He had a good idea what Hunter meant by “discern.” The man had traveled in company with Jamie Fraser, he knew that much—and he knew that Fraser had been a Jacobite spy in Paris, among other things. The word “spy” gave him a disturbing echo of Percy, but he pushed it aside, holding the paper up to the light, in case there should be secret writing in vinegar or milk—sometimes you could see the faint difference in reflection on the paper’s surface, even though the words would come into view only when heated.

It was simpler than that. There were words written on the back of the letter, written lightly with a pencil. It looked like a brief paragraph written in Latin. The words were indeed Latin, but strung together without meaning. Even Hal could have recognized it as a coded message, though he wouldn’t have known what to do with it.

He smiled a little, despite the seriousness of the situation. It was a cipher, with “friend” as the key.

Five minutes’ work gave him the name: Elmsworth, Wilkins Corner, Virginia.

“We’ll send William,” he said to Hal, with as much confidence as he could manage. “Don’t worry. He’ll bring her back.”

WILLIAM FELT AS though he’d been struck in the chest by a cannonball. His mouth opened and closed—he could feel it, automatic as the wooden jaws of a marionette—but nothing came out for a moment.

“That’s very terrible,” he managed at last, in a strangled croak. “Sit down, Papa. You’re going to fall.”

His father did look as though someone had cut his strings. Dead white, and his hand trembled when William pushed a glass of brandy into it. He looked round the inside of the little shed William shared with John Cinnamon as though he’d never seen it before, then sat down and drank the brandy.

“Well,” he said, coughed, and cleared his throat. “Well.”

“Not all that well,” William said, peering at him. “How’s Uncle Hal?” His own sense of shock was beginning to subside, though there was still an iron weight in his chest.

“As you might expect,” his father said, and took a deep, wet breath. “Off his head,” he added more clearly, having taken another large swallow. “Wanting to ride off directly and fetch Dottie himself. Not that I blame him.” He took another. “I want to do that, too. But I doubt that Sir Henry would see it that way. War, you know.”

War, indeed. Half the regiment was set to move on Tuesday, to join Clinton’s troops at Charles Town. The weight had shifted lower in his body, and he could breathe now.

“I’ll go, of course,” William said, and in a softer tone, added, “Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll bring her back.”

99

Is. 6:8

“I’M SORRY,” ROGER SAID at last. “I had to …”

“It’s all right,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “You’re back. That’s all that matters.”