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not all, Africans or Indians—sat in a knot at the back of the room.
    “The Lord sorrows at the folly of His children,” Peter said with a sigh.
    James didn’t know which of the many curiosities had aroused the Indian’s pique, and he didn’t care. Instead of questioning the man, he found a place directly across the aisle from Goodwife Stone and her daughters and forced his way in. There were already men there, but he urged them aside. They complied with some grumbling.
    Reverend Stone stood at the pulpit. He was dressed no differently from his parishioners. The man watched James and Peter until they’d settled in, then nodded to the deacon, who closed and barred the doors against further entry.
    Stone prayed with the congregation, then called up the deacon. This was a young man in his midtwenties, about the same age as James, but he carried himself with a stiff air like one much older. James pegged him as a self-important windbag. The members sat up a little straighter, and the children stopped fidgeting and whispering. Something interesting was about to happen.
    Now that their attention was gathered up front, James no longer faced the surreptitious glances of half the assembly, and he took the opportunity to look around. Lucy Branch and her sister sat with several other servant girls a few rows behind and to the side. She stared at the deacon and licked her lips as if nervous.
    He scrutinized Goodwife Stone and her family. A younger woman sat to the left of the goodwife, one of the Stone toddlers on her lap, her finger in the child’s mouth to pacify him. On first glance, James had taken her for a servant, but now he was less certain. Who was she? Too young to be a sister. Too old to be one of the Stone daughters.
    She turned her face slightly, and James got a better view. It was the beautiful young woman with the raven curls who had appeared with Lucy’s sister yesterday when James and Peter first arrived. Of course. That was Widow Cotton. She had to be.
    The deacon cleared his throat. “Goodman Miller, please rise.”
    A man rose from the congregation. Across the aisle from him, a woman looked down at her lap. Half a dozen children with her gaped across at what could only be their father.
    “You were reported drunk last Tuesday. Have you anything to say for yourself?”
    “No, Deacon. I was weak and fell into error.”
    “Two hours in the pillory.” A note of triumph in the deacon’s voice. “Goodwife Brockett. Rise.”
    A woman rose, but, unlike Goodman Miller, she seemed confused as she looked across at her husband. The man stared back at her, brow furrowed and worried.
    “You are accused of idle gossip.”
    James suppressed a snort. Gossip? May as well pillory every woman in the building.
    “What gossip, Deacon?” Goodwife Brockett asked.
    “About a stolen chicken. You know the incident and the conversation. It was reported by two other women.”
    “Goody Thompson and Goody Hooper? But they were a party to the conversation.”
    “Aye, but they confessed. You didn’t. You are being called to stand, apparently without contrition. Twenty lashes.”
    “Twenty lashes? Twenty? ”
    Reverend Stone was standing behind the deacon’s shoulder. He’d winced visibly at the pronouncement, but now he said, “Goodwife Brockett, are you disputing the punishment or the accusation itself?”
    For a moment it looked as though she would argue. Then she bowed her head. “I accept the punishment, and beg forgiveness for my error.”
    Twenty lashes for gossiping about a chicken? Heaven forbid it had been a cow; they’d have given her the gallows!
    James shot a glance at Peter to see if any of this was inspiring the Quaker to disrupt the meeting, but Peter only wore a neutral expression, none of the glowing fervor that James had seen on board, indicating that the inward light—or whatever it was called—was working its power.
    There were five more accusations. One man, a widower, was accused of improper advances