Even with this explanation, he felt a certain stirring at the sound of the drum. And why shouldn’t he? he thought. He was being summoned, too. Smiling at the thought, he put on his hat and stepped into the street.

He didn’t go back to the printshop at once, eager though he was to tell Bree his good news. He needed to be alone for a bit, to open his overflowing heart to God, and make a minister’s promises.

In late afternoon, the heat of the day had pressed the town flat. Only his joy could have made him oblivious to it; even so, the air was like breathing melted butter and he made his way to the waterfront, hoping for a breeze. The waterfront was never deserted, at any hour of the day or night, but at this time of day, most of the ships at anchor in the harbor had been unloaded, their goods receipted, the customs paid, and the sweating longshoremen retired to the nearest place of refreshment—which happened to be the Half-Moon tavern. He was tempted to slake his thirst before embarking on his private devotions—he hadn’t been unloading ships in this heat, thank God, but he wasn’t used to the coast and its tropical fugs, either—but there were priorities.

His priorities suddenly altered when he saw Fergus, who stood at the end of the quay, looking out across the water, this shimmering under the low sun like the surface of a magic mirror.

He heard Roger’s footsteps and turned to greet him, smiling.

“Comment ça va?”

“Ça va,” Roger replied nonchalantly, but then broke into an enormous involuntary grin.

“Ça va très bien?” Fergus asked.

“More bien than you can imagine,” Roger assured him, and Fergus clapped him on the shoulder.

“I knew it would be well,” he said, and then, digging his hand into his pocket, he came out with a handful of coins and folded warehouse certificates. “Half of this is yours—to buy a new black coat,” he said, looking critically at Roger’s present garment. “And a white neckcloth with the—” His hand and hook both smoothed his upper chest, indicating the presence of a Presbyterian minister’s white lappets.

Roger stared at the money, then at Fergus. “You made book on my passing the interview? What were the odds?”

“Five to three. Pas mal. Will you be ordained here, then?” He frowned slightly. “It should be all right if it’s soon.”

“I think it will be in North Carolina, maybe at Davy Caldwell’s church—or maybe here, if we can get enough elders to come. But what do you think is about to happen?”