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She breathes in his warmth, his familiar scent. Joseph is her husband, the head of her house, as Christ is head of the church, and she owes him loving obedience. She must trust him. Though she sleeps little, she says no more that night.
    •   •   •
    T he sun is rising as Mary follows her husband into the yard the next morning. Joss has brought the bay mare from the barn and is stroking her neck. Elizabeth’s husband, Henry, is alreadymounted on his black gelding. A sudden gust of wind sweeps down from the ridge behind the house, and Mary shivers, for it is plainly an ill omen. She sees Joseph glance at her, and forces a smile of encouragement. She does not want him to discern that her bodily humors have turned to vinegar.
    Elizabeth comes out of the house and goes at once to Henry, who is shivering in his thin uniform. Mary sees that Joseph, too, is shivering—though with cold or excitement, she cannot tell. She takes his hand, but fleetingly, for the journey to Boston is long and grueling, and he and Henry must ride in daylight because of the Indian menace. He mounts the mare.
    “Godspeed you,” Mary manages to say, shielding her eyes against the brightening sky so that she can make out his features.
    “We will return before the week is out,” he promises, leaning down. “The Lord will keep you. Trust in His mercy.”
    She nods, accepting his instruction, knowing he means to comfort her. Yet, as the men guide their horses up the bank and into the lane, Mary has the evil thought that she will never again see her husband alive. She feels a wave of self-pity that she fears will dribble out of her all day in small, bitter drops.



CHAPTER FOUR
    For four days Lancaster waits for Joseph and Henry to return with soldiers, but no word comes from Boston. The women and children keep to the house. Mary goes about her duties with the other women, tending the fire, scrubbing floors, washing clothes, watching over the children, preparing food. They make porridges of dried peas and beans, stews of boiled parsnips and ham, loaves of bannock bread and pans and pans of biscuits. There are so many in the garrison that they have to set two boards at midday. Everyone eats quickly from common trenchers; even the children are subdued.
    Mary minds her own children vigilantly, keeping a singular eye on six-year-old Sarah. Marie is now ten, sturdy and obedient, stalwart as her father. Joss is two years older, rangy and impulsive, desperately needing to be put to work. There is never enough for him to do in this confined space. Mary often sets him to cutting firewood at the back door, yet his liveliness is never sated.
    Each night, after their day’s labors are done and the children asleep, the women sit together while the fire burns down. Theymend and knit and talk of their fears. On the third night, Priscilla Roper says something that turns Mary’s blood to ice.
    “Do you not suspicion,” Priscilla says, “that Bess Parker’s sin has brought this menace upon our town?”
    Elizabeth speaks before Mary is able to collect her tumbling thoughts. “Has not Bess gone to Salem these many months now? We cannot fault her for our present trials.”
    “But her father still lives among us,” Priscilla says. “It is said he has turned to witchcraft.”
    “It has not been proven against him,” Mary says sharply. “He has simply done what anyone would do—seek to protect his child and grandchild.”
    Priscilla casts a skeptical glance. “When was he last at worship? When did he last sit at the Lord’s table?”
    “I know not,” Mary says. “But his absence does not make him a witch.”
    “Perhaps not, but we dare not ignore the signs.”
    Mary wants to say that they have long ignored signs of injustice and intolerance, but she holds her tongue. Such talk will only set her against her neighbors and sisters, and no woman in a frontier town can afford such disaffection. They depend on one another for their very lives—especially