Crow Hollow by Michael Wallace Page A

unlikely—there had been one other person in the house, James realized, and she was sitting next to him. Prudence had lied before. No doubt she was capable of more lies.
    “It had to happen under your roof,” he said. “If not, others would have sickened as well.”
    “Then you must be wrong. It wasn’t poison.”
    “Hmm.”
    Liar or no, Prudence might be useful on the journey. If he remembered his maps, it would take at least two days to reach Springfield, depending on the condition of the roads. Then another day to Winton. He could harvest whatever information he could extract from her about the death of Sir Benjamin, use her to ease their passage through the more prickly Puritan towns ahead, then leave her in Winton if he and Peter needed to continue beyond that. Into Indian country.
    The road opened up as the first light began to filter around the curtain. James drew it back to look past Prudence and through the tiny window. The landscape had turned from black to gray. No sign yet of the sun, but it would soon rise. They were passing through an area of overgrown pasture and ruined farmhouses, reduced to chimneys and charred support beams. Destroyed in the war, Prudence said.
    After studying the terrain, she declared that they were west of Waltham.
    As it brightened, Peter woke and licked his lips. He drew open the curtain on his side and looked out the window.
    “’Twould seem,” the Indian said at last, “that I have survived the night.”

C HAPTER N INE
    “How are you feeling?” James asked Peter.
    The Indian rubbed at his chin, as if considering. “Somewhat improved.”
    The coach hit a rock and the three of them jounced about. The road was growing worse. Nevertheless, Woory picked up the pace now that there was light to see by.
    “I’m glad to hear it,” James said, encouraged by the strength in the Indian’s voice. “I was worried that we’d arrive in Winton with a half-frozen corpse.”
    “A cheery thought,” Peter said. “But no, it would seem that the Lord has preserved my life for some purpose or other.”
    “That almost passes for idle chatter,” James said. “You must be feeling better. How about you?” he asked Prudence. “Do you need to stop to stretch your legs, relieve yourself?”
    “No, I’m all right for now.”
    “Good, I’d like to put some more distance between us and Boston.”
    “So you’re going to Winton after all?”
    “Aye, and Crow Hollow, if necessary. That nonsense in Boston was only to put them off the trail. I intended all along to inspect the site for myself. Do you have family there? Somewhere to stay?”
    “Nay, I have no family in Winton. One of our servants lives there still—Goody Hull. But she lives in humble circumstances. Her cottage could scarcely accommodate us all.”
    “It only needs to accommodate you,” James said. “Peter and I will continue on without you.”
    Prudence crossed her arms. “I’m going with you.”
    “You’re a fugitive—that makes you a risk. At the moment, your usefulness outweighs your danger. After Winton, that arithmetic changes. I don’t need a search party tracking us into the woods.”
    “Don’t be so confident,” she said. “They must know that I’ve gone with you. They might have sent someone already.”
    “Oh, I would certainly hope so. Your sister will be worried about your safety.”
    “Quite frantic,” Prudence said. “But as worried about my soul as my body. The first thing she asked when I escaped from the Nipmuk was whether they had insulted my virtue.”
    “Not about your daughter?”
    “No. She was presumed dead.” Prudence paused. “They didn’t, you know.”
    “I would not think less of you if they had.”
    “I saw all sorts of atrocities. Believe me, an Indian at war is as savage as any other man. No offense, Master Church. I mean . . . Peter .”
    Peter turned with a smile. “No offense taken, friend. Most men are brutes at heart. My people are no exception.”
    “But they