The doors on the right opened. Julian peered in, his gun in hand. His face had taken on a blue cast and he was shivering. Snow frosted the cloak and the tricorn he had taken from Bogen’s body. Found in a buttoned pocket within the cloak were four crowns, sixteen shillings and a few pence, a goodly amount but quite a comedown from a satchel full of gold bars.

“I’m freezing out here,” he managed to say to Matthew, though his tongue was thickened by the cold. “Need a heavier coat and a woolen cap. Gloves, too. We’re stopped alongside a goods shop. I’m breaking in. Need anything?”

“I could use a coat, sir,” said the doctor. “Winter stockings for my legs as well, and while you’re at it find me a jug of some nice hot cider.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, shithead.”

“Oh, but you should be. Corbett tells me I’m needed to prepare a potion of some kind at the end of this delightful journey. How can I do so, if I have frozen to death on the trip?”

Julian’s blue-lipped mouth set into a grim line, which told Matthew that he was thinking exactly what Matthew had considered: the doctor had them over a barrel of sorts, and he must be protected—if not downright coddled—to get him to Fell’s village in working order.

Julian gave not a glance to Elizabeth. He closed the doors. Matthew watched through the porthole as Julian approached one of the shopfronts, swung with the butt of his pistol and broke the glass. Another swing, and more shattering of the display window followed. Then all was silent but the soft shrilling of the wind around the coach, as obviously Julian had gotten into the shop.

Suddenly Firebaugh moved.

It was so fast and unexpected that he had burst the doors open and was halfway out of the coach before Matthew could react. Matthew reached out to grab the nightgown but the man in it had already leaped from the coach and was running through the snow. Matthew let out a “Hey!” as if that would stop the doctor’s flight. He had an instant of quandry: leave Elizabeth and the book? Leave the dagger lying on the seat?