In the year of our Lord 1673, when the wind had a bite like a file and the dunes kept their own counsel, there stood a small house near the marsh edge—low roof, tight shutters, and a chimney that drew like a stubborn mule.
Within it lived Mistress Elspeth Thorne, widow to a cooper and keeper of a modest physic garden. Some called it a “witch’s patch” whe…
