I am.
It takes every ounce of will power to bite back the words, to shrug along with Jude like neither of us know.
Maggie takes back her artifact.
But I’m not ready to move on.
I want to examine the words. Dissect them with Jude.
Instead, I barely have time to snap a picture before she returns the journal fragment to the folio and heads back to her office. I open my mouth, but Jude gives his head a curt shake, like now isn’t the time to talk about anything.
When Maggie returns, she opens the album she retrieved from a shelf. Its leather binding creaks in protest.
A registry of ball guests have been written in elegant cursive. Not for the Hunter’s Moon Masquerade Ball, but its predecessor, Foggy Hollow’s Yuletide Ball.
“The fire took a great deal,” Maggie says, flipping toward the front. “But not everything.” She runs a reverent hand down the column of names. “Plenty of archives like these were kept in stonecellars. Fireproof and damp as death. And thank the heavens, too. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have any public records at all before 1822.”
She turns to the very first register—December 23, 1758.
The inaugural Yuletide Ball.
She slides her finger down the list, then comes to a stop.
Miss Molly Ludwig, escorted by Mr. Ezra Vandenberg.
My eyes go wide.“That has to be her, right?”
Maggie’s already on the move, mutteringLudwigunder her breath as she marches toward an old-fashioned card catalog. She pulls open the drawer labeled with an L and starts shuffling through the cards.
I join her, watching as she bypassesLovell, Nathaniel, who—according to the card—drowned in the Blackwillow River in 1792. ThenLowry, Esther—a milliner who crafted elaborate hats for the town’s elite. ThenLudwig, Peter—a reverend who advocated for temperance and moral reform. On the improbable chance that Maggie has alphabetized wrong, she flips past Peter toLyle, Eleanor—a midwife who delivered all the town’s babies from 1872 through 1888. She turns back toLudwig, Peterand removes his card.
It lists his wife, Greta Ludwig. Along with his two children, Gideon &Molly. The card contains six reference numbers.
We chase after each one.
The first leads to an obituary for the wife, who died in childbirth in 1739. The second leads to theTemperance Proclamation of 1756, authored by the reverend, who publicly condemned local taverns for promoting vice, drunkenness, and moral decay. The third leads to the guest list that mentioned Molly. The fourth, a collection of his sermons from the 1770s. The fifth, aPublic Petition to the Magistrate in 1779, urging town officials to shut down a boarding house of ill repute. The sixth and final reference, Reverend Peter Ludwig’s obituary, published in theFoggy Hollow Gazettein the summer of 1781.
I read the last few lines aloud, “He is preceded in death by his beloved wife, Margareta Ludwig. He is survived by his esteemed son, Gideon Ludwig, and a devoted congregation who mourn his passing yet take solace in the promise of his eternal rest.” I look up with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t say anything about Molly.”
Maggie rubs her chin, as though pondering the curiosity.
I stare hard at the symbol drawn in the corner of the sketch.
“What about town hall?” Jude asks. “There might be some information there.”
“You’ll find nothing more than birth, marriage, and death records,” Maggie says, her disdain evident. She doesn’t loathe town hall to the degree with which she loathes the FHPS, but she certainly isn’t a fan of the impersonal way in whichthey handle history—they drain all the life and blood out of a thing!I’m sure there’s also some jealousy involved, given their legal right to archives she’d rather have in her possession.
“But if she got married,” I say, “there could be more to find here. Under a different surname.”
“That is a possibility,” Maggie concedes. “Unfortunately, it’s a possibility that will have to wait until Monday. Town hall is already closed.”
Jude looks at his watch, and sure enough, the time is 4:38 p.m. Town hall locked its doors eight minutes ago.
We step outside, the bell jingling behind us as we turn toward the square, in the direction of our parked cars—Dad’s Ford Bronco for me, a dark gray BMW for Jude.
“Well, at least we got some clarity.” I curl my thumbs under the straps of my backpack. “The symbol isn’t a family crest. Which means we can eliminate your theory.”
Jude slides on his sunglasses. “How do you figure?”
