Matthew put his cheek down upon the cap; it was not much, but better than nothing. As sleep came up to carry him away for a time the questions in his mind nettled him: it was more clear why Cardinal Black wanted to get his fingers around The Lesser Key of Solomon than it was why a Royal Navy admiral would want to join in such an attack on Fell’s paradise. To steal Jonathan Gentry’s book of potions and poisons? Why? Obviously the plan had been a long time in preparation, and for what purpose?

The answers would have to wait, for Matthew tumbled away into the darkness of sleep and for at least a while a blessed release.

He awakened—who knew how long it was—when Julian rasped out, “No!” and he lifted his head to see the man sitting upright, his eyes wild and staring at nothing. As Matthew watched, sleep-fogged, Julian settled his chair against the wall once again, the tortured eyes closed and he was gone into the realm of Somnus, if he had ever really been awake.

Matthew slept again. The second time he was jarred to consciousness was when he heard a rattle and scrape and Julian was on his feet with the pistol in one hand and his drawn sword in the other, and the barkeep was peering in through the door he’d just opened. The barkeep looked nervously at the weapons and said, “Pardon, sirs … just seein’ if you need anything.”

“Privacy and silence,” Julian answered, his voice as harsh as a horsewhip. The barkeep backed out, closed the door, and Julian returned to his chair with a muffled curse.

Matthew’s cheek found the woolen cap once more and he drifted away, yet part of him remained on watch just as he knew Julian did. Precious time was moving, but the demands of rest had to be met.

It seemed no more than minutes later when Matthew felt a hand on his shoulder and instantly he surfaced from the depths.

“Let’s go,” said Julian, who already had his pistol holstered, his sword in its scabbard and the scabbard put away, the saddlebag over his shoulder and his tricorn on, tilted at its rakish angle. The dark hollows beneath his eyes said he had not rested well, if indeed he ever did. He took the last drink of cold coffee from his cup and said, “We need to find a ride to Londontown.”

Seven

The sun was just coming up, painting the town and the harbor a lighter shade of dull gray. Low clouds had settled in and cold wind blew through the streets. Seagulls flew amid the masts, and beneath them the workmen labored on with their crates and barrels, a never-ending task of loading and unloading.

Matthew and Julian, bundled up against the morning’s chill and breathing out ghosts, were on their way toward the coach office the barkeep had directed them to. The chalky and slightly bitter smell of old stones permeated the air. Here and there the rest of Bristol was awakening; horse-drawn wagons were trundling about and a few people were walking to their destinations still carrying lanterns to guide their paths. Further along, Matthew noted an office with the sign of an anchor centered within a gold coin. The signage read Royal Atlantic Company.