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her shoulder. “Don’t be angry. I know what you’ve lost. The Lord has blessed me beyond measure, but even I lost two little ones to the pox. I ache for them every day. But don’t let the loss of one child keep you from the blessings of many.”
    “This is different. Mary is still alive.”
    Anne started to say something else, but the stairs creaked. Reverend Stone appeared on the other side of the room.
    “What is this? Why aren’t you in bed?”
    Prudence couldn’t answer that without lying, so she shut her mouth and braced herself for another interrogation.
    “Prudie couldn’t sleep,” Anne said with scarcely a second of hesitation. “She’s troubled by thoughts of the war. I heard her and came to offer comfort.”
    “Very well, but it’s cold down here, and we rise early for the Sabbath. To bed, both of you.”
    He turned and creaked his way back up the stairs. Anne kissed Prudence’s forehead. “Time for bed, little sister.”
    The younger woman followed, shock warring with elation that her sister had lied to her husband to keep Prudence’s secret.

C HAPTER F OUR
    James stood in front of the meetinghouse with his cloak held tight against the cold, but his hood swept back so he could get a full view of the people filing in through the wide wooden doors. He leaned against the pillory—empty, of course, because of the Sabbath. Next to it were stocks and a whipping post. A few blocks away, the town bell rang solemnly through the cold morning air, calling people to services.
    A sober crowd filed past. Men and women with hoods, wool caps, felted hats, and heavy overcoats made their way through the wide wooden doors into the meetinghouse. And children. So many children. They carried muffs and wore thick mittens, with almost every inch covered.
    The men, women, and children gawked at the two strangers by the door. They stared especially hard at the Indian.
    It was a prompt crowd, and shortly the steady stream of people had ended, save for a few stragglers. The deacon at the door gave them a look. James held up a finger to urge patience.
    “That was a spectacle thou madest of us,” Peter said as the deacon turned away.
    “I’m an agent of the Crown. I won’t skulk around in secret.”
    “Purposefully courting danger, ’twould seem. Especially for me.”
    “A risk you accepted when I hired you. Too late for regrets now.”
    “Nay, I have no regrets. But I cannot help but feel trepidation as I enter the house of mine enemy.”
    “Fatalistic nonsense,” James said, but good-naturedly. “You won’t be murdered in church.”
    “Art thou ready to enter?”
    “One moment.”
    The Third Church meetinghouse sat on a hillock overlooking the Boston Harbor. It was a simple square box, with only its greater size and the modest steeple setting it apart from the dozens of block-shaped houses around it. A road cut down the hillside toward the harbor, where dozens of ships swayed against a brutal wind that knifed off the North Atlantic. The Charles River flowed to the northwest, bisecting fields and pasture. A narrow neck held Boston itself off from the mainland, which from this height and distance presented a vast forest, broken here and there by small villages.
    James studied the last few people entering the meetinghouse. He’d spotted several of the other men who had confronted them yesterday at the wharves, but no Samuel Knapp. He must belong to another parish, unless he’d arrived early.
    James and Peter entered to find the members crowding the pews. The women and young children sat together on one side of the chapel, the men and boys on the other. The better sort of men sat up front, including several tall fellows with flowing hair and clothing that was a little neater, a little newer. Magistrates, merchants, and deputies. Members of the General Court. Many servants stayed together, while others sat with their respective masters and mistresses. A dozen or so slaves and indentured servants—mostly, but