And now he had to hear a witch trial. The toadlike witcher, Quill, had come to see him when he arrived in Cambridge last night, reminding him that it was his duty to uphold the law—as if John Adams needed prompting in his duty from the likes of Quill. “I have not exceeded the law in any respect,” said Quill, “as you’ll see even from the testimony of the witches, unless they lie.”

“God help us if a witch should tell a lie,” John had murmured. Quill missed the irony entirely and took the answer as an affirmation. Well, that was fine. John didn’t mind if he went away happy, as long as he went away.

John should have died last year, when he got the grippe. He had it on the best authority that the Boston papers had all planned on a double-page spread for his obituary. That was precisely the space devoted to the eulogy of the last Lord Protector to shuffle off his mortal coil. It was good to be considered at a level with rulers and potentates, even though he had never quite succeeded in joining New England to the United States, making it impossible for him to play a role in that extraordinary experiment. Instead he remained here, among the good people of New England, whom he truly loved like brothers and sisters, even though he longed now and then to see a face that didn’t look like every other face.

Witch trials, though—it was an ugly thing, a holdover from medieval times. A shame on the face of New England.

But the law was the law. An accusation had been made, so a trial would have to be held, or at least the beginning of one. Quill would have his chance to get some poor wretch hanged—if he could do it without violating the prerogatives of the bench or pushing the powers of the law beyond their statutory and natural limits.

Now at breakfast John Adams sat with his old pupil, Hezekiah Study. I adhere to a double standard, John admitted to himself. Quill’s visit to me last night I thought highly improper. Hezekiah’s visit, equally intended to influence my judgment in this case, I plan to enjoy. Well, any fool can be consistent, and most fools are.

“Cambridge is not what it used to be,” said John to Hezekiah. “The students don’t wear their robes.”

“Out of fashion now,” said Hezekiah. “Though if anyone had known you were coming, they might have put the robes back on. Your opinion on the subject is well known.”

“As if these boys would so much as part their hair for a relic like me.”

“A holy relic, sir?” asked Hezekiah.

John grimaced. “Oh, so I’m to be called ‘sir’ by you?”

“I was your student. You gave me Plato and Homer.”

“But you wanted Aristophanes, as I recall.” John Adams sighed. “You must realize, all my peers are dead. If I’m to have anyone on this earth call me John, it will have to be a friend who once called me ‘sir’ because of my seniority. We should have a new social rule. When we reach fifty, we’re all the same age forever.”