The wind came first—rattling shutters, worrying the bare branches of the great elm by the meetinghouse, and carrying with it the sharp, iron scent of snow. In the small coastal town of Portsmouth, winter had settled deeply into the bones of the year 1704. The Piscataqua River moved slow and black, rimmed with ice, and every footstep on the hard-packed earth rang like a hammer blow.
Inside a modest timber-framed house near the harbor, warmth pooled around a stone hearth. Mehitable Uran leaned over a pot of broth, her cheeks flushed from tending the fire. Dried onions and salt pork simmered together—nothing fancy, but reliable against a cold that showed no mercy. Above her, bundles of herbs hung from rafters darkened by years of wood smoke: sage, thyme, and the last precious sprigs of dried rosemary saved for winter.
Outside, Christmas approached. Continue reading
