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Back The Ninth Daughter
Chapters (37)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-one
  25. Twenty-two
  26. Twenty-three
  27. Twenty-four
  28. Twenty-five
  29. Twenty-six
  30. Twenty-seven
  31. Twenty-eight
  32. Twenty-nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-one
  35. Thirty-two
  36. Thirty-three
  37. Thirty-four

The dark lantern showed only edges, spots, and then only when Abigail had cautiously advanced to be nearly on top of what she saw. The room was a large one, lined—Abigail saw as she moved toward the wall—with two tiers of roughly constructed bunks. Some of these retained mattresses of ticking stuffed with what had once been straw. On others, only heaps of mousy-smelling husks remained. Wild skittering at the other end of the long room, and the lantern-beam glittered on a half-hundred little mousy eyes. Abigail walked toward the place, the light held out before her, knowing what she’d find close to that many mice.

And she did. A bowl of porridge and a hunk of bread, comprehensively chewed by the vermin. A red pottery pitcher of water. The rinsed-out chamber pot, and the trailing end of a very dirty striped blanket.

She held the lantern higher and closer.

Rebecca. Asleep.

Thirty-two

Thirty-two

033

Abigail saw her breast rise and fall beneath the blankets. Someone had thrown a couple of those thin straw mattresses over her, for extra warmth. Rebecca was so emaciated as to be almost unrecognizable, her black hair cut off short and a dark, bruised area just back of her right temple, a half-healed cut in its center. A black bottle—and two dead mice—lay beside the bed. Another bottle stood next to it, exactly the same as she had seen in Orion Hazlitt’s house.

Abigail knelt beside the bed. “Rebecca, wake up.” She shook her, gently but urgently. “Wake up!”

She hefted the upright bottle. Nearly full. Concussion would have made laudanum almost redundant, though she suspected Orion had poured at least some down Rebecca’s throat the first night he’d carried her to his house, to keep her silent as the dead while he sent Damnation back to Gilead with the message: I have done as you asked but you must keep this woman safe, or I will do no more. She remembered herself downstairs, with Sam and Revere and Dr. Warren, like an utter fool talking with Orion while his mother, stupefied into near-unawareness, argued with customers and sat in the keeping room.

“Rebecca!” She dipped her hand into the pitcher—checking first that there was no mouse within it—and first flicked, then splashed water on her friend’s face. Muldoon prowled from window to window—there were three on the street side of the upper room, and one at one of the gable ends—trying to open a casement, to relieve the stuffiness of the atmosphere. It could scarcely get any colder: No wonder, in Rebecca’s state, it was nearly impossible to wake her. “You have to wake up!” All four of the windows were shuttered, and the shutters padlocked. Muldoon set aside his musket and the rope he still carried, and worked his knife beneath the iron hasp. “Rebecca!”

“Abigail?” Rebecca turned her face from the cold of the almost-frozen water. “Stop it.”