Work Text:
The crisp autumn air smells of roasting turkey and woodsmoke across Morning Glory Circle. Inside the Stephens’ kitchen, the atmosphere is hummed with a domestic rhythm that has become the new normal over the last year. Samantha adjusts the heat on the stove, her movements fluid and practiced, while Gladys leans against the counter, nursing a cup of coffee and watching Tabitha play with a set of wooden spoons on the linoleum floor. The divorce from Abner had been a logistical necessity, much like Samantha’s split from Darrin, but the shared house and the shared secrets have forged something far stronger than their previous lives ever promised.
A sudden, sharp *pop* echoes through the room, accompanied by a flurry of feathers and the smell of mothballs. Aunt Clara materializes in the center of the kitchen, her hat askew and several dozen doorknobs clattering to the floor.
"Oh, dear," Clara chirps, blinking through her thick spectacles. "I believe I’ve taken a wrong turn at the buffet."
"Aunt Clara!" Samantha says, a genuine smile breaking across her face despite the surprise. Out the window, the muffled shouts of Darrin and Abner drift in from the backyard; they are currently engrossed in a ritualistic game of touch football, oblivious to the magical guest.
Clara wanders toward the window, peering out at the gray Connecticut sky. "Thanksgiving... it always puts me in a sentimental mood. Did I ever tell you, Samantha, about the first one? 1621, or was it 1623? The corn was so much larger then, and the buckles were much shinier."
Gladys perks up, her eyes wide with the mix of trepidation and fascination she has worn since learning the truth about Samantha’s heritage. "You were actually there, Clara? At the first Thanksgiving?"
"Oh, yes, dear. It was quite a spread," Clara sighs, her fingers twitching as if she’s trying to catch a memory out of the air. "I’d give anything to see those bonnets again. They had such... structure."
Tabitha looks up from her spoons, her dark eyes sparkling. "Go see?" she chirps, her small hand reaching out toward her great-aunt.
The back door creaks open, and Tommy Becker, now eleven and lanky with a perpetual layer of dirt on his knees, trudges in. He is breathing hard, his face flushed from the backyard game. "I need water," he pants, heading straight for the sink. "Abbie's throwing spirals and Darrin’s acting like it’s the Super Bowl."
Clara, caught in the throes of a nostalgic fog, begins to gesture wildly with her cane. "It was just a simple little rhyme... something about the Mayflower and the power of the hour..."
"Aunt Clara, wait—" Samantha starts, sensing the erratic shift in the magical ley lines of the room.
But Clara is already chanting, her voice cracking with age and excitement. "Take us back to where the turkey is wild, and the pilgrims are mild! To the year of the feast, from the west to the east!"
A vacuum of blue light swallows the kitchen. The linoleum vanishes, replaced by the damp, biting chill of a Massachusetts November.
The group lands in a heap on a bed of dead leaves and frozen mud. The towering, ancient oaks of 1621 Plymouth loom over them like silent sentinels. The air is brutally cold, smelling of salt spray and untamed wilderness.
"Great Gruber's ghost," Gladys gasps, clutching her cardigan tight around her chest. She looks down at her floral-print dress, then at Tommy, who is still holding a plastic water glass and wearing a striped polo shirt. "Samantha, we are going to stand out like a sore thumb in a thimble factory!"
Samantha is already on her feet, her nose twitching with rapid-fire precision. With a shimmer of golden light, their attire transforms. Gladys finds herself encased in a heavy, charcoal-gray wool gown with a stiff white wimple that pinches her cheeks. Tommy’s polo becomes a coarse linen doublet and breeches, while Samantha and Aunt Clara are suddenly draped in the modest, layered robes of the era. Tabitha, tucked into Samantha’s hip, is bundled in a tiny, heavy cloak.
"There," Samantha whispers, her eyes scanning the nearby settlement. "We look like travelers from a neighboring colony. Clara, dear, try to remember the way home."
Clara is already distracted, poking at a stray turkey feather on the ground. "Was it 'hocus pocus' or 'focus crocus'?" she mutters.
As they wander toward the center of the settlement, the historical weight of the place settles over them. They find themselves swept into the periphery of a communal gathering. Large trestle tables are being laden with waterfowl and grain. Men with stern, weathered faces—Miles Standish and John Alden among them—discuss the season’s yield.
Gladys, however, isn't looking at the food. She pulls Samantha close, her voice a frantic whisper. "Sam, listen to them."
A group of men nearby is huddled together, their brows furrowed. "The winter is lean," one says, his hand resting on the hilt of a knife. "There is a darkness among us. Goody Proctor's milk soured in a day. We must be vigilant against the devil’s hand."
"They're talking about witches, Sam," Gladys says, her grip tightening on Samantha’s arm. "Real, 'burn-you-at-the-stake' talk. We need to go. Now."
Tommy, oblivious to the rising tension and bored by the adult hushed tones, wanders toward a pile of dry brush near one of the outdoor hearths. He reaches into his pocket—a habit of a boy who likes to be prepared—and pulls out a small box of matches he’d swiped from the Stephens' junk drawer earlier that morning.
"I can help start the fire," Tommy says brightly to a nearby settler named Phineas.
He strikes the match against the side of the box. A bright, chemical flare of sulfur and phosphorus bursts into life in the dim afternoon light. Phineas leaps back, his eyes bulging.
"Sorcery!" he bellows, his voice echoing across the clearing. "Fire from a stick! The boy brings the devil’s flame!"
Before Samantha can intervene, two men seize Tommy by the arms. The plastic water glass drops into the mud, a terrifying artifact of a future world.
"Wait! It's just a match!" Tommy cries, his voice cracking with prepubescent fear. "It’s science!"
The trial is held swiftly, right there in the shadow of the meeting house. The settlers gather in a grim circle, their faces etched with the hard lines of religious fervor. Tommy stands in the center, looking small and terrified in his oversized doublet.
"Explain this 'box of sticks'!" Phineas demands, pointing a trembling finger at the matchbox.
"It's just friction," Tommy tries to explain, his voice trembling. "There are chemicals on the end, and when you rub them fast, the heat makes them catch. It's not magic, it’s just... how it works!"
"He speaks in tongues of 'chemicals' and 'friction'!" another man cries. "No natural wood behaves thus. He is a vessel for the Forbidden!"
Samantha steps forward, her expression calm but her eyes burning with a protective fire. She places a steadying hand on Tommy’s shoulder. "Gentlemen, please," she says, her voice ringing with an authority that momentarily silences the crowd. "Does a bird fly by magic, or because God gave it wings and the wind provides the lift? If a man strikes flint against steel to make a spark, do you call him a wizard? Or do you call him a man who understands the nature of the earth?"
"Flint is of the earth!" Phineas spits. "This... this red-tipped wand is an abomination!"
Gladys, seeing the logic failing to penetrate their fear, steps up beside Samantha. She looks at the matchbox, then at Phineas, her Bronx-born grit overriding her Connecticut housewife nerves.
"You think this is the devil’s work?" Gladys challenges, snatching the box from the Elder’s hand. "If it’s the devil’s work, then only a servant of the dark would be able to make it function, right? A good, godly man would be protected from such evil."
She thrusts the box and a single match toward Phineas. "Go ahead, Phineas. Strike it. If you’re as holy as you say, surely the devil won’t answer to *you*."
The crowd falls into a deadly hush. Phineas looks at the match as if it were a viper. His pride, however, is a powerful motivator. He takes the match with trembling fingers and, with a quick, jagged motion, strikes it against the box.
Fwit. A steady, yellow flame blooms at the tip of the match, dancing in the cold Massachusetts breeze. Phineas nearly drops it, his face turning a ghostly shade of white. John Alden steps forward, his gaze moving from the flame to Phineas’s terrified face.
A slow, grim smile touches his lips. "It seems, Phineas, that the 'devil’s flame' obeys your command as readily as the lad's."
Phineas shakes the match out, his hand shaking.
"Well?" Alden says, his voice booming. "By your own logic, Phineas, you must now declare yourself a practitioner of the dark arts and join the boy in the stocks... or you must admit that this is merely a curious tool of which you were ignorant. Which shall it be?"
Phineas sputters, looking at the accusing glares of his neighbors. "I... I... the boy is no witch. It is a mere trifle. A toy."
"Then the charges are dropped," Alden declares.
Samantha exhales a breath she didn't know she was holding. She looks at Gladys, who gives her a subtle, triumphant wink. "Aunt Clara," Samantha whispers urgently. "Now would be an excellent time."
"Oh! Yes!" Clara exclaims, finally snapping her fingers. "I remembered! It wasn't 'focus crocus'... it was 'Morning Glory, end this story!'"
The blue light returns, warmer this time. The smell of the wilderness fades, replaced by the heavenly, domestic scent of a butter-basted turkey and the distant, muffled sound of Darrin shouting about a touchdown. They land back in the kitchen, the linoleum cool beneath their feet. Tommy immediately heads back to the sink, filling a fresh glass of water as if nothing had happened.
"I'm never going back there," he mumbles between gulps. "The food looked terrible anyway."
Gladys leans against Samantha, the heavy wool of the pilgrim dress melting back into her comfortable housecoat. "You know, Sam," she says, watching Clara try to put a doorknob back on the pantry. "I think I prefer the twentieth century. Even with the taxes."
Samantha smiles, pulling Gladys close. "Me too, Gladys. Me too."