Had Archambault’s clerk really asked me that? Where would I have seen him before, or a boy like him? He looked nothing like George Warde. Nor my brother, Ned. A soldier from somewhere…who am I remembering? Elwyn? No. Elwyn has faded from me and will not resurface. Elwyn is gone. Was it Ronnie, my Highland drummer, that I saw in the clerk’s face? Was it Sam? Maybe Sam Holland?

In the tattooed clerk throbbed Danger and Bliss—my twin lovers from camp, where men flung limbs over one another in a snoring web. If the enemy came, no matter his stealth, we’d waken as one.

This is the regiment’s interlocked body: sweeter than paired love.

How I miss it now, alone on Saint Catherine. The exile of a soldier ejected from war is unbearable. I’ve suffered it before, and will continue to do so as long as I wander in my unease in this city of peace.

Is there no one I can summon to walk with me? Sophie has made it clear that traipsing the streets with me is not part of our deal. And Mrs. Waugh, though I hold hopes of our meeting again, is hardly the confidante of my dreams. Isn’t there anyone?

Before I left England in February 1759, I beseeched George Warde by letter to come with me to Quebec, invoking all our old methods of mock dissuasion. I promised dire hazard, extreme disadvantage, destruction of his health and constitution—all the exertions he and I craved beyond sex, claret, tobacco or the harder vices.

I promised him peril and even risked committing to paper my extreme delight over the pleasures of his company.

My only regret is that I could not for national security’s sake reveal the location in which our exquisite danger was to manifest. All I could say was that I did not mean the Indies but could promise him a far distant land.

He agreed to come and my heart leapt.

If I’d specified Quebec I believe he’d have extracted himself from his obligations. Had he done so we’d not have lost one another. I wish I had identified my campaign by some oblique code.

I longed for George’s company as soldier and man. He was the confluence of my personal and national excitement.

This was long after I mistook that other man for George in France, outside Café Procope. My French lessons had taken place around that corner. This man stood out. He was not like the buffoons of Paris.