When the items were presented on a green enamel tray—and Hudson thought that three more nights of everything green was all he could stand before he turned green himself—he asked where he might compose a letter and was directed to a writing desk in a well-lighted alcove.

Hudson sat down at the desk’s chair. He spread the paper out on the desk’s blotter—yes, green—and thought out what he was going to write. He was much more gifted at fighting than writing, but here was the moment he’d been planning for all day.

So, to the task at hand with the supplied pen and inkwell.

It took him a while.

When he was finished and had signed his name at the bottom, he folded the sheet and slid it into the envelope.

On the envelope he scribed To Sheriff Gideon Lancer and beneath that, Whistler Green. Ah … here green was a necessity rather than a bilious luxury.

Hudson took the tray of writing materials and the envelope back to the clerk. “Will you seal this with your stamp, please?”

“Of course, sir.” There was a moment while the clerk fetched a candle—emerald green—and the official stamp of the Emerald Inn to seal the letter.

When it was completed, Hudson said, “Will you get this out by express mail coach as soon as possible? First thing in the morning, I hope?” He was already reaching into his pocket for the money. He brought out two shillings and laid them on the clerk’s desk.

“Sir, that’s far too much postage!”

“First thing in the morning,” Hudson repeated, the stern notes of no nonsense and no mistakes shading his voice.

The clerk nodded, slipped the envelope into a leather pouch along with a few other letters, and it was accomplished.

Hudson pulled his hood up, walked out of the inn and into the cold night. He crossed the street to the Old Crock tavern, where he ordered an ale and sat at a back table listening to a young woman with long shining black hair playing the guitar and singing songs of lost love.

Hudson mused that she should be singing songs of newfound love, to suit the occasion. Right now Matthew was probably up in Berry’s room. During the trip from Fell’s village they had stayed so close to each other Hudson thought it a wonder they hadn’t had to be pried apart with a crowbar. But who could fault that? Both of them had walked through their own territory of Hell, so for now let the angels sing.