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further. “ Priest often reminds me to give thanks after making a kill in the wood, do the creature honor as they make their journey on the spirit path.”
    “You speak of slaying beasts, Rebecca,” says Sarah. “You have never murdered.”
    “I would, if need be.” I release my hold on her and rise to leave. Dizzied by the hunger pain, I struggle to keep my balance as I stand. “Man or beast, all have a spirit, sister. You believe you killed Hecate. I say you freed the spirit of Abigail Williams.”
    Sarah does not reach for me again. She looks up from the fire, her face pale and tired. “And who will free me of my pain, sweet sister? You?”
    I sneer. “Priest would rage to hear you speak such nonsense.”
    “His anger would please me greatly.” Sarah scoffs. “A welcome change from the damnable silence he shields himself with.”
    “You loved that about him once,” I chide her.
    She smiles at that—a sight to warm my soul.
    It vanishes too soon.
    “Did you know Mother once told me our father changed his evil ways after taking her to wife?” Sarah asks.
    “Aye,” I say. “You have mentioned it.”
    Sarah nods. “Mother said he put aside his Salem sins and became a godly man. The man we knew as Paul Kelly.”
    Sarah fiddles with a bit of leather, and I wonder what catches on her tongue that she cannot speak on it.
    “Mother said she had nothing to offer him but forgiveness and that he took on gladly. Such a noble act from them both, no?” Sarah looks on me as if for approval. “For he to change and her to forgive…”
    I ache for her hurting, though wishing to understand her meaning better. I keep my silence, watching Sarah wipe the corners of her eyes.
    “I have offered my own husband forgiveness and more.” Her chin dips. “Yet he will not accept it.”
    “Perhaps he cannot.” I venture. “Or mayhap he feels no regret for the things he has done.”
    I do not tell my sister that I only argue thusly because I have no regrets. Still, I wonder what Father did to make my sister speak plain with such offerings of forgiveness.
    She does not answer my argument quickly. Her gaze returns to the fire, eyes widening at its brightness.
    “He does,” she says. “My husband regrets, though he will not speak if I be one of them.”
    I step closer. “How can you claim such things, sister? No one can know the inner thoughts of another.”
    “He spoke them one night.” Sarah’s voice deepens. “He and George, aye, and Andrew Martin also. They had all drunk so deep of the firewater to make my husband sleep, though his restlessness kept me awake. He cried out, aye, howl be a better term for it, in such a manner to haunt my dreams from that night to this. And at the last, still deep in his torment, Priest uttered but a single word… mercy. ”
    A shiver runs down my spine. “What pain could have caused him to cry out thusly?”
    “I know not,” says Sarah. “He would not say the following morn, or any morn after. I half believe he hoped I would forget the matter.”
    Though I make no claim against her, I know in my soul Father would never expect such a thing. My sister forgets nothing.
    “Can you believe I thought to learn his secrets when first he and I met so long ago?” Sarah asks, shaking her head. “But he and his silence are one. Nothing penetrates it. Not even a wife’s love.”
    “If Priest were not content with you, he would leave,” I say.
    “And so he does,” says Sarah, her eyebrows raised. “Into the woods with you, or else warring on other tribes. The Black Pilgrim has no time for a wife.”
    “Do not twist my words.” I fight to keep the anger inside me. “You knew my meaning. Either of you may leave the other if and when you see fit. No law binds you and he together.”
    “Duty binds him to me,” Sarah says. “Nothing more.”
    “Then think what ill you will of him,” I say, standing. “I know otherwise.”
    “You claim to know my husband better than I?” Sarah