Read Chapter 22: Aftershock

The recess bell had barely stopped ringing when the bailiff appeared at Mercy's elbow, his face a careful blank. She had seen that look before—the mask of a man who had been told to do something he did not wish to do.

"You're to come with me," he said, not unkindly.

Nathaniel shifted beside her, wincing as he rose from the hard bench. "On what authority?"

"Magistrate Hathorne's orders. Miss Hart is released on bail pending further examination." The bailiff glanced at the chaos still churning at the front of the courtroom—Hathorne's clerk gathering papers, the constable escorting a pale and silent Dr. Willard toward the side door. "He says she's not to leave town, and she's to present herself at the gaol each morning until the matter is settled."

Mercy's knees went weak. Released. Not cleared, but released. She gripped the edge of the bench, steadying herself. Patience. Her sister was still in the holding cell beneath this very building, waiting for a verdict that would not come today—not with the court in disarray.

"What of my sister?" she asked.

The bailiff's eyes flickered. "The prisoner remains in custody until the new examination."

Nathaniel was already moving toward her, his hand finding her elbow. "We need to get you out of this room before someone—"

"Agreed." She let him guide her toward the side aisle, away from the press of townsfolk still murmuring in the gallery. Ruth Putnam had been escorted out moments ago, her face pale as milk, and Mercy caught a glimpse of her father, Thomas, red-faced and furious, pushing through the crowd toward the exit. The Putnams would not let Ruth's testimony stand unanswered for long.

The corridor outside the courtroom was cooler, dimmer, and Mercy leaned against the plaster wall, letting out a breath she had been holding since she first rose to speak. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her thighs to still them.

"You did it," Nathaniel said quietly. "You actually did it."

"Did I?" She looked at him. His face was swollen, bruise darkening along his jaw, and he favored his right side when he moved. She had not had a moment to tend his ribs since they fled the cottage. "He's contained, not charged. And Hathorne... I don't know what Hathorne will do."

"You gave him evidence in front of half the town. He can't ignore it."

"He can bury it." She pushed off from the wall, forcing her legs to move. "He's done it before. How many examinations have ended with the accused simply... disappearing into the gaol until the fever passes and everyone forgets?"

Nathaniel said nothing, because they both knew the answer. Too many.

They made their way down the narrow stairwell and out into the cold morning air. The sky was the color of unwashed wool, heavy with cloud, and the street before the meeting house was nearly empty—most of the town had crowded inside to watch the spectacle. A few heads turned as Mercy emerged, and she saw the calculation in their eyes. Not accused. Not exonerated. Something in between. Something dangerous.

"We need to get off the street," she murmured.

"My rooms are close." Nathaniel's breath came short as he walked, and she could hear the rasp in his chest. His ribs were worse than he let on. "The minister's house—Donne has a private study. We can use it."

She nodded, and they walked quickly, close together, Nathaniel's hand never leaving her arm. The minister's house was a modest frame building set back from the road, and Donne himself answered their knock, his face creased with worry.

"Miss Hart." He stepped aside immediately, ushering them in. "I saw what happened. The whole court saw it. Hathorne called for a recess before I could speak, but—" He broke off, looking at Nathaniel more closely. "You're hurt."

"Fine," Nathaniel said, too quickly. "We need paper. And time."

Donne led them to his study, a small room lined with theological texts and, Mercy noted with surprise, a volume of Culpeper's *English Physician* sitting open on the desk. Donne caught her glance and colored slightly.

"A minister must know his remedies," he said. "In times of sickness, the body and the soul suffer together."

Mercy was already pulling off Nathaniel's coat, ignoring his protest. "Sit down before you fall down." She pressed gently at his side and felt him flinch, his teeth drawing in a sharp hiss. "You have at least two cracked ribs. You walked on a broken house with these."

"Three cracked ribs," he corrected, through gritted teeth. "I counted."

"Then sit still while I—" She stopped, her hands hovering over his chest. Her apothecary chest was still hidden in the cottage, buried beneath the floorboards. She had nothing. No herbs, no bandages, no salve.

Donne moved to a cabinet in the corner, pulling out linen strips and a small jar. "I keep basic supplies. It's not much."

Mercy took the linen, her fingers finding the familiar rhythm of binding. She worked in silence, Nathaniel watching her with an expression she could not quite read. When she finished, she sat back on her heels.

"That will hold until I can get my chest. But you need rest."

"I need to find the truth." He shifted, testing the bindings, and grimaced. "Willard's motives. You heard what Ruth said—he coached her, paid her, threatened her. But that's not the whole story."

"Greed," Mercy said. "The formula. The fever. He wanted to sell the cure."

"Greed explains the formula." Nathaniel leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. "It doesn't explain why he came after you first. Before the formula was even in question. He accused your mother of witchcraft when you were a child. Why?"

Mercy's stomach turned. "I don't know. My mother's trial was a lie. He manufactured evidence—"

"Because he wanted something from her." Nathaniel's eyes met hers. "I've been thinking. Willard has been in this town longer than almost anyone. He was a young physician when your mother practiced. He had access to her, to her garden, to her recipes. And when she refused him something—"

"She refused him the formula," Mercy said slowly. "But that doesn't explain the accusation of witchcraft. If he wanted her recipe, killing her would destroy it."

"Unless it wasn't the recipe he wanted." Nathaniel pulled a folded paper from his coat. "I found this in the court records, filed three years before your mother's trial. A complaint from Dr. Willard to the court of assistants, claiming your mother had violated a contract of betrothal."

Mercy's hands went cold. "Betrothal?"

"Willard claimed your mother had agreed to marry him, then broke the engagement when she married your father." Nathaniel unfolded the paper, and she saw the faded handwriting, the official seal. "The case was dismissed for lack of evidence, but the complaint remained. And in his testimony, Willard describes your mother as—" He paused, reading. "'A woman of unnatural persuasions, whose knowledge exceeds her station.'"

"He was angry," Mercy whispered. "She refused him, and he called her a witch."

"Not just angry." Nathaniel set the paper down carefully. "He had already begun testing treatments for the fever. There were records—I found them in his office, before all of this. He was close to a cure, but he needed a purgative that could be administered safely. Your mother's garden contained plants he couldn't identify. When she married your father and denied him access, he destroyed her reputation."

"To discredit her." Mercy's mind reeled. "He couldn't have her knowledge, so he made it worthless. He made *her* worthless."

"And when you began practicing, you became a threat again." Donne spoke from the corner, where he had been listening quietly. "You had her books, her knowledge. If you succeeded where he failed, the town would see his weaknesses. His treatments have always been... aggressive. Bloodletting, mercury. When the fever began, he knew he couldn't cure it. But you could."

Mercy looked down at her hands. They were still faintly trembling. "He accused me to keep himself safe. To keep his reputation intact."

"His reputation, his practice, his profits." Nathaniel's voice was bitter. "And Hathorne—"

"Hathorne is protecting him." Mercy's voice was flat. "I knew it before. Now I know why." She looked up. "Hathorne's wife was treated by Willard last winter. If Willard falls, he might expose the magistrate's own secrets."

Donne exhaled slowly. "Then we have not won a victory today. We have merely advanced to a new battle."

Mercy rose, her legs steady now. She paced to the window, looking out at the gray sky, the rooftops of the town she had been born in and nearly hanged in. Somewhere in that town, the fever was still burning. Abigail was still dying. And Willard was contained in a room in the courthouse, already plotting his next move.

"I need to see Abigail," she said.

Nathaniel shifted behind her. "The fever—"

"Willard's treatments are making her worse. I know the fever. I know the plants. If she dies, her recantation dies with her, and all we've done today becomes nothing but a rumor that Willard will bury." She turned back to face them. "I need my chest. It's still under the cottage floor."

Nathaniel was already reaching for his coat, wincing as the motion pulled his ribs.

"You're not coming," she said firmly. "You'll collapse before we reach the meeting house."

"She's right," Donne said. "I'll go with Miss Hart. The cottage is half a mile beyond the pasture—I can be of use. And I have a horse."

Nathaniel started to argue, but Mercy cut him off. "Stay here. Rest. Watch the paper." She touched the folded complaint on the desk. "If anything happens to me, that gets into the hands of every minister in the colony."

He held her gaze for a long moment, and she saw the struggle in his eyes—the instinct to protect, warring with the knowledge that she was asking him to trust her to protect herself. Finally, he nodded, sinking back into the chair.

"Be careful," he said. "Hathorne has watchers. If you're seen leaving town—"

"I'll be back before anyone knows I'm gone." She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders and moved toward the door. "Keep the paper safe. I'll return with my chest and something to help Abigail."

Donne followed her out into the cold morning, and as the door closed behind them, Mercy heard the quiet scrape of Nathaniel's chair as he settled in to wait. Behind her, the town was stirring, the trial's aftershocks rippling through every street and every whispered conversation. She had set something in motion today that could not be undone. She only hoped she would live long enough to see where it would end.