In the shadow of the Boston harbor, where salt-laced winds whispered secrets of rebellion, Elara Whitlock tended to the sick in her father’s apothecary. The year was 1774, and the air crackled with more than just the chill of early…
In the autumn of 1776, the air hung thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. Eliza Whitaker moved through the makeshift hospital tent, her hands steady as she pressed a cloth to a soldier’s chest wound. The man’s…
The forge fire crackled, casting jagged shadows across Eli Tremain’s calloused hands. The air reeked of smoldering oak and iron, a scent that had clung to him since the first cannon blast shattered the dawn quiet. His son, Samuel, had…
The air reeked of burnt parchment and iron as Eleanor traced the cracks in the courthouse floor, her fingers brushing against dust that had settled for decades. Outside, the bell tower’s iron clapper swung wildly, its clangs slicing through the…
The air reeked of gunpowder and damp earth as Thomas Whitaker crouched behind a splintered fence, his fingers numb around the musket stock. The sky hung low, a bruise of clouds swallowing the sun, and the river behind him glowed…
The first time Sarah Whitaker held a pamphlet printed with the words “No Taxation Without Representation,” the paper felt like a live thing in her hands, its edges sharp with possibility. It was 1765, and the air in Boston stank…
The air reeked of salt and smoke as Elara Whitcombe crouched behind a stack of empty wine barrels, her fingers trembling around the cold iron handle of a bayonet. The British soldiers’ boots thudded against the cobblestones, their voices a…