Read Chapter 7: A Missing Girl

The gaol walls dripped. Mercy had grown used to the sound—water seeping through the mortar, finding its way down in patient, crooked paths—but not to the voices that carried through the bars from the corridor beyond. She pressed her ear to the cold iron, straining.

"—say she's gone four days now. Four days, and Thomas Putnam won't even post a notice."

The voice belonged to one of the night guards, a man Mercy knew only as Cobb, thick-fingered and slow to anger. He was speaking to the jailer's wife, Goody Bickford, who had taken Mercy's locket and wore it now, she suspected, beneath her apron.

"Gone where?" Goody Bickford's voice was a low rasp. "That girl never leaves the house without her mother knowing."

"Exactly. And Putnam's not one to keep a quiet tongue when something's amiss. But he ain't said a word about Ruth. Not one. You'd think—"

"Careful what you think, Cobb. That family's got eyes everywhere."

They moved on, their footsteps fading toward the outer door, and Mercy was left gripping the bars with whitened knuckles.

Ruth Putnam. Thomas Putnam's daughter. Twelve years old, quiet as a mouse, with pale hair that always seemed to be escaping its cap. Abigail Proctor's cousin. And Mercy had seen her—three weeks ago, standing at the edge of the Hart property, watching Mercy hang herbs from the drying rack. Not with suspicion, but with curiosity. Ruth had asked if the rosemary would keep away moths.

Mercy had laughed and said it would keep away worse things.

Now Ruth was missing. And Thomas Putnam had said nothing.

She was still turning this over when Nathaniel appeared at the corridor's mouth, his boots echoing against the stone. He came alone this time, no ledger in hand, no quill behind his ear. His face was drawn, and he did not meet her eyes until he was close enough to whisper.

"You look like you've heard something," he said.

"Ruth Putnam." Mercy said the name like a stone dropped into still water. "She's been missing for four days."

Nathaniel's jaw tightened. "I know."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I only learned this morning. I came as soon as I could." He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned closer to the bars. "Isaiah Cobb told my father's man of business. Ruth left her room after supper on Tuesday and never came down for breakfast. Her mother found the bed cold, the window latched from the inside."

"Then she didn't run away."

"No. And Putnam hasn't reported it to the court."

Mercy's mind moved fast, a blade across a whetstone. "He's the one who accused me. He's the one pressing hardest for a conviction. And now his own daughter vanishes, and he says nothing?"

"His wife says Ruth is visiting kin in Andover."

"His wife lies for him," Mercy said flatly. "Everyone in Salem knows Ann Putnam will say whatever keeps her husband's temper in check." She paused, a colder thought settling in her chest. "But Ruth wouldn't lie. She's not like the rest of them."

Nathaniel studied her face. "You know the girl."

"I know she came to my garden. Three weeks ago. Asked about rosemary." Mercy's throat tightened. "She was afraid of something, Nathaniel. I thought it was just the talk—the accusations, the fear spreading through town. But she asked me if the herbs could protect her. Protect her from what, I didn't ask. I thought she was just a frightened child."

"Was she frightened of your herbs, or of something else?"

Mercy closed her eyes, trying to recall the girl's face. Pale. Fingers twisting in her apron. She had not looked at the rosemary. She had looked past Mercy, at the house, at the windows.

"She was afraid of being watched," Mercy said. "She kept glancing at the road. And when Goody Proctor's cart passed by, she went white as bone and said she had to leave."

"Abigail's mother?"

"Abigail was in the cart." Mercy opened her eyes. "Ruth wouldn't look at her. Wouldn't even turn her head. Like she was trying to make herself invisible."

Nathaniel was quiet for a long moment. The gaol's torches guttered, casting long shadows across the floor.

"You think Ruth knows something about the accusations," he said slowly. "Something that would hurt Abigail or her uncle if it came out."

"I think Ruth is the only one of that family who might tell the truth." Mercy gripped the bars. "And I think someone realized it. Four days ago."

Nathaniel exhaled. "You want me to find her."

"I want you to find out if she's alive." The words came out harder than Mercy intended. She softened her voice. "If Thomas Putnam has hidden her away to keep her quiet, then she's safe. If someone else has taken her—"

"Then she's a loose thread being cut."

Mercy nodded. The image was ugly but accurate. In Salem, loose threads did not stay loose for long.

Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair, a gesture Mercy had come to recognize as his thinking tell. "I have access to the Putnam property. My father did business with Thomas for years. I could claim I'm there to collect on an old debt—"

"He'll know you're lying. Your father's debts were canceled, remember?"

Something flickered in Nathaniel's eyes. "Then I'll find another reason. Ann Putnam keeps a garden. I could offer to trade seeds from our stores—"

"She'll not let you past the threshold."

"Then I'll go at night."

Mercy's chest tightened. "If you're caught on Putnam land in the dark, Nathaniel, he'll have you charged with trespass at best, witchcraft at worst. You'll hang beside me."

"Then I won't be caught."

He said it simply, without bravado, and Mercy was struck again by how unlike his father he was. She had known Josiah Godfrey—a hard, angry man who wore his grudges like a second coat. Nathaniel had his father's height but none of his cruelty. And he was standing here, in a gaol that smelled of rot and fear, offering to risk his neck for the daughter of his family's oldest enemy.

"Why?" The question slipped out before Mercy could stop it.

Nathaniel met her eyes. "Because you were right. About your father. About mine. About the debts." He paused. "And because Ruth Putnam is twelve years old. She doesn't deserve to be collateral."

Mercy felt something crack open in her chest. She had spent so long hating the Godfreys that she had forgotten what it was like to be seen as something other than a witch or a Hart.

"If you find her," Mercy said, "bring her here. Before the examination. She might be able to testify—"

"The examination is in two days."

"Then you have two days."

Nathaniel nodded, but he did not move. His expression shifted, something uncertain passing over his features.

"There's something else," he said. "Something I didn't want to tell you until I was sure."

Mercy's stomach dropped. "Tell me."

"The ledger. I hid it beneath the floorboard in the records room, as I said. But when I went back to retrieve it this morning—to copy the entries—it was gone."

"Gone?"

"Someone took it. The floorboard was replaced, but the ledger was not there." Nathaniel's voice was tight. "I checked the other hiding spots I know. Nothing."

Mercy's mind reeled. The ledger was the only proof of the canceled debts. The only evidence connecting Thomas Putnam and Josiah Godfrey to her accusation. Without it, she had only hearsay and a list of names her father had kept—a list that now sat in Nathaniel's pocket.

"Hathorne," she whispered. "He knew. When he interrupted you—he knew you'd found something."

"Or someone else did." Nathaniel reached into his coat and drew out the oilcloth, wrapped tight. "Your father's list is still safe. But the ledger—"

"Someone's cleaning house." Mercy heard her own voice as if from a distance. "First Ruth disappears. Now the ledger. They're closing every door I might walk through."

"Not every door." Nathaniel tucked the oilcloth away. "I still know what I read. I can testify—"

"You testifying against Thomas Putnam will be dismissed as the word of a debtor's son. You need proof."

"Then I'll find proof." He straightened. "And I'll find Ruth."

He turned to go, then paused at the corridor's edge. "Mercy. If I don't come back by tomorrow night—"

"Don't say that."

"—tell no one about the list. Not even your sister. Whoever took that ledger knows I was in the records room. They know someone's looking."

"They know *you're* looking."

Nathaniel almost smiled. "Then I'll have to be harder to catch than a rumor."

He was gone before Mercy could answer, his footsteps swallowed by the dark. She stood at the bars, listening to the silence he left behind.

Two days until the examination. Two days to find a missing girl, a stolen ledger, and a truth that someone was willing to bury bodies to keep.

And somewhere in Salem, the person who had listened in the corridor—who had heard her speak of her father's list—was still watching.