He breathed in nostalgically, half expecting to smell the dusty scent of flax and the mouthwatering richness of fish rolled in cornmeal and fried in butter. The lingering taste of the corn bread gave it to him for a moment, before withdrawing and leaving him with the smell of the slop bucket in the corner of his cell. He got up and used it, then straightened his clothes and splashed another handful of water onto his face.

The only thing he was sure of was that he wouldn’t have to wait too long. Ben wouldn’t dare keep him for long where people could become curious.

“And you couldn’t think of anything better than to call me a saboteur,” he said aloud to his cousin. “That’ll make everybody curious, you nit.”

William was curious, too, about what might happen next—but in fact not really worried that Ben would have him formally executed, much as he might like to. William’s mind paused on the picture of Ben’s face when Amaranthus had entered the conversation. Yes, he definitely had wanted to kill William right then and undoubtedly still did.

The thought of Amaranthus summoned her as though she stood before him physically, blue-gray eyes creasing with her smile. Tall and buxom, smelling of grape leaves, with a faint sweet aroma of rice powder and baby poo. And her long, slender, water-cool fingers touching his …

He squared his shoulders and blew out his breath. Time enough to deal with her when he was out of this place.

If Ben hadn’t had him shot at dawn, he wasn’t going to kill him. Aside from the fear that William would start shouting incriminating things on his way to the firing squad, there was Dottie. William had no doubt that she loved Ben and Adam and Henry; it was a close-knit family. But Dottie was fond of him, too—and beyond that, she was a Quaker now. Having spent some time traveling with Rachel and Denzell Hunter, William had considerable respect for Quakers in general, and while Dottie was what he thought was called a professed Friend rather than a born one, she certainly possessed enough native stubbornness to give any born Quaker a run for his or her money.

He was therefore not surprised when a guard abruptly opened the door to his cell an hour later and Denzell Hunter walked in, his scuffed physician’s bag in hand.

“I trust I see thee well, Friend,” he said. His voice was pleasant, neutral—but his eyes were warm behind their spectacles. “How does thee do this morning?”

“I’ve done better,” William said, with a glance at the door. “I’m sure a drink of brandy and a bit of Latin will fix me right up, though.”

“It’s a bit early for brandy, but I’ll do my best. Take off thy britches and bend over the bench, please.”

“What?”