Dolcy’s face was pleasant, open as a child’s, and knowing as the ancient Eve’s. How much they all knew—and told the obeah woman! “Madam?” she said. Dolcy jerked her turbaned head toward China’s room. “What papers?” “Papers—” Dolcy waved a palmetto fan. “I see—yes—” She saw only that China, too, had determined to discover what there was to discover of Hester. She looked at the scattered clothing on the floor, the demure gray and brown nurse’s dresses, the pathetic fripperies of silk and lace—given Hester by Madam Tooke? “Put those away,” she told Dolcy and went to China’s room. A candle was guttering in its holder. China lay flat on the bed, snoring loudly. So her rum had taken its toll and a good thing, Amity thought grimly, for clasped lightly in one of China’s dimpled little hands was a sheaf of papers, folded tightly and tied with a blue ribbon.
