The twins cried, clutching Constance’s dress. She’d split her rations between them, but it wasn’t enough.

The harvest had been poor; the winter long. The settlement suffered—all except the Marshalls. They thrived, plump and contented. 

“They hide something wicked,” Constance whispered to Mary Gardener.

“Virginia Marshall.” Mary glanced around. “Every full moon she goes alone into the forest.”

“Witchcraft. She should be tried.”

“All the Marshalls. God tests us; dealings with the Devil’ve spared them.”

Constance nodded. 

Perhaps the Marshalls had caused God’s wrath.

Perhaps He would relent once they were gone.

Perhaps it was time to report them.