Mercy's Quiet Rebellion: Secrets of the 1776 Apothecary is a short historical fiction novella set during the American Revolution.

Before the book release, I thought it would be fun to share this story here on the blog one chapter at a time.

I've always been fascinated by the ordinary people who lived through extraordinary moments in history. While history books often focus on generals and battles, I find myself wondering about the healers, shopkeepers, apprentices, and families whose lives were forever changed by the events unfolding around them.

I hope you enjoy meeting Mercy Hathaway and the people who inhabit her world.

Now, let's begin.

Chapter 1: The Salve of Lavender and Myrrh

The bell above the shop door had not yet rung, and the street beyond the window glass lay grey and still. Mercy Hathaway stood at the workbench in the back room, her hands moving before her mind had fully caught up with the morning. Lavender buds rolled under the pestle, releasing their oil in small dark smears against the mortar's stone. She added a measure of dried myrrh, the resin catching the light like chips of amber, and ground the mixture until the scent rose sharp and medicinal.

The shop was cold. She had lit the fire in the front room but not yet the one back here, and her fingers were stiff. She worked anyway. The salve was for Goody Proctor's joints, which ached when the weather turned, and Goody Proctor would be by before noon to collect it. Mercy had promised it three days ago. The work was simple, the kind her hands knew better than she did, and she let them move while her thoughts settled elsewhere.

Outside, the first cart of the morning rattled past on the cobbles. A voice called out, then another, the words indistinct but the tone carrying the clipped cadence of a soldier. British patrol. They had been quartered in the town for six months now, and Mercy had learned to read the sound of their boots on the street the way she once read the calls of birds in the marsh beyond the meetinghouse. The patrol passed. The cart moved on. She exhaled and did not remember having held the breath.

She tipped the ground herbs into a small stone jar and reached for the beeswax. The grief came not as a thought but as a scent: feverfew, which she had not touched in years. She had been crushing feverfew leaves the morning Obadiah's skin had burned under her palm, and the smell of it had clung to her apron for days afterward. She had thrown the apron into the fire. She had not opened the jar of feverfew since. This morning the jar sat on the shelf above the workbench, its wax seal still whole, and she looked at it for a long moment before she turned away.

The front bell chimed.

"Good morrow, Mercy." Patience Woolsey pulled the door shut behind her, a rush of cold air sweeping the front room. She untied her bonnet with quick fingers and hung it on the peg by the door. Her cap was slightly askew, as it always was, and her cheeks were pink from the walk. "I saw the patrol on Queen Street. They stopped the miller's cart."

"Did they." Mercy moved into the front room, wiping her hands on her apron. "And?"

"He showed them his papers. They let him pass." Patience set her basket on the counter and began untying its cloth cover. "They were looking for someone."

Mercy nodded. She did not ask who.

"I need you to sort the chamomile this morning," Mercy said. "The new batch from the drying loft. The stems are still mixed in."

Patience's hands stilled. "The chamomile can wait. You said yesterday we'd begin the wound salves."

"We will. Tomorrow."

"You said today."

Mercy met her eyes. Patience was seventeen, bright-eyed and quick, and she had been with Mercy for nearly two years. She had learned to read the difference between yarrow and tansy, to steep willow bark for fever, and to keep her voice low when customers asked certain questions.

"Tomorrow," Mercy said again, her voice gentle. "The chamomile needs doing, and you have the steadiest hand for it."

Patience held her gaze a moment longer, then nodded. Not satisfied, but obedient.

Mercy returned to the back room. The beeswax had begun to soften over the low flame, and she stirred it with a wooden spatula, watching it turn glossy. She added the lavender and myrrh mixture, then the oil of rosemary, and stirred until the color evened. The salve would be ready by the time Goody Proctor arrived.

The knock came at the back door.

Not the front bell.

The back door.

Three knocks, then two, then one.

The signal.

Mercy's hand stopped on the jar of salve. She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed the room, drawing back the bolt.

Silas Thorne stood in the alley, his face drawn tight. Behind him, slumped against the cooper's barrels, was a man Mercy had never seen before. He was young, perhaps thirty, with dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His shirt was soaked through at the shoulder, the stain red and still spreading.

"He needs a surgeon," Silas said. "There's no time to move him farther."

Mercy looked at the wounded man. His skin had the grey pallor of someone who had lost blood and was still losing it.

"Bring him in," she said.

Silas half-carried the man into the back room and lowered him onto the pallet in the corner.

"His name is Jeremiah Finch," Silas said. "He carries intelligence. There's a message in his coat."

"Wait." Mercy caught his arm. "Where are you going?"

"To draw them off."

He pressed a small bundle into her hands, wrapped in coarse linen and tied with twine.

"This needs to reach the miller before noon. He'll know what to do."

Mercy looked at the bundle. Beneath the scent of sage she could smell ink.

"Silas—"

"I know what I'm asking," he said. "But there's no one else."

Then he was gone.

Mercy stood alone with the wounded stranger and the bundle in her hands.

From the front room came the faint sound of Patience humming as she sorted chamomile.

She listened to the humming for a moment longer, then tucked the bundle away and knelt beside Jeremiah Finch.

She cut away the blood-soaked shirt and examined the wound. Deep. Ragged. Angry with infection.

Jeremiah opened his eyes.

His lips moved, but no sound came.

"Quiet now," Mercy said. "You're safe here."

The lie came easily.

She had told it before.

She pressed a clean cloth to the wound and watched the blood bloom through it. For a moment she saw not Jeremiah but Obadiah, burning with fever years before.

But this man was not Obadiah.

This man was still breathing.

Still fighting.

Still here.

She cleaned the wound, packed it with yarrow and comfrey, and wrapped it with clean linen. Gradually his breathing steadied. His hand found hers and gripped it once before he slipped into unconsciousness.

In the front of the shop, Patience had stopped humming.

Mercy heard footsteps approach, pause, then retreat.

The girl was observant.

Eventually she would learn the truth.

But not today.

Today there was a wounded man to hide, a message to protect, and a shop to run.

She washed her hands and stepped into the front room.

Patience looked up from her basket of chamomile.

"Is everything well?" she asked.

Mercy looked at her apprentice. Morning light filtered through the window, catching the dust from the dried flowers and turning it gold.

"Everything is well," Mercy said. "Finish the chamomile. We'll begin the wound salves tomorrow."

Enjoying the story?

Chapter 2, The Search in the Backroom, Mercy finds herself facing new dangers that threaten both her shop and the secrets hidden within its walls.

— Tami Roberts