause wars or famines—or worse. It’s not worth it, Hope. Not when we only have seven and a half months left to endure.”
She let out a weary, frustrated sigh. “Fine—but if anyone accuses me of witchcraft, you won’t be able to stop me.”
My heart fell at her words, opening the gaping darkness inside me.
I could never tell Hope that it would be me who accused her one day. I had foolishly allowed my curiosity to get the best of me four years ago in my other path. While studying the witch trials, I saw words that had haunted me ever since. Hope Eaton, daughter of the ordinary keeper Uriah Eaton, was yet another casualty of the Salem Witch Trials when her sister, Grace Eaton, became her accuser.
How could I ever call my sister a witch? It was unfathomable, but history did not lie.
Or did it?
I had slammed the book closed before I could learn more. What had it meant by “yet another casualty”? I couldn’t bring myself to look, and I vowed I would never search for answers again.
“Don’t talk like that,” I whispered, trying to cover the anxiety in my voice. “You know what people already think about us.”
I stepped past Hope and walked through the connecting door into the main room of the tavern. It was past the noon hour, but there were several men and women sitting at tables with their pints of ale. The weather had made all outside work impossible, so people had come to the ordinary to visit, hear the latest gossip, and stay warm.
John Indian, Reverend Parris’s enslaved man, was tending the bar today for Father. He worked at the ordinary several days a week and kept an eye on things when Father was away. John glanced up at me and nodded toward the crackling hearth, where Sarah Good stood with her back to the room. Her worn and tattered dress had probably not been washed in a year. She carried her young son on her hip, while her four-year-old daughter, Dorothy, clutched her mother’s skirts. Neither of the children were properly clothed for the February weather.
I acknowledged John and moved toward Sarah and her children. Hope followed me out of the kitchen.
Several people in the room were watching Sarah, whispering to each other. Salem Village was a small agricultural community about five miles north of Salem Towne. With fewer than a thousand inhabitants, almost everyone knew everyone else’s business. Surely they all knew of the afflicted girls and the rumors swirling about bewitchment.
When Sarah saw me approach, she turned and snatched the bundle out of my hands, grumbling under her breath. “Is this all?”
Her unwashed body and sweat—stained clothing sent off a putrid smell. It was well known that her husband, William Good, had abandoned her. She and the children were left to the charity of neighbors, but they were cast out of one house after the other because of Sarah’s foul mood.
“’Tis all we can spare,” I told her. “Stay and warm yourself as long as you need.”
“All you can spare?” Sarah snorted. “You aren’t so high and mighty as you think, Grace Eaton. They may be whispering about me, but they’ve been whispering about you and your sister much longer.”
Hope took a protective step forward. “We’ve given you what we can—”
“You’ve given me nothing but leftovers,” Sarah spat.
The other patrons quieted, and John stepped out from behind the bar.
Sarah looked between Hope and me. “’Tis the likes of you who should be begging. With those strange marks of yours and the mysteries surrounding your birth. The only reason no one questions you is because your father owns the ordinary.” She took a step closer while Dorothy tripped along. “Do you ever wonder about your mother? Why no one knows her name or where she came from?”
Hope drew closer to me, and I inhaled, lifting my chin.
“You should leave,” I said. “We’ve given you what we can.”
Sarah snarled at me and then turned and left the ordinary, Dorothy trailing behind her.
Chapter 1, pages 13-16
Excerpt from For a Lifetime, by Gabrielle Meyer © 2024, published by Bethany House Publishing
Author Bio:
Gabrielle Meyer (GabrielleMeyer.com) is an ECPA bestselling author. She has worked for state and local historical societies and loves writing fiction inspired by real people, places, and events. She currently resides along the banks of the Mississippi River in central Minnesota with her husband and four children. By day, she's a busy homeschool mom, and by night she pens fiction and nonfiction filled with hope.
X: @MeyerGabrielle @bethany_house @austenprose
Instagram: @gabrielle_meyer @bethanyhousefiction @austenprose
X: @MeyerGabrielle @bethany_house @austenprose
Instagram: @gabrielle_meyer @bethanyhousefiction @austenprose
This sounds like an excellent book. I would probably stay in the time period in which I was born,
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