Ebenezer rubbed at his forehead in the light of the smokey oil lamp. True Christians should not so covet wealth, he had been taught, as to become enamored with it beyond all else. That certainly seemed true of his father now! Three weeks of backtracking expenses and inquiring about the town had revealed just how much of the family's once modest finances had fallen to ruin. It was only by the grace of God and his father's popularity as a preacher that had kept several creditors from calling in their debts. Ebenezer had taken with the books to a will to attempt a reversal of fortune these past nights, arranging for payments out of his father's salary as a clergymen and bolstered by what coin Ebenezer had brought with him upon his return. In truth, it would have been far, far easier to simply pay all the debts out of his own pocket and cleared his family of delinquency. Only then questions would arise, questions that the missing son did not wish to answer or have pursued too heavily. Best instead to restore his own credibility and his father's reputation all in one go by remaining the dutiful son.

"Red!" the old man creaked as he hobbled into the room upon his crutches. Spittle flew out between missing teeth as Reverend Stone spoke, drool flecking his wiry grey beard. "A red coat you're wearing, Ebenezer! A color of sin! A color of soldiers! Of whores and thieves and kings! Red as blood! Proper black, Ebenezer. Go you now to Goodman Jenkins, buy yourself a proper coat and hat this instant!"

Ebenezer resisted sighed. Instead he rose with ink stained fingers to guide his father back to his bed. "Father, Goodman Jenkins died years ago, remember? I can no more ask him for clothing than Cromwell for a horse! And I have a black coat, father. I'm wearing it now! The red one has not been worn since I arrived, and we burned that, yes?"

"Play not the fool with me, sirrah! I am your father! Honor thy father, as they say, and keep not to such whimsical notions!" The preacher mellowed for a moment, lost in his second infancy. "Jenkins... Jenkins was a good man. A good and Christian man." He said little more as his son guided him back towards his bedroom in the rear of the house and set him to bed. Ebenezer tucked his father in with a tolerant love, all the while wishing for things that hadn't happened. If he had but stayed! Or been able to return earlier! Was there anything he could have done to prevent his father's slide into crook'd and gibbering ailment? Probably not. Only this did nothing to soften the guilt he felt for his overlong absence. It was allayed only by the fact that his father only seemed the worse at night, after the sun had set. During the day, Reverend Stone remained the devout and zealous servant of God that he had always been! Perhaps it was the pull of the moon upon his mind, Ebenezer had heard of such same in London, that the elderly might become most vexing after the daylight hours. He was no physic, though. And were he a more superstitious man, he might well have called witchcraft for his father's late night regressions; only he was a learned man, who had seen more of the world than his parents had ever intended.

Reaching the desk once again, he paused to trim the wick of the lantern and set himself to his task again.

There was a flicker of movement outside along the edge of the forest. Ebenezer prided himself on a sharp eye. What was this? Someone about beneath the full moon? It was unheard of for the good Christians of the town to be out and about so late, himself excused the excess as all knew his dedication. Savages, then. For the most part, their relations with the natives had remained peaceful of late, although there were incidents that often arose to the sorrow of all. Fearing such folly again, he quickly stole to his chest and produced a pair of worn wheel-lock pistols. Ensuring they were loaded and primed, Ebenezer softly padded out of the house after the figure. The shadows of night were a great help to concealing the Puritan black he now wore.

The sight that caught his eye as he crept forward stunned him. A young girl... No, a woman! Mirabelle, he recalled after a moment, dancing unashamedly beneath the stars and moon without a care, displaying... joy. Hadn't his father said something about her forthcoming marriage to the judge's son? He remembered her vaguely of old from before he had been sent away. Ebenezer found he could not keep his eyes off of her now, party from intoxication at the way she moved with such abandon and party from fear. He did not believe in witches, no. Many other evils that he had seen and experienced, yes. But not witches. Now confronted with the sight of this woman stepping lightly in time to some hidden music, and, lo! Speaking to some unseen thing! He pursed his fine lips as he re-evaluated his stance on the matter.

Finally, fearing the temptations arising in his own soul, Ebenezer called out to her from the shadows in a hushed hiss. So expertly hidden was he that she would have found it near impossible to locate where he obscured himself with the brush and shadows of the moonlit trees.

"Why do you dance, then?"