By Dana Cameron
The past's blood stains the current the possibility of an entire life awaits archaeologist Emma Fielding within the Berkshire foothills of Western Massachusetts: the opportunity to check the eighteenth-century diary of Margaret Chandler, the accused witch and murderess whose domestic Emma excavated basically months sooner than. despite the fact that, the 3 different Shrewsbury starting place fellows she needs to proportion the premises with are a disturbingly extraordinary bunch, and earlier than too lengthy considered one of them is useless. yet Emma can locate no solace within the bleak fantastic thing about the encompassing barren region, for there are darkish secrets and techniques encoded in Madam Chandler's writings, and surprising parallels among an old slaying and the unusual, brutal death of her colleague. while the killer moves back, Emma realizes her personal lifestyles is at stake. And unexpectedly there is not any selection left: she is pushed to enquire bloody crimes previous and current -- sooner than her personal loss of life turns into a footnote in a chilling, three-centuries-old tale.
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Extra info for A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery
I decided that it was pretty but nothing special, unusual only for what I knew was locked up inside: one of the best collections of Americana anywhere. I turned around and headed back. I was halfway home again, really feeling beat now, when I heard the engine of a large car behind me. When I turned and saw that it was a security vehicle, an SUV, I moved a little closer to the side of the road so the driver could get by. The driver made no move to continue, so I waved him on. Nothing. I resumed walking and still he followed me, at a snail’s pace, not passing, not falling back.
Back in my room, I chucked my suitcase on the bed and then made several trips for my boxes of books and papers. By the time I was finished I was absolutely pooped, but thought that a walk around would clear my head, show me the grounds, and stretch my tired back. I flicked on my cell phone to see how low the battery was: damn. Plenty of battery charge, but I could get no signal in the house. Leaving my unpacking for later, I grabbed my coat, gloves, and key, and thumped down the stairs, banister sliding postponed for the moment.
This was going to be a trip. I could tell it would be an adventure to learn about this woman’s life. I closed my eyes and said a little prayer to Saint Helena, the patron saint of archaeologists, before I looked at the first entry: May 29/This morning took into service Nora, a little blacke Wenche… That slowed me down a second. The name Nora suggested Irish, while black…of course. It was taking me a minute to acclimate to the idiom of the time. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, black or white generally referred to hair rather than skin color.