“Maybe He’s deserved it. He did not, after all, tell Scammell. He told no one, except Goodwife, and he needed her to reach you quickly.”

“What does he want?”

“Fame.”

Sir Grenville gave a short, braying laugh. “Is that all? That’s easy. I’ll have him in St. Paul’s Preaching House this Sabbath, and every Sabbath if he wants.”

“No.” Ebenezer contradicted Sir Grenville without embarrassment. His self-assurance, since he had come to this house, was extraordinary. “He has his own ideas about fame.” He told Sir Grenville quickly, concisely, seeing the pleasure on the older man’s face.

Sir Grenville thought about it, staring at the dark window in which the room’s candles were now reflected. He smiled. “So the courts will finish her off?”

“Yes. And there’ll be no blame attached to us.”

“You could even plead for her, Ebenezer.”

The thin, ascetic face nodded. “I will.”

“While Faithful Unto Death—what an apposite name—will make sure she dances on a rope.”

“Or worse.”

“How very fitting it all is.” Sir Grenville rubbed plump hands together. “You’ll have to go to Lazen, Ebenezer. I’ll make sure the Committee of Safety releases you from your services.” Ebenezer acknowledged the order with a grave nod. Sir Grenville, despite the drink in him, was thinking clearly. “Take the priest, and I’ll make sure Scammell is there. Let me know when it’s about to fall, I’ll come down.”

“You want to be there?”

“There is a seal to collect, remember?”

Ebenezer did not move, did not say anything.

Sir Grenville chuckled. “And a large estate. I’ll take possession quickly.”

“When?”

“As soon as we can march.” Sir Grenville shrugged. “It will be early spring, but we can keep an eye on the place till then.” He smiled broadly. “I shall make you my heir, Ebenezer.”

Ebenezer gave a tiny bow, then smiled. “I hope your astrologer was wrong about the other thing.”

Sir Grenville wished the words had not been said. Despite the heat of the fire, despite the warmth in the room, he felt a chill go through him. Barnegat, poring over Sir Grenville’s charts, had said an enemy would come from beyond the seas. He thought of Kit Aretine, but Aretine was dead! Sir Grenville shivered. If Kit Aretine had heard one hundredth part of what had been spoken in this room this Christmas night, then Cony could fear a death that would make the dying of Ebenezer Slythe’s victims seem merciful.

“Put some logs on the fire, Ebenezer. Aretine’s dead. He’s in his American grave, and I hope the American worms vomit on his corpse. No. Barnegat meant Lopez, and if the Jew dares show his face in England we’ll have him behind bars.”

Ebenezer limped to the fire, fed it with logs, and watched as the flames leaped bright. He leaned on the mantel, curiously elegant in his fur-edged, purple gown. His eyes were like twin points of white light. “Do you want entertaining this evening?”

Sir Grenville twisted his head round. “Do sit down, dear boy, my neck is hurting.” He watched Ebenezer limp back to the chair. “What do you have?”