Circe and Levi were busy from sunup to sundown which was fortunate. Excessive work was the perfect excuse not to mix with the community. Placing a high value on an industrious attitude, the Puritans did not find fault with Circe when she said she must finish her tasks rather than attend social occasions.

The only person who persistently sought her attention was a man by the name of Ezra Cheeseborough, a middle-aged widower who lived opposite the shop.

“Good day to you!” he called, one morning shortly after she had arrived.

Circe was just returning from market.

He bound across the muddy street and up the steps of the weaving room. He was a big-boned man with a ruddy face and sandy colored hair. His bug eyes were a sickly blue and bloodshot. “God has granted us an exceptional day, has he not?”

“He has indeed.”

“My name is Cheeseborough. I have the chandler shop at the end of the street but my lodgings are directly across from you.”

“I am Mistress Swinburne. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. Now, if you will excuse me, my loom awaits.”

“I see candlelight in your weaving room long before the sun rises each day. The Good Lord does not want you to work quite so slavishly. I must insist that you come have a cup of tea with me and rest your bones for a while today.”

“I fear I cannot. Thank you,” she replied, starting in the door.

“Well, at the very least, allow me to see your weaving room,” he said, following her inside the shop.

Levi looked up with surprise and Circe rolled her eyes.

“And you are?” Cheeseborough asked.

“This is my nephew, Levi Morgan.”

Cheeseborough did not bother to look at the shop; he was interested in Circe, not her occupation. “How is it a woman is all alone here in Boston?”

“Sir, I am not alone,” she replied, gesturing to Levi.

“Allow me to rephrase it. How is it you are in business without a husband?”

“I am a widow. My husband died on the crossing, and my father-in-law leased this building for me.”

“Oh dear, my condolences. I too am bereaved. I lost my wife several months ago.”

This is unfortunate, Circe thought. She did not need a nosy neighbor or a suitor.

He ran his eyes over her boldly.

She said tersely, “I must insist on returning to my work now, Mr. Cheeseborough.”

He sighed. “Very well. You know where to find me if you are ever in need of candles, soap, or anything at all. I, for one, will be watching from across the street and awaiting another glimpse of you.”

Oh, lovely, she thought.

*                   *                     *

Ezra Cheeseborough returned on a regular basis as well as several other men who showed interest in courting Circe. This was a problem she had not anticipated, and it worried her that it may compromise her safety. Her cool attitude toward these men seemed only to fuel their desire.

It also started her thinking about her future. One evening, in particular, it nagged her. She sat for over an hour in front of the fire wondering what was wrong with her. She had been content until now. Her entire life she had been driven by her love of spinning, weaving and her bonds with the earth.  She had enjoyed her liaisons with Alwyn Charles, but still she had never loved him. She had not longed for that deep affection she saw between Ruith and Bullfrog until now. And it all had changed when Dante looked down at her and told her that he would take care of her.

All her life she had been independent. In fact, the thought of a man protecting her had always sounded like silly girl talk, but something stirred deep within her when he said those words.

Of course, De la Rosa was not the man for her, but Circe began to wonder if she should eventually consider a serious love. She chuckled. How odd that outsider would be the stimulus for change. He held absolutely no appeal for her. To start, he was her complete opposite. He was gloomy, cynical, and self-serving. His past was of a questionable nature and he was a wanderer. Although attractive, tall and firmly built, he was an outspoken, and bossy Spanish Moor. He was far from her strapping Norse god.

She sat back and sighed. That settled it. When she returned to Glendower, she would consider falling in love, but not now and certainly not with that damn fool apothecary. 

*                *                 *

“Yes, Goodwife,” the boy on the street said to Circe. “The ship from Portsmouth arrived this morning.”

Moments later, the broadcloth quilt was hanging on the railing.

It was an ideal day to meet with the new arrivals. The weather was fair, and Circe had no appointments. Of course, there was always the threat of walk-in customers but that was unavoidable.

Late in the morning, two men came into the weaving room. It was a father and son. The elder was a distinguished gentleman with gray hair and a full beard. His son was a younger version with dark hair.  Dressed as locals, they quietly introduced themselves as Thomas and Benjamin Hornsby, followers of the Goddess.

“How many will I be escorting?” Circe asked.

“There be seventeen in our party,” the father said.

Circe raised her eyebrows. “More than we thought.”

“England and Wales have become very dangerous places indeed. More are leaving every day.”

“Very well. We will leave shortly after nightfall. Levi and I must move under the cover of darkness. It would raise questions if we were seen regularly escorting people off the ship and out of town.”

“Understood, Widow Swinburne.”

That evening, after loading their belongings onto the two wagons, Circe and Levi escorted the group out to Dr. Lumpkin’s residence. Most of them were on foot but the small children rode in the wagons along with one woman to supervise them.

A woman Circe’s age climbed up beside her onto the driver’s seat. Even in the dim light of the wharf, she could see her beauty. She was breathtaking in spite of her somber Puritan dress. Her heart-shaped face was framed by  thick blonde hair, and dark lashes outlined her eyes which turned up slightly at the corners. When she smiled, she had a tiny part in her front teeth that was unusual and pleasing. She was holding a toddler.

“Welcome to Boston,” Circe said.

“Thank you for helping us settle into our new home,” the woman replied.

“Is this your daughter?” Circe asked, snapping the reins.

“No, she is Mr. Hornsby’s offspring. I am a widow with no children. My name is Constance Griffin. I am guessing you know my father, Arch Derwydd Rhys.”

Circe sat up straight. “Indeed, I do.”

“He is well?”

“He fares well. But why did he not inform me of your crossing?”

“There was no time to send a letter. Robert left me penniless, so I seek refuge now with my father.”

“It will give him great joy seeing you. Ever since--” and Circe stopped.

“Fear not,” Constance said, touching her hand. “I know about the death of my stepmother. Has he been lonely?”

“I believe so. Your arrival will be welcome news.”

“Do you have some way of informing him that I am here?”

“Yes, someone comes up weekly from Glendower to check on us. I will send word then. Would you prefer staying with us while you wait?”

Constance shook her head. “Thank you, but I’ll stay with the others. These good people need help.”

They drove past the quayside taverns and turned up the hill into the residential area. Levi was behind Circe in his wagon. Although it was not late, almost everyone in town had retired for the night.

The journey was slow. The roads were muddy after several days of rain, but at last, they arrived. Candlelight was flickering in Dante’s workshop when they pulled up to the door. He dashed over and helped Constance down from the wagon. Circe chuckled. He would not have been so solicitous if Mistress Griffin had been rotund and unattractive.

After helping everyone settle in, Circe approached the elder Mr. Hornsby and asked, “Is there anything else you need from us tonight?”

“You have given us the moon and stars, Widow Swinburne. That is quite enough. The rest is up to us.”

“Well then good night,” she replied.

“Good night.”

When she turned to ask Dante if he needed anything, he was leaning jauntily against a wall, talking with Constance.

He glanced up, waved her off and said, “Nothing more, Widow Swinburne.”

Gritting her teeth, Circe left.

*                  *                    *

For several days, Dante went downriver to the building site to work with the settlers. He was interested in Constance Griffin. Yet, he lost interest after a few days. He could not bring himself to take the flirtation further.

There was no question that Constance Griffin was alluring. She was completely disarming with her smooth, low voice, huge breasts, and unusual smile. And when she discarded her coif, she was stunning. Her saffron-colored hair fell around her shoulders like a cloak of pale gold.

So initially, Dante was dazzled; but, the glow soon faded. It was Circe’s fiery, red hair that truly inflamed him. He longed to wrap his fingers in her tresses, yank her head back and run his lips down her neck. She was the one he wanted.

He knew now that he had been flirting with Cedric’s daughter that first night to make Circe jealous. The way she stomped from the cottage made him smile. Dante knew then that she had feelings for him, and this pleased him immensely. But he must keep his distance. He could not let any woman into his heart. He saw how a great love almost destroyed his father.

Over and over, he tried to distract himself with thoughts of tumbling Constance, but instead, Circe would creep into his mind. He would think of running his hands over her breasts, tasting her skin and smelling her hair. Then, the familiar surge of heat would build.

Perhaps it was only lust. God’s bones! There was the solution! If he bedded Circe, maybe he could, at last, be done with her. He would tumble her as soon as possible. But how would he do it? It was going to be difficult. She was no easy mark. But, ah, the thrill of the chase!

*                *                 *

Less than a fortnight after the arrival of his daughter, Cedric came to Boston. “Please come in and have something to eat before you continue your journey,” Circe said to the Arch Derwydd.

“No, thank you. As you can imagine, I am most anxious to see Constance.” He took his hat off and stepped into the shop. “I’ll only be a moment.”

As she shut the door, Circe could see Ezra Cheeseborough on the street craning his neck at Cedric.

“There is something I would like to discuss with you,” Cedric said.

“Of course,” she replied.

The clacking of the loom was loud as Levi worked, so they stepped into her sitting room.

“I have word that there are many more followers of the Goddess coming to the New World, many more than we ever thought possible. I think that it is time you and Dante find the third thin place.”

Circe’s jaw dropped. “Why will they seek refuge here if the witch hunter is coming?”

“We don’t know that for sure, Circe.”

“I see.”

“I think we have to plan for a flood of arrivals. And it will take time. Land needs to be cleared and then rafts need to be built to transport newcomers. And, most importantly, we must create our ring of protection around the new building site. It is an extended process.”

“I understand. Very well, Arch Derwydd.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. It was apparent it had been weighing on his mind. He started back through the shop.

“What news do you have of home?” she asked.

“Oh, I brought this for you,” he replied, handing her a letter from her father. A letter came from home every few weeks. Circe sighed after reading it. Saffir and her father were busy with Derwydd responsibilities. The children were growing, while Ruith and Bullfrog were happily married. Life went on in Glendower without her. The homesickness enveloped her once more.

*                *                 *

One morning, Circe saddled a mare and rode out to Dr. Lumpkin’s residence. He did not answer, so she rode down to the apothecary shop.

She saw Dante through the window, bent over a table turning pages in a book. There was a mortar and a pestle nearby, and he was holding a quill.

When she knocked, she heard him groan. He opened the door and roared, “What!”

“I suppose in Spain they would interpret your bad manners as passion,” she said, stepping inside the shop.

Dante returned to his worktable. “No, they would call it aggravation. What do you want, Mistress Swinburne?”

“Cedric told me that it was time for us to find the third thin place.”

“Oh, and I am to drop everything and go in search of it because now is convenient for you?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her a moment and then started to laugh. “Very well,” he said and threw the quill down.

Circe climbed into the loft and changed from her Puritan dress into a loose gown. After putting the lids on crocks and washing his hands, Dante took out his linen map and Circe added her mask.

“Here are the two sites we have identified,” Circe said.

“And here is the third.” Dante pointed to one of the amber marks. “We continue to follow the river.”

“Yes, but it is quite vague where to stop. We will have to rely on our intuition,” she added.

Dante nodded and rolled up the linens. He reached for his jacket hanging on the wall and stopped. “It is quite warm today, so shirtsleeves only.”

“I brought bread and cheese for us and mead too,” Circe said, gesturing to a bag she carried on her back.

“Give that to me,” he said, pulling it off her shoulder. After swallowing some mead, he slung the pack over his back, and then they got started.

When they reached the deer path along the river, he asked, “Are you are a fair cook, Circe Swinburne?”

“Fair at best,” she replied.

“I want you to cook a meal for me someday.”

“Oh really?” she said, picking up her skirts and stepping over a log. “Why can’t you cook for me?”

“You would not want that.”

It was indeed a warm day and Circe discarded her coif, allowing her hair to tumble around her shoulders. She also removed her shoes so she could feel the earth under her feet as they searched. Looking up at the clear azure sky, she said, “Isn’t it beautiful out here?”

Dante did not reply.

It was late afternoon by the time they found the correct stream to follow. It wound its way back, deep into the virgin forests of what the Separatists called the abomination.

As they walked, Circe started to hum. She did not realize she was doing it until Dante said, “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Humming.”

“Why?”

“Happy people are annoying.”

She started to laugh. “Dante De la Rosa, you are the most unusual man I have ever met.”

He shrugged.

She continued to hum, wondering if perhaps Ruith had been right. She had said months ago that Dante’s gruff attitude and brusque demeanor disguised a tender heart. At the time, Circe had scoffed at her assessment, but now she was wondering if it was true.

She ran her hands over the tall grasses and inhaled deeply. Summer was upon them and everything was in full bloom. Wildflowers crowded the meadows with yellow, white and purple blossoms. The leaves were thick on the trees, and when they turned briefly into the woods, they were plunged into a lush, green darkness. The underbrush snagged Circe’s skirts, but she did not care. It was thrilling feeling the pulse of the earth again, listening to the birdsong once more and the water bubbling in the stream. Her senses were alive, and she knew now she had been asleep these past months.

Occasionally they would stop, reference the linen map and discuss their course. Dante now had taken the lead, and Circe stared at his back. She could see the muscles through his thin linen shirt and his black hair hanging in thick tangles around his shoulders. She looked away. She needed to focus on her search for a thin place.

Several times they had to retrace their steps. Round and round they went until they were heading back in the direction of Lumpkin’s home. They crossed a meadow and briefly followed an old Indian trail. Speaking little, they allowed their intuition to set their course.

The sun was setting, and the light was growing dim. Circe could feel something stirring deep inside, and her anticipation was beginning to build.

Dante slowed his pace. Suddenly he turned and followed a deer path into the woods. When Circe followed him into the dusky grove, she began to feel light-headed. Colors seemed brighter in spite of the twilight. The sound of crickets filled her ears, and a feeling of exuberance washed over her. Rounding a bend, a lake opened up before their eyes. The water was motionless, reflecting the last golden rays of the sun. The view was breathtaking.

Dante turned and faced her. “Can you feel it? This is it.”

“I agree.”

“Give me your hands. We must be sure.”

Circe stepped up and they joined hands. At once, like the rush of a river, they felt a surge of energy move up from the earth and into their bodies. It raised their arms until they were reaching for the sky. Although Circe needed to catch her breath she was powerless to step away; the vitality was so great. Like a vortex, the energy began to swirl around them.

Dante looked down at her and she returned his gaze. Suddenly, he wrenched his hands away and clutched her waist. She shuddered.

Pulling her close, Dante pushed the hair from her neck and ran his lips along her skin. He raised her face and kissed her mouth. A thrill passed through her she had never felt. Sensing her excitement, Dante caressed her with more urgency.  The heat of his skin was intoxicating. She arched her back, pushing her breasts up against him. His passion growing, Dante twisted his fingers in her hair pulling her head back so he could kiss her more deeply.

But Circe jumped away when he began to push the shoulders down on her gown. As if she had just tumbled to earth and hit the ground, the energy stopped and she was jolted back to reality.

Panting, she pushed the hair from her face and said, “What are we doing?”

“What do you mean?” Dante asked. He was covered with perspiration and looked confused.

“This--this place,” she stammered. “I know not what came over us. It is indeed enchanted here. I would never have…”

“Never what?”

Circe laughed uncomfortably. “Well, with you? Really, Mr. De la Rosa. You are not--”

A look of pain passed over his face, but Circe did not see it. “Yes,” he snapped. “I am not the type of man for you and I agree. You are not the woman for me.”

Running his fingers impatiently through his hair, he started down the path toward home. Over his shoulder, he said, “My apologies. It was the power of this place, nothing more.”