He crossed over the canal and came to a short stretch of riverfront where there was an open area, with some rocks and a stand of pine trees, and he sat on one of the rocks and gazed at the water. He could feel a light breeze pressing softly on his cheek, and soon he reckoned that it was getting a little stronger because he could hear it, now, up in the trees.

And as he sat there, the image of the girl came into his mind, and he thought about her for a while. He was glad for what he had done, and he wondered where she was now, and if maybe she was thinking about him too. And he hoped she might be. So although he was getting a little cold, he stayed there some time, and thought of her some more, and listened to the voice of the wind, sighing in the trees.

After that, he went back.

Past Five Points

1849

MARY O’DONNELL LEFT the store early. She was moving quickly. Instead of following her usual route past Fraunces Tavern, she ducked into Whitehall, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, just to make sure the devil wasn’t there. Not a sign of him, thank God. She’d told him she wouldn’t be leaving for another hour. If he came looking for her, he’d find her long gone. He wouldn’t be pleased about that. Not pleased at all.

She didn’t care. Just so long as he didn’t know where she was.

The area had changed a lot in recent years. Two big fires—the first in 1835, when she was little more than a baby, the second four years ago—had gutted many of the handsome old blocks below Wall Street. The fine old houses, Dutch and Georgian, had gone. The southern tip of Manhattan was commercial rather than residential now. The store where she’d been working wasn’t so bad, but she wanted to make a break, escape from where she was and start a new life. Away from the devil and all his works. And now, thanks to her guardian angel, she might have a chance.

Normally Mary’s route took her up the East River, past the docks and the merchants’ counting houses on South Street as far as Fulton. Then west for a block. Then northward, picking up the Bowery. She’d hurry past Five Points, then cross Canal by the Bull’s Head Tavern with its bear-baiting pit. From there it was only four blocks more to Delancey Street, where she and her father lived.

But today, walking quickly up Whitehall, she turned with a sigh of relief into the great long thoroughfare of Broadway. The sidewalk was crowded. No sign of the devil.