So there they all are: Edwin is engaged to be married. Asia is pregnant. June is touring. John appears, disappears, reappears. He seems to have been frequenting Montreal, a hub of Confederate scheming, but is also, often, in Washington. They assume that he keeps returning to the capital because Lucy Hale is there. They find these repeated visits encouraging. A good woman will soon put John right.

He still comes often to Philadelphia. Asia might see him at any hour. He arrives, sleeps on the sofa in his clothes, and leaves before dawn. When he goes, Asia removes all evidence of his visit. Sleeper is none the wiser.

Men stand at the sill in the darkness, and whisper for him to come to the window. They keep their faces hidden. Some of their voices she knows—little Michael O’Laughlen, who used to live on the other side of Exeter Street and trailed after John wherever he went. Sam Arnold, John’s old mate from school. But when she greets them, they tell her, No, no, that’s not my name. You’ve mistaken me for someone else.

Most of the voices are strange to her.

One night John takes her hand. “I need to show you a cipher,” he says. His plans are changing, the kidnapping of Lincoln replaced with something more dreadful.

She pulls her hand away. “I want no knowledge of it.”

He waits in silence for her to change her mind. She doesn’t.

He then takes a packet of letters from his vest, gives them to her. “Keep these until I return,” he says. “Lock them in the safe.” He kisses her on the cheek, on the forehead, on the hand. He leaves. She sits staring at an envelope labeled Mother. Before she’s risen, he’s back. “Let me see you lock them up.”

The safe is in a cold, stone, windowless room. Asia keeps the keys; Sleeper never goes inside it. The room has two doors. She opens the first, the heavy door. She opens the second, the iron door. When the packet is secure, they return to the couch. She sits. He kneels.

He puts his head in her lap. “ ‘I dare do all that may become a man,’ ” he says. “ ‘Who dares do more is none.’ ”

She strokes his hair. “I’m going to name the baby after you if it’s a boy. Then I’ll have my very own Edwin and John all over again. Promise me you’re being careful. I need you to teach the children to ride. To sword fight. Recite a poem.”

“Make it a boy then,” he says.

—

Some things last. There will always be a place on her cheek, her forehead, her hand where he kissed her. She will always be able to conjure the feel of his black hair under her fingers. “Be patient. This war will end,” she tells him.