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breathe.
    Alas, she was still leaning heavily against her door when it occurred to her that this entire episode couldn’t possibly be real. It simply could not be. How could her own step-uncle be involved in a plan to destroy the lands and livelihood of an entire village? Worse, with further plans to enslave every soul within that village?
    It simply couldn’t be.
    Marisa forced herself to breathe in deeply, then out again. But the calming effect of the action did not materialize. Far from being consoled by her late-night discovery, Marisa was alarmed.
    Coming away from the door, she wondered what she should do with this knowledge? Should she perhaps seek out someone of authority?
    Not likely. She had no proof of any wrongdoing, and since she was herself under the jurisdiction of her step-uncle, she could not legally give witness against him. Nor did she wish to do so.
    Though John Rathburn might be an indifferent guardian, he was still her only relative, her parents having perished long ago during the journey here to America. Luckily, Marisa was not remembering the particulars of that journey. After all, she had been little more than a babe.
    One thing was certain. She couldn’t stand here the night through. Propping herself away from the solid oak of the door, she began to pace her room. What to do? Should she try to forget the entire episode? After all, what was a town of Dutch settlers to her? They were faceless people.
    Besides, were the Colonies not already at war? Was it not true that lives were already being spent? Besides, no lives in that Pennsylvania town would be at risk . . . or would they?
    Might they not try to save their property?
    Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not kill. The Commandments from the Scripture streamed through her mind.
    What to do? What to do?
    As she trod down the length of her room and back again, Marisa gradually drifted toward her bedside table, where the basin and pitcher of water still stood, placed there at the start of the evening by her own dear friend Sarah.
    Sarah.
    Sarah, her maid. Sarah, her friend. Sarah, who was more like a mother or a big sister to her. If anyone would know what to do, it was Sarah. Heaving a sigh of relief, Marisa felt better almost at once.
    Feeling calmer, Marisa wondered if perhaps she might yet be able to find some sleep this night. In preparation, she removed her dressing gown, as well as her sleeping jacket, and lay them at the foot of her bed. Crawling between the covers, Marisa at last settled in, knowing that on the morrow, she would tell Sarah about the entire episode.
    But sleep was not to be the restful pleasure that she sought, for her dreams were far from pleasant, and when Marisa awoke much too early the next morning, she discovered that her head, particularly there at her temples, was pounding.
    No amount of rubbing her forehead eased the headache, either, and at last arising and grabbing hold of her sleeping jacket, she went in search of Sarah.
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    Sarah Strong listened to the concerns of the young woman that she had come to love as though she and her young charge were related by the bond of blood, rather than by a mere friendship. Because Sarah was ten years Marisa’s senior, she could easily recall the day when the captain of the Wayflower , the ship that had brought Marisa’s family to the New World, had brought Marisa to this very home.
    Tragically Marisa had been the only one of her family to survive the hard and long journey to the New World. She’d had a father, a step-mother and an elder brother, Sarah recalled. However, none but Marisa had lived to tell of the journey, not that Marisa had ever talked of it. In truth, Marisa never mentioned the incident.
    At the time, Marisa had been four years of age, and Sarah fourteen. That had been fourteen years ago now. It had been a difficult and troubling time, Sarah’s first year of servitude at the Rathburn estate. Because Sarah’s own parents had