They came by the shipload. And though they weren’t the poorest Irish—for at least they, or relations in America, had been able to pay the fare—once they had arrived, they usually had few resources. And for newcomers to the city, if all else failed and you’d nowhere to go, then the last resort was the filthy tenements of Five Points. God knows how many poor Irish were crowded in there now.

The area contained one noble building: a huge rectangle, the size of a castle, whose tall window frames and thick stone columns were splendidly sculpted in the Egyptian style—so that you might have thought the ancient pharaohs had deserted their pyramids and come to live in New York. Whether its inmates appreciated the architecture was doubtful, for this was the local prison, known as “The Tombs”—a blunt reminder that the New World, too, could be cold and hard as stone.

But as she glanced in the direction of Five Points, there was one thing Mary was sure of: every prisoner, every prostitute, every tavernkeeper, every poor Irish newcomer—every one of them knew the devil, and he knew them. Like as not, he was in there now. She quickened her pace, therefore, until she was well past.

Only once did she pause, for a moment or two, at Reade Street, to look into the handsome windows of A. T. Stewart’s Dry Goods Store. She didn’t go past it often, but who could resist peeping at the calicos and silks, the beautiful gloves and shawls set out there? Once, she’d even dared to go in and look at some of the ladies’ underwear they kept in drawers behind the counter. Such lovely lacy things. Not that she could think of buying them, of course. But it gave her a thrill, just to look.

She paused not even a minute, and was turning to hurry on, when she felt a hand clamp upon her shoulder.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” she cried.

“Going somewhere?” asked the devil.

“Mind your own business.”

“You said you had to work late.”

“The manager changed his mind.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mary. I always know when you’re lying. I’ve been following you all the way from Fraunces Tavern,” her brother Sean said.

“You’re the devil all right,” she said.

She couldn’t remember when she’d first given Sean his nickname. A long time ago. The devil. It suited him. She could never be sure what he was up to, and often it was better not to know. He was only sixteen when he first killed a man—or so it was rumored. For when people were killed in Five Points, their bodies usually disappeared. Anyway, his reputation had helped him in his career.

Not that he was anything but a kind brother to her—she couldn’t deny it—but he was always wanting to control her. And that she couldn’t tolerate.

“So where are you going? You may as well tell me, since I’m sure to find out.”

“Damn you to hell.”