Ruth was happy to lead the girl through the house, reciting a litany of what her duties would be. The snow had all but ended, and was just a flutter of soft flakes. The April sun was strong and beneath the ice the world was already green. It would be a perfect day. Ruth Gardner Hathorne showed Faith the cot in the scullery where she could sleep, and the peg where she could leave her damp coat, and if the inappropriate red boots the girl wore gave Ruth pause it was too late, the offer to work had been extended, and the girl had hugged her as if Ruth were her own mother, then carefully hung her coat upon the hook.

II.

A woman who loses a child twice will be acquainted with sorrow, and yet the second loss will hurt just as much as the first. It is a snake that circles around to bind you hand to foot, heart to soul. If it comes to pass that the child runs away again, there is no magic strong enough to bring her back to you. In the natural order of things, children do leave, but not with bitterness and in secrecy. Maria knew Faith was gone before she opened the door to her daughter’s room. She had dreamed of a dark wood where the birds were silent. She saw The Book of the Raven in a hollow tree. I know more than you think I do, Faith had said in the dream. Maria could hear her voice, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. She awoke in a panic and sure enough the window in Faith’s chamber was open and there were footprints in the damp grass. On the bedside table was a note written with red ink on black paper.

Do not follow me. You should have told me who my father was. If you try to stop me, then you will be the one I never forgive. This is my life to live.

Making her way to the farm in the Bowery, Maria went immediately to Finney, who seemed to know Faith better than anyone. Finney was working in the garden, the white dog digging up mud to bury a bone, but he put down his shovel when he spied Maria.

“Why would she run off?” Maria wanted to know. “And to Massachusetts of all places.”

Finney told Maria of Faith’s vision in Brooklyn in which she had to cross through hell to reach home. They’d assumed the vision had been of Hell Gate in the river, but perhaps there was another meaning entirely, and it was her fate to return to Salem.

“She’s as smart a girl as there ever was,” Finney assured Maria. “Surely she’s got her reasons to go.”

But Maria disagreed. “It’s a dangerous place, and no matter how smart she might be, she’s only a girl.”