19 July 1692, Tuesday
My breathing is stilted. My hand shakes. My bone marrow quivers. Lizzie sleeps, but fitfully. She tosses and turns, her delicate features twisted in an unease I cannot soothe away with easy touches and soft words. I want to hold her close, hold her safe, but I do not wish to disturb her. Whatever rest she gets is better than none. We did not mean to be there this day. We did not want to see it. I wanted Lizzie anywhere but there, but there we were anyhow.
We began the day normally enough. Father visited this morn to pass along news of more skirmishes with the French and their Indian allies near Gloucester.
“With this latest raid in Lancaster and Haverhill, and with the farmers killed in the meadows, Phips is adding more men to his rosters. We may need to pay more t
