“But I have to do this,” Dante said to Dr. Lumpkin.

“Do not risk it, my boy,” he replied with a frown.

It was midday, and the two were in the carriage seeing patients. Winter always brought illness, and Dr. Lumpkin needed extra help from Dante.

“Your knowledge and skill as an apothecary are without equal. You have talents that border on the occult, but you must hide your light under a bushel basket during your time here. You cannot draw attention to yourself, especially while Duncan is in the colony.”

Dante shook his head vigorously. “And let people hang? I cannot allow such a thing to happen. I tested and retested the bread those people were eating in Folkstone. There is no question that it is tainted with the fungus of St. Anthony’s Fire. Magic did not cause their illness.”

“Can it induce such bizarre behavior? They have been writhing and screaming, seeing demons and all manner of creatures.”

“Yes, in Alsace a hundred years ago, people ingested bread tainted with it; then, they danced for days and many died. Now it is happening again and Folkstone villagers are saying that witches cause it.”

Dr. Lumpkin shook his head and pulled up his collar. The conversation was chilling him along with the cold wind. “I heard that Duncan was there today interviewing the afflicted. They are giving him names.”

“That is why I must bring my findings to his attention,” Dante said, slapping his knees. “Or many will die.”

“He is no man of science. He will not believe you.”

Dante clenched his teeth and looked away. His mind was made up. He was going to speak with the Witchfinder General.

Dante walked at once to his shop when they returned to the house. He had to meet one of the local residents who was picking up powder for a headache. He was there only a few moments when someone knocked.

“Come in, Mr. Huxley.”

The door opened, and a large-framed man with thick black hair and red-rimmed eyes stepped inside the shop.

“Sit down,” Dante said, nodding to a chair. “I’ll be just a moment.”

Huxley remained standing, watching Dante sullenly.

Dante, who was busy grinding powder, glanced up at him. “Or stand,” he said with a shrug.

Still the man did not respond.

Dante chuckled and shook his head. He continued mixing the remedy adding pinches of dried herbs and berries, intent on his work.

But a prickly feeling moved up his spine when he turned to the cupboard. Huxley was behind him. He yanked the cupboard door open with all his might, and Huxley’s hand slammed into it. A knife fell to the floor.

Dante turned and crouched down with his arms out, ready for a fight. It was happening again. Someone was trying to kill him. Huxley picked up the knife and they circled each other. Dante knew he was no match for the meaty giant, so he tried to dodge away; it was too late. Huxley drove the blade deep into his ribs. Dante staggered back with a gasp, but with sudden strength, he turned the apothecary table over. Crocks and jars crashed everywhere. Huxley kicked the debris aside and backed him into the larder.

His heart hammering, Dante scanned the shelves. Picking up a jar of lye, he threw the contents into Huxley’s face. The man roared and dropped the knife, covering his eyes. Dante picked up a bottle, smashed it on a shelf and drove the broken end into Huxley’s neck. The giant dropped to his knees, blood pumping through his fingers.

Stunned, Dante stumbled around him and out of the shop heading to Dr. Lumpkin’s house. His red blood colored the snow. Dressed in only a thin shirt, the wind took his breath away. Bile rose in his throat, and he stopped to retch. When he finally got to the door, everything started spinning. Stumbling inside, he swayed, knocked over an entry table and fell to the floor. Lumpkin was kneeling over him when he regained consciousness.

“How did this happen?” Lumpkin exclaimed, his hands trembling.

“A fight. Huxley—he’s dead,” Dante mumbled.

Everything went black again.

When he opened his eyes once more, he was sprawled out on a rug in front of the fire.

“Sorry, my boy. Couldn’t lift you,” Lumpkin said, waddling into the room. “You’ve lost a great deal of blood and have been unconscious for over an hour.”

Dante blinked and tried to speak.

“Here, drink,” he ordered, putting a flagon to his lips and holding his head. “The knife hit no organs, so you will mend. But it is the poisoning of the blood that worries me.”

Dante nodded. Finding his voice, he asked. “Did you go down to the shop?”

“I did with my coat pistol. A dreadful mess; everything broken and blood everywhere but no Huxley.”

Dante’s jaw dropped. “Did you look outside?”

“Yes, I even looked for a trail of blood but all I saw was yours coming to the house.”

Dante sighed and dropped back. “He must have had help. Someone wants me dead, Dr. Lumpkin. This is the second time this month.”

Lumpkin’s eyebrows shot up. “Surely you jest!” he exclaimed. “Why did you not tell me?”

Dante closed his eyes and shook his head.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this when you get your strength back,” he said, walking to the door. “In the meantime, I’ll make sure the house is locked up and my firearms are in order.”

*                    *                    *

When Circe returned to Boston, one of the first things she did was ride out to see Dante. Levi accompanied her, even though the road was well-traveled. No one traveled alone during the hostilities with the Indians. Levi would visit the new settlement and pick her up on his return.

Circe’s first stop was at the Lumpkin residence. She didn’t want anyone to know yet of her relationship with Dante so she made it look like she was merely paying a call. When there was no answer at the house, she started for the shop.

A window opened upstairs and Dante leaned outside. He was in his nightshirt and his hair was in tangles. “Wait!” he called. “I’ll open the door.”

When he came down, she was stunned. His swarthy skin was pale and his smile, usually so cavalier, was weak. His shirt was tucked haphazardly into his breeches, and he was barefoot. “Were you sleeping?” she asked.

“Come here, pequeño,” he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her. “It has been too long.”

Circe leaned back and ran her eyes over him. “Are you ill?”

“Not exactly. Here, help me upstairs and then I’ll tell you,” he said, putting his arm over her shoulders. Slowly they climbed up to his room, Circe eyeing him suspiciously.

Dante dropped onto the bed. “Why Lumpkin bothers to lock the door is beyond me. That won’t stop them,” he said with a sigh.

“What do you mean?”

“Someone attacked me in the shop a few days after you left. He stabbed me in the ribs.”

“Dante!” she cried, looking at his torso.

“I’m fine. Lumpkin says it’s healing well.”

“What happened? Did you know this man?”

“Vaguely. He lived at the taverns more than he did at his shack. I think someone hired him.”

“So the attack in the alley a few weeks ago was not random?”

“No.”

She searched his face, anxiety twisting her stomach. “Why would someone want to kill you?”

The door slammed and someone came up the stairs. Dr. Lumpkin appeared at the door.

“Do you have any idea why someone would want Dante dead?” Circe asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes, I think has to do with his recent discovery.”

“I told you that is not it,” Dante said irritably. He winced and dropped back onto the pillow. “The first attack was well before my discovery.”

“What discovery?”

Dante told her.

“And he is taking it to Duncan,” Dr. Lumpkin added, shaking his head and walking out of the room.

Circe exclaimed, “No, you are not!”

Dante’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not?” he said, sarcastically.

She jumped up and started to pace, tears filling her eyes. “First Ruith and now you.”

“What’s wrong with Ruith?”

“She is growing weaker every day. I believe this Duncan is sapping her strength. And as for you,” she said with a frown. “If you go to the Witchfinder General, he’ll hang you.”

He chuckled. “You sound like Arch Derwydd Rhys. Even he has been here arguing against it, more adamantly than you. How have I survived all these years without the three of you giving me advice?”

“You have barely survived. And you have the scars to prove it. It’s just—it’s just that I don’t want to lose you.”

He searched her eyes a moment and then reached up pushing her frown into a smile. “I like you better this way,” he said.

She started to laugh and slapped his hand.

“And even better this way,” he added, pushing her lips together into a pucker. He pulled her down, kissed her and asked, “Would you really miss me, pequeño?”

She nodded.

“That pleases me.”

“You know, I am feeling better,” he murmured, running his hand over her breast.

“Absolutely not,” she said, jumping up. “I am not finished talking with you yet.”

Try as she might though, Circe could not convince Dante to reconsider. A new voice began to whisper in her ear as she rode home that evening. “The answer is with you. It has been with you all along,” She had to listen to it several times before she recognized it. It was a voice she had not heard in many years. It was the voice of her Aunt Faye.

*                    *                    *

Dante dressed and rode into Boston after several stiff drinks to kill the pain. Time was of the essence. As he rode to Reverend Fawcett’s home in Boston, he noticed small apotropaic marks carved in the frame of almost every door. They were to ward off witches. The first one was an overlapping double V. It stood for Virgo Virginum; the Virgin Mary, and he chuckled. They must be desperate. That symbol is Catholic. But most houses had interlocking circles scratched into the wood or straight lines.

He climbed the steps to Reverend Fawcett’s home and knocked. A female slave answered.

“May I speak with Mr. Duncan, please?”

“They are dining, sir.”

“It is a matter of extreme urgency.”

She nodded and returned with Reverend Fawcett. The tiny, beaded-eyed, bearded pastor was holding a napkin and pursed his lips.

Making sure no accent slipped into his speech, Dante said, “My apologies for interrupting your repast, Reverend Fawcett. My name is Daniel Rose, and I have important information for the Witchfinder General regarding the afflicted in Folkstone.”

The pastor looked him up and down. “Very well,” he said with a sigh and led him into a room with heavy, carved furnishings. Since it was twilight, candles were lit and fire flickered in the hearth. Sitting at the long trestle table was the Reverend Fawcett’s wife, a middle-aged woman with thin lips and puffy eyes and Joseph Duncan.

They ran their eyes over him as Fawcett made introductions.

“How do you do?” Dante said. No one offered him a seat, so he stood with his hat in his hand. “I will take but a moment of your time. I have news for you, Mr. Duncan, regarding those that have grown ill in Folkstone.”

Duncan took the napkin from his shoulder, wiped his mouth and scowled. Dante had never seen the man. His penetrating gaze - along with his huge, bony frame, and judgmental demeanor - repulsed him instantly.

“What is it, Mr. Rose?”

“I am, by trade, an apothecary. I grew suspicious when I heard about the behavior of the afflicted. It is reminiscent of an incident that occurred years ago in Alsace. The same unusual deportment was exhibited. It was caused by a fungus found on rye that the villagers ingested. So, I took it upon myself to go to Folkstone and obtain some of the grain that the residents had been baking into bread.”

Duncan leaned forward and started rocking.

“And?” Fawcett said.

“I tested it and it is indeed the same fungus, a fungus called St. Anthony’s Fire.”

“How do we know you are not lying to save the witches?”

“Because of this,” he replied, removing the lid from a small tin box which he was holding. Inside was a shaft of rye with several long black appendages. He walked around the table showing them.

Duncan’s lip curled. “And these black objects growing from the rye - they are St. Anthony’s Fire?”

“Yes, I tested them to be sure.”

“And if eaten, it can produce dreams, outbursts, and strange speech?”

“Most definitely. This is not caused by magic. This fungus occurs on rye during a particularly rainy growing season.”

Duncan exchanged looks with Fawcett.

“So you are saying this is not caused by witchcraft.”

“That is correct. It is a naturally occurring phenomenon. Certainly not occult.”

“But surely you must agree that a witch could cause this fungus to grow.”

“No,” Dante said with a chuckle. “That is not the case.”

Offended by Dante’s mirth, Duncan said, “We thank you for coming here today, Mr. Rose. We will take your findings into consideration.”

“Yes, thank you for coming,” Fawcett said, starting toward the door. “But, as you can imagine, we would like to finish our supper.”

Dante looked at them with astonishment. He had even shown them the fungus and they still were bent on witch hunting. He opened his mouth to argue, but Duncan and Fawcett’s wife had gone back to eating. They were clearly finished with him.

Knowing enough to hold his tongue, Dante marched out the door and mounted his horse. ““I hope there is a Christian hell because they will burn in it,” he muttered. “They are just like the Spanish inquisitors.” How could I have been such a fool? Circe, Lumpkin and the Arch Derwydd had been right. How could I have been so naïve to think I could reason with them?

I need a drink,” he grumbled and rode away.

*                      *                     *

The following day, Circe put a basket over her arm and started for the market. During the cold months, shopping was limited but she was still able to find winter vegetables for supper and herbs for dyes. Weaving her way around the carts and sheds, she overheard a butcher say, “He claimed the bread in Folkstone was tainted.”

“With what?”

“Some growth that causes lunacy.”

“Is that possible?”

The butcher shrugged and stepped over to help a customer.

Circe’s stomach twisted. She knew they were speaking of Dante. So he had ignored everyone’s warnings and gone to Duncan. Anxious to know more, she started for Ezra Cheeseborough’s chandlery. He is the biggest gossip in town. Certainly, he will know something.

When she stepped into the shop, she saw Cheeseborough talking in hushed tones to Goodwife Fawcett. He had on a soiled work apron and his sleeves were rolled up revealing thick arms covered with curly brown hair. The pastor’s wife had on a coif and cloak with a basket over her arm. The workroom was crowded with barrels and crates. There were rows of candles hanging from the rafters and freshly dipped tapers dangling over vats of wax.

When Cheeseborough saw Circe, his eyes lit up. She knew he would interpret her visit as showing interest in him. This was unfortunate but unavoidable.

He smiled eagerly, but respect for the pastor’s wife prevented him from dashing over to her. Circe made the most of it. She walked around the room, pretending to shop while edging closer and closer, trying to listen to their conversation. She stood behind a large wheel holding rows of strings. It reminded her of the mill wheel from her childhood. She guessed it would rotate and dip the strings into a trough of hot tallow placed underneath.

At last, she was close enough to hear.

“The man is an abomination,” she overheard Goodwife Fawcett say. “Dark skin and eyes as black as coal. I would wager that he has French or Spanish blood in his veins.”

“Do we know anything about him?” Cheeseborough queried.

“We made some inquiries. He resides with a country doctor just outside of town. He is respected as an apothecary but frequents the dockside taverns. In fact, he was seen there shortly after he left our home. He seems to have a temper. There was an altercation with one of the dock workers, and he was asked to leave the tavern.”

“Does he have a wife?”

“One of our servants spoke with a sailor who claims to have known him years ago. He has a wife but abandoned her back in--”

The shop door opened. It was Cheeseborough’s apprentice. The boy rushed over and interrupted them on a matter of business.

Saying farewell, Goodwife Fawcett took her parcel and left.

Circe clutched her stomach. Dante has a wife! It cannot be! There must be some mistake. Certainly he would have told me. Feeling as if she would retch she started for the door.

“Widow Swinburne!” Cheeseborough called. “A moment, please.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped with her back to him.

Sending his apprentice out on an errand, Cheeseborough rushed over to Circe. “You don’t know how it pleases me to see you in here at last,” he said eagerly. Picking up her hand, he put his wet lips on her palm with a kiss. “Our beneficent caretaker has deemed it.”

“Mr. Cheeseborough,” Circe said, pulling her hand away and wiping it on her skirt. “You are mistaken about my intentions. I am here to order some candles.”

“Ah, but our Lord knows the truth,” he said moving his large face close to her own. “You are lonely and--”

His breath was foul, and Circe turned away. “I must go.”

“Spare a moment for me, please,” he said, blocking her exit. He touched her cheek. “How I suffer for you. Surely you know that I watch you from my window at night. The silhouette of your figure behind the curtain fills me with desire. I know you linger there for my benefit.”

Her eyes grew wide and she slapped him across the face. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner!”

Yanking the door open, she walked outside.

“Tis God’s will, Widow Swinburne!” he called after her, but she did not respond.

*                     *                      *

Distraught and feeling betrayed, Circe lay awake that night staring at the ceiling. She chided herself for not listening to the voices who had warned her about Dante from the start. A wife! He has a wife! She ruminated about it endlessly, one-minute burning with jealousy while the next burning with remorse for bedding a married man.

“I cannot believe it,” she said out loud and rolled over. What other secrets does he have? And how does that sailor know him? Who is Dante De la Rosa?

Sleep eluded her for several nights. Her anger and hurt ran deep. She realized now that she had made a serious mistake. She had allowed this man into her heart. For days she went through the motions of living, speaking little and burying herself in work. She hoped Dante would show up with a plausible explanation, but he did not come. She told herself that he may still be recovering from his wound. But if that were true, how could he carouse in a tavern?

She longed for the past when her spirit was free. Life seemed like a heavy burden now. The cloth she created, usually so pleasing to her, now seemed uninspiring. She could no longer feel the pulse of the earth or delight in birdsong when she ventured outside.

Levi left for a visit to Glendower and Circe welcomed the solitude. It gave her the opportunity to sort through the myriad of feelings churning inside her.

Cheeseborough visited her on one occasion, but she met him with an icy demeanor. She was in no mood to make amends and endure a fresh set of advances.

After two weeks, the solitude that had been initially welcome now turned to loneliness. Nights particularly were challenging. Circe dreaded going to bed. All she seemed to do was toss and turn. After reading in front of the fire one night, she put on her cloak and went out on the front steps for some fresh air. The first thing she did was look for candlelight in Cheeseborough’s lodging; she didn’t want him watching her. It was dark, so she sat down hoping he was asleep.

The night was warm, and the snow was melting. Circe took a deep breath. The smell of spring was in the air. The moon was full, and it illuminated the quiet street lined with dark shops and dwellings. Ship bells were ringing from the quay in the distance.

Circe sat for a long time, trying to settle her mind while thinking of home and imagining the beauty of the Great Marsh this time of year. Little by little the birds would be returning. Ice would be melting and everything would smell fresh and new. The thought gave her hope. Perhaps she could sleep now. Just as she was about to go inside, the sound of hooves caught her attention. A dark figure rode down the street. The man carried himself proudly in the saddle and was wearing a cavalier style hat. She gasped. It was Dante.

Circe’s heart jumped into her throat. He didn’t even glance at the weaving room as he passed. He turned his horse and headed toward the docks.

She jumped to her feet, her chest heaving. He rode by as if it was routine. The words of Goodwife Fawcett echoed in her ears. “He frequents the taverns.”

How many nights has he passed by without bothering to stop?

 She walked into the shop and slammed the door. He has bedded me and his conquest is complete. I have been such a fool.

*                    *                    *

Circe threw herself into work, determined to keep her mind off Dante. Levi returned from Glendower; they settled back into completing orders. The weather continued to warm and everyone predicted an early spring.

One afternoon, Levi came from market with news that two women had been hanged in Folkstone. “They were found guilty of conjuring and causing residents to see spirits,” he said.

Circe dropped her sewing into her lap and sighed. “Every day brings another hanging,” she said. “The entire colony has gone mad.”

Levi put his basket down and started unpacking it. “I worry about Glendower. If Duncan ever caught wind of our beliefs…”

Circe nodded. “Indeed. We can only hope that our protective circle is still effective. So many of us have been coming and going lately that the barrier may be growing weak. I feel as if my faith is growing weak as well.”

He stared at her with surprise. “That does not sound like you, Mistress.”

“Oh,” she said with a laugh. “It’s nothing, just talk. I am weary today. Tomorrow will be different,” and she went back to her sewing.

That night, Circe was startled by a knock at the back door. She put her quill down and closed her ledger. She had taken her hair down for the night and had on her shift and a wrap. She walked to the door and asked, “Who calls?”

“Dante.”

So at last, he comes. She set her jaw and opened the door.

“Hello, pequeño,” he said with a smile, removing his cavalier hat. He was dressed as he was the night she saw him going to the tavern. He ran his eyes over her and said, “You look beautiful. How I’ve missed you.”

“So you honor me with a visit,” she said.

“Of course, I came as soon as I was able.”

He tried to come in, but she put her hand to his chest. “So now you remember where I live?” she said, cocking her head.

He looked confused. “I’ve been sick, Circe, with the fever.”

“You believe me to be such a fool.”

“What are you talking about? You’re angry I have not come?”

“I care not,” she replied, raising her chin.

His eyes flashed. “It goes both ways, Mistress Swinburne. Why didn’t you come to see me?”

“Because it is over. All you have ever offered to me are secrets and silence. Who are you really? Who is the great enigma, Dante De la Rosa?”

He threw his hands up. “So I am to blame again! Very well, what do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything,” he barked, his accent growing thick along with his anger.

Circe froze. The moment of truth had arrived and it scared her. She did not want to hear about his wife. They locked eyes. She opened her mouth to speak but lost her courage. Instead, she stepped back and slammed the door in his face.

She heard a steady stream of Spanish curses coming from the alley as he walked away.