"Most of them are dead already," Hugh reminded her. "Without me. Are the conditions already impossible to fulfill?"
"I don't know," Mother admitted.
"What if I killed a man for nothing?"
"Hugh," Mother said reasonably, "remember who these men are. Remember what they did."
Hugh didn't need to be told to remember. He wrapped his arms around himself, not for warmth.
"Fourteen years ago," Mother pointed out to Hugh, "it was four of them against one. Now, just as I master the spell, only one of them is left. Is that coincidence, or was it meant to be?"
"Don't," Hugh said, feeling that tightness in his chest despite the fact that he was breathing, and breathing hard, "don't bring the hand of God into this."
"'An eye for an eye,'" Mother said. "A man is permitted to use deadly force to protect himself. If you can't do it, I will. But your scruples may condemn us both."
This was moving faster than Hugh could keep up with. "Tomorrow morning," he said, "when Wakley is dead, and I suddenly am not: What do you suppose everyone will make of this? How can they not know that we're responsible? How can they avoid calling you a witch?" Which were not, exactly, the questions that held him back.
"The town has carried this guilt for fourteen years," Mother said. "The war is over, and people are remembering how it was before. They will forgive us."
"I can't breathe," Hugh said, and headed for the door.
He heard the scrape of a chair on the floor and was brought back, instantly, to that other October 18, when he'd looked up to see the armed townsfolk crowding the apothecary door, and he'd pushed back on his own chair, knowing even then that there was no time, no way to escape. He turned away, leaning against the door for support so his mother wouldn't see how shaky he was. He managed to glare, and she sat down again without a word.
Outside, the afternoon was moving on to dusk. Hugh began walking, so that no one would start to wonder who he was, loitering about Brewsters' Apothecary.
It was too cold to be out here without a coat—surely that was something else that would attract attention—but it gave him an excuse to keep his head down, his arms wrapped about himself, and to walk quickly, as though oblivious to others. That, and the fading light, got him off the main street. On back streets, after sundown, people were less likely to stare long enough to try to put a name to a face that at best was half familiar.
Summerfield had grown, very definitely had grown, in fourteen years, and had prospered, from what Hugh could see of it. He ran his fingertips along the bricks of a building where none had been before, to remember what bricks felt like, and when the building ended, he walked beside a picket fence, feeling that, too. He kept his mind intentionally blank, not thinking of what had happened, what his mother was depending on him to do, what might or might not happen afterward.
He found himself, by trying to avoid people, on the edge of the cemetery.
And at that point he could no longer keep his mind blank, and his knees did buckle under him.
Mother had said he'd been buried. He presumed in the cemetery, although that wasn't necessarily so, though—again—there was no reason he could think of that he should have been denied Christian burial. Given that it was no secret that he'd been killed, and by whom. Should he look for a marker, put up by his mother, or by the citizens of Summerfield: "Sorry, political emotions carried us away," perhaps?
She had told him, eventually, the specifics of the spell.
The knowledge that somewhere, probably nearby, he had another body, that by now it would be decomposed down to a skeleton, that what felt like a body was no more than vapor formed from ingredients Mother had gathered in fields and chipped off the kitchen wall—He was suddenly finding it very difficult to get enough air. He clutched at his chest, unable to tell if the pain was from unfilled lungs, or musket balls, or Josiah Blodgett's foot on his chest.
With her head down against the stiff breeze, Tessa walked around a comer and saw she was coming up behind someone kneeling by the edge of the cemetery. A young man. And not at all dressed for the weather.
Even's family plot first, she thought, trying to work her way back to which grave that must be, then Goodwife Bellows ... She slowed her pace, not wanting to intrude, but curious—since there were no graves newer than two years along this edge—why such obviously heartfelt grief.
Unless the young man was not crying after all. He could be injured, she realized. Or, likeliest explanation at this hour, drunk.
Tessa slowed even more.
After running several errands, she was coming home much later than she'd anticipated. The sun had already set, her father and his apprentices were no doubt more than ready to eat, and Molly—that lazy girl who was supposed to help her in the kitchen—probably had not even started preparations for supper.
But there was nobody else around to help, if help were needed, and she couldn't bring herself to just cross the street and walk around him.
She came closer. "Are you well?" she was going to ask. "Do you need help?" But all she got out was "Are—"
The young man gave a ragged gasp and jerked around to face her with wide, startled eyes, indicating he had not heard her approach.
And no, Tessa realized in that second—not just startled, frightened.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
He seemed to need to consider. "No." He sounded somewhat amazed, sounded as though he wasn't used to people being concerned about his well-being. Which was odd: Judging by his clothes, he came from a clean and respectable household. Merchant's son, she guessed, or journeyman to a master craftsman. And he was nicely enough featured that he no doubt had a good many girls vying for his attention, whatever his situation.
"I'm ... fine," he told her. Already his voice was steadier, except that he had his hand to his chest, in a gesture that was familiar to her from the last year before her mother had died of consumption, never quite able to get enough air to fill her lungs. But surely someone with consumption would know not to be out in the October night without a coat. "Thank you," he said softly, and it took a moment for her to trace that back to her asking after his health.
"Were you attacked?" she asked.
His eyes widened again at that, but he didn't answer, and she thought maybe he was a bit simple-minded.
"No coat," she explained her reasoning. "It's rather cold to be without one." She was getting cold herself, standing in the evening chill with a shawl that had been sufficient for the afternoon, but all he had was a thin shirt.
The young man shook his head, without a word. He wrapped his arms around himself, as though she'd reminded him that he was cold, and he stood, seeming steady enough on his feet.
"Do you need help?" Tessa asked. "My father's house is just down the way. You're welcome to warm yourself by our fire, share supper with us." She thought not to mention that supper had most likely not yet been started. "You could spend the night in the apprentices' room," she added, "if you need a place to stay."
Again that look of amazement. "That's very kind of you," he said with just the beginning of a shy smile, which she thought meant yes, but then he finished, "but I live only a little down this way." He indicated vaguely and unconvincingly. "But thank you."
So very sweet.
Tessa wasn't sure she believed a word of this. She thought she knew by sight just about everybody in Summerfield, certainly everybody in this neighborhood, and she tried to place him, thinking there was something vaguely familiar about him and that he might be someone's younger brother. "What's your name?" she asked boldly. At nineteen she was something of an old maid, and old maids could be bold.
He hesitated. "Hugh."
No last name, and she could think of only one Hugh she had ever known, who this very obviously could not be.
"I'm Tessa," she said to this Hugh. "Nathan Wakley's daughter, at the bootery."
Hugh got that panicked look again, so that Tessa checked over her shoulder to make sure no danger was appro
aching.
"You are welcome at our house," she told him. "My father"—she hoped she wasn't offending him—"considers it his Christian duty to help whoever needs help."
Hugh was shivering uncontrollably. "My mother will be becoming worried," he told her, which had a certain ring of truth to it.
If he was going to refuse help, she wasn't going to be a busybody. "Take care, Hugh," she told him. In her experience, people named Hugh were not good at taking care of themselves.
He nodded once, tersely, and set off in the direction opposite from where she was headed.
She turned back, twice, but so far as she could tell, he did not.
Abigail was not interested in revenge. If she had simply wanted Nathan Wakley dead, she'd had fourteen years to accomplish that. But she was determined that Hugh would not lose his opportunity to live beyond midnight. She had just made up her mind that she would set things right with Wakley herself, when Hugh finally returned, shivering so from the cold that his teeth actually chattered.
"Fool," she told him, sitting him down on the stool directly in front of the fire. But she knelt to rub warmth into his hands and legs, and put a blanket around his shoulders. Then she tucked his coat—which she'd fetched from the chest in the attic, where she'd packed it all those years ago—in around his lap.
But he was watching her; she saw that he'd seen what else she'd fetched from the attic. Despite being neatly wrapped in soft felt, its long narrow shape gave it away: John's Pennsylvania rifle.
She saw Hugh's expression. His face said, Let me be anywhere but here. Let me be doing anything but this.
But he held out his hand, and took the rifle from her, and unwrapped it, and began checking it over, making sure—after years of storage—that it was cleaned and oiled and ready to use.
She and John had spent nineteen years raising Hugh to be gentle and decent and polite. She hoped the last fourteen years were enough to let him overcome that.
Long after he was warm, Hugh couldn't stop shivering.
"There's no other way," Mother assured him, which was the same conclusion he'd reached, or he'd have ... What? Wandered off into the cold night rather than return home? His choices were definitely limited. He certainly couldn't have accepted Tessa Wakley's offer—much as he didn't want to kill anyone, he was most certainly not up to sitting to supper and after-supper small talk with a man who'd walked into his shop and, unprovoked, shot him at point-blank range.
Hugh tried to hold on to that thought: to remember the pain, the tenor, the certain knowledge that he was about to die, the whoosh of undefinable sound and that incredible dizzying fall that had followed that second volley of shots. His breath caught for a moment, so that Mother gave another of her worried looks.
Hold on to the thought, Hugh told himself. But don't share it with Nathan Wakley. Don't think of the terror he'll feel, or the pain.
Or of his family.
Or of the fact that he might not be the same man he was fourteen years ago. My father considers it his Christian duty to help whoever needs help, Tessa Wakley had said. Penance? How many years of reparation were necessary to erase Hugh's death from Wakley's soul?
How many years before Wakley's death would be erased from Hugh's?
Except that—much as he didn't want the responsibility for Wakley's death—neither did he want to cause his own death. Dying—twice—in what felt like just a few hours' time was more than he could face.
Hugh looked up from his father's Pennsylvania rifle, satisfied—after the seventh or eighth checking of every inch, of every working part—that it was in working order and ready. The old flintlock took so long to reload, he was unlikely to get more than one chance. Still, he measured out gunpowder and wrapped, filled, and folded three paper cartridges, just in case.
He tried to blink away a mental picture of Wakley's daughter, Tessa, as she'd looked fourteen years ago, a child who used to come begging Mother's cookies. She'd grown into a sweet-faced young woman, Hugh thought, and kind-hearted, too: concerned for him, offering him, all unsuspecting of what he was, food and a place to stay. It didn't help to think of that.
Wakley's Boot Shop was only two doors away, though he'd walked three blocks out of his way to keep Tessa from seeing where he lived. Just past ten Hugh decided he needed to give himself time, in case anything went wrong. What? he thought. He knew he could never begin to guess the things that could go wrong or how to deal with a situation already out of control.
But he was having trouble breathing again, and even the cold was better than sitting here, waiting.
He got up abruptly.
At the door Mother adjusted the collar of his coat, tugged at the length of his sleeve. "Be careful," she begged, reluctant—he could well understand—to have him out of her sight. Once more she told him: "I couldn't bear to lose you again."
To which, of course, he had no answer.
Tessa still hadn't caught up to all the things she needed to do, even though it was long after the apprentices had gone up to the attic for bed. She was sitting at the kitchen table, mending the sleeve of one of her father's shirts, when her father came in from the workshop.
"Still up?" he asked, and—before she could answer: "You work too hard. Surely that can wait until tomorrow."
Tessa shrugged. Her father had no head for running a business or a household. She said, "But tomorrow there'll be other things that need doing."
Her father rested his big gentle hand on her head. "If there's always things that need doing, you shouldn't let yourself grow anxious over things that aren't done."
"Fine words from a man who's locked himself in his workshop all night," Tessa answered back. She bit the thread off at the sleeve and started on a button that was working itself loose. "Surely Seth Meeks can't be that eager for his new boots?" she asked.
Her father shook his head. "I'm just unaccountably restless." He poured himself a half tankard of ale and sat down.
Overtired, in Tessa's estimation. Two of the apprentices weren't working out, but her father didn't have the heart to dismiss them, for no one else was likely to take them on. Just as no one else was likely to ever want to hire or wed her supposed helper, cousin Molly, and they were likely to be stuck with her the rest of their lives. The trouble was, Tessa thought, her father was just too kind-hearted. Without Tessa to look out for him, he would be helpless.
But, coming on the thought of what day it was, she realized that wasn't exactly true.
She said, not quite knowing why, except that she was overtired, too, "Brewsters' Apothecary was closed and shuttered today."
Her father didn't need to pause to consider. "Fourteen years," he said. "Hugh Brewster would be older now than I was then." That was a thought to unsettle a person. Her father shook his head. "It was the right decision for that time," he said. "God have mercy, he was a danger to us all, and it was the right decision to kill him."
Tessa had heard this story, from more people than just her parents—how Hugh had been in a position to know things that could have gotten dozens of patriots killed.
Her father said—what she didn't need to hear because she remembered it well enough herself—"But I saw him push you to safety when he could have used you to shield himself. And that knowledge has haunted me every time I've closed my eyes since."
Terrible things happened in war, she knew—that had seemed to be the topic of four out of five of Pastor Greene's sermons all the years she was growing up—and she might just as well blame Hugh Brewster for having chosen the wrong side of the struggle, for choosing a side that in turn caused her father to make a choice that haunted him. She certainly owed more to her father, who had—to her, to everyone in the world besides Hugh Brewster—been the kindest, most generous person she knew.
But she also remembered Hugh pushing her out of the way.
She remembered how he'd stood, moments later, his hand to his chest, bleeding. Would he have had time—if he hadn't spent it on her—to duck, to evade the bullets? To
escape?
Was Hugh Brewster dead because she'd been there?
"Maybe I will save this for tomorrow," Tessa said, setting the needle above the wobbly button.
"It's definitely past time everybody should be abed," her father agreed, staring into his tankard rather than looking at her.
Abigail sat in her kitchen, rocking in her chair that wasn't a rocking chair, and stared at the book that had told her how to bring Hugh back from the dead. Was it permitted, Abigail wondered, did it make sense for someone as deeply involved in witchcraft as she had become to pray? To pray for the death of one man, and the life of another?
The cold seemed to seep into Hugh's bones as he waited, hiding crouched between bushes and fence in the dark of the Wakleys' side yard. The knowledge that, really, after fourteen years his bones should be used to being out in the cold, did nothing to warm him.
Go to bed, he silently wished at whoever it was that was still astir, with lights peeking out through the chinks in the shutters of the workshop and what, by the placement of chimneys, must be the kitchen. There had been a light in the attic, too, presumably the apprentices' room. But that had been blown out shortly after Hugh arrived. Which might mean that the apprentices had gone to sleep. Or that somebody had gone up there and then come back down.
How many apprentices did Wakley keep? Hugh wondered. And were they boys or young men? And were they—or Wakley himself—likely to be working into the morning hours on some project that needed completing? These were all questions that he could have put to Tessa Wakley when he'd had the chance, if he'd been level-headed and practiced enough in deception to have thought of them.
A clock in the Wakleys' parlor chimed eleven times.
What if the time approached midnight, and the Wakley household was still up? Or, what if they did go to bed, then Hugh couldn't get the door open? Or, what if he did manage to break in without arousing everyone—would he be able, in the dark, to tell which was Nathan Wakley's room?