The leaves started falling off the trees and covering the ground. Every step Hester took was more audible, so she tried to walk quickly with light steps to avoid drawing any attention to her actions as she went to visit the minister. He let her in with a warm greeting.

The table had a cup with a single rose in it.

"Mr. Dimmesdale, how beautiful. I hath not seen roses in the village," she said.

"There is but one wild bush I hath seen by the prison when I went to comfort some wretches awaiting their sentences. I asked the guard if I should be able to pluck one as I thought—" he paused and looked down. "Thee might like it."

Hester picked up the bud and smelled its fragrance. "I do, good sir. Thank ye. How hast thee found Boston since your arrival?"

"The folk being of the true faith comforts me. Yet there is a wildness here beyond the village that frightens me. The villagers fear that the Black Man lives in these woods with his pen to sign souls to his book."

"Fear not. It is not so bad if you are keen about your senses. I love being in the sunlight, blocked by no buildings. I find walking along the shore to be peaceful and meditative. Man built the village, but God built the land," she said. "Hast thou seen snow in your travels?"

"A little, aye."

"Oh, then that is what will frighten ye here." Hester smiled.

Dimmesdale sat down next to her. "Can I ask thou an intimate question?"

"Aye."

"What was thy husband like?" Mr. Dimmesdale asked.

She looked out at the burial grounds that adjoined the church. The land was still and peaceful, not as ominous as some people thought. Plants grew wildly, with burdock plants tall in the grass, small hillocks forming a pathway between the graves.

"Calm, gentle, passionless. Cold," she said. "He thought it best for me to be completely dependent on him, not for mine own comfort, but for his eagerness to learn and possess. He was a learned man, a wise man, keen to study alchemy and study plants to find their medicinal uses. I was but an item to study and use for his betterment, and I think I did better him with the only affection he had ever had. I do fear that it went away in our time apart. If anyone crossed him, he never forgot."

"Dost thou need comfort for your loss?" he asked gently.

"Nay." Tears stung her eyes, but not for her lost husband, but for her reverend thinking her a monster. "Mr. Dimmesdale, the Bible teacheth that a man must guide his wife and a wife must obey her husband, yet I am free hither and have made my life for the better. What sayest ye?"

"Oh," said he. His cheeks reddened. "Mistress Prynne, thou art a credit to your sex. Thou art strong in sense and—" he stopped talking.

"Aye?"

"I lost mine thought. Can I read to thee from my sermon while thy sew?" he said.

Hester nodded. She took from her bag her cloth, needle and thread. Her fingers began to work, pulling golden thread through the gossamer trimming, moving at a steady pace from years of experience.

The reverend picked up his paper pile and cleared his throat. “I do not practise my sermons in front of people. Why doth I feel more nervous than in a crowded church?”

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“Be not nervous. I will look down at my work, but I shall listen intently,” said she. “Carry on when ready.”

Dimmesdale looked at his papers. He stood, then sat back down, and then stood again. “Today, I will discuss with you: Sin,” said he. “Let us be aware of every sin, because every sin can turn a man into a Devil. Vile, horrible, and cursed – mayhaps sinful sin! How pernicious art unto the soul of men!”

“Art all sins the same?” Hester asked, her needle never ceasing movement.

Mr. Dimmesdale looked at her, his trance broken. “Art all sins the same?” he repeated.

“Forgive me. I hath meant to listen and not interject, as I would not at thy true sermon. I only meant it as postulation, as a question of concern, for I would like to hear thy thoughts.”

“Yes,” he decided. “Any sin is an affront to God and a step towards the Devil.”

“Can one sin and still accept Christ, and thus be forgiven?” she asked.

He appeared flustered. “Yes - and no - it is not for me to know how forgiving God is. It is not for us to test His patience.”

“I see,” Hester said and looked back to her work.

“I am amiss,” he said, shuffling his papers. He picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and scrawled through his text.

“Please, reverend, I only inquire, I do not dismiss. Every Puritan is as afraid all the time. Afraid of Indian attack, of starving, of drought and flood, of the Black Man himself. Dost thou offer comfort and fear, or only the latter? For me, only one of your parish, I long for more goodness and hope to hear of during the Sabbath.”

“Aye,” he said. “Perhaps. We all face sin and need to be steadfast in our defence of it.”

“Perhaps not every sin is as equally sinful,” Hester said, surprising both of them with her boldness.

“I…I must rewrite some of this,” he said.

“I can leave thee with thy thoughts,” she offered.

He held up his hand. “Do not go if thou wish to stay. Let me consult my books if I may. Give me a moment."

Hester did not interrupt him again as he wrote until the sunset. “I must depart thee, good reverend.”

“Please, stay, I honour thy company,” he said without looking up.

“Shall you not have supper? You cannot go without. I could cook for thee if thy wish.”

“Will you? Mistress Prynne, I should be so grateful.”

So for then and their future meetings, Dimmesdale supplied the food with his higher salary, and Hester cooked it with her higher skill. It helped her stretch her meagre earnings further, as she would have had to have cooked anyway were she home, it was no loss of time for her.

After it was dark, she finally put away her needle, as candlelight was too hard to work by. “You have given me thought how to best inspire my parishioners,” he said. “I wish to help, not frighten, or perhaps do both together.” At the door, he took her hand. “Good day, Mistress. Should I escort you home? I should.”

“Nay,” she said. “It is not far, and you are better served on your reworkings. I have wondered...”

“Sayest your question,” he prompted.

She took a deep breath and looked in his brown eyes. Her courage abandoned her. “I cannot. I look forward to thy sermon. Good night, minister.” She turned and took quick steps. What kind eyes, she thought. What a thoughtful, passionate mind. She would have listened to him all night if she could.

On Sunday, his sermon mixed in sin and repentance of sin, fear and hope, not losing his original message, but expanding it away from the misery so often dwelt upon by orators on their platform. Bostonians’ lives were already hard and full of toil. Hester liked that on the Sabbath, she did not have to interrupt her hard work to hear hard words, and that her one moment of rest could have just a bit of hope.

He did not look at her any more than he looked to the rest of the crowd. An unknowing eye would suspect nothing of their private time spent together. Still, she never broke away her gaze, looking incessantly for their eyes to meet.

Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale still emphasised a sin was a sin no matter how grave, and Hester reasoned he must know more on the subject than she. But how could it be that if she coveted something, that was as damning as an act done in cruelty and malice against another?

She did covet, and she did not regret it in her heart. But her thoughts hurt no one. If she was dishonouring anyone, it was her husband, but only if he lived. She had not wished him dead. She did suddenly wish she knew or not if he were, and thus if her thoughts were sinful or not. She was neither officially wife nor widow, and suddenly she was resentful of not being able to move herself officially to widowhood and being open to rewed.