Townsend peered over his eyeglasses at me. “Certainly.” He brought a stack of paper down from a back shelf and slid it across the counter. “There you are.”

I slipped my folded letter on top of the stack and held my breath. Why did this feel more dangerous than the act of spying itself? But he’d either see my scribblings as valuable—or as treason.

Townsend unfolded it and read, his face slowly draining of color. He looked up, his intelligent eyes regarding me like a stranger. Till then, I hadn’t been positive he was a spy—but now I was. Townsend, who’d always seemed so bookish and gentle. A spy.

I could see similar thoughts running through his mind.

We both started as the door jangled, swinging open. A rush of customers entered, brushing the rain off their clothes. There were two black women with market baskets, two sailors speaking loudly in Dutch, and three Queen’s Rangers with rifles as tall as they were. New York in all its variety.

“Would you step aside with me, Miss Coates?” Townsend said, already moving to the end of the counter.

I followed him. His partner, Henry Oakhum, appeared from a back room to help the new customers.

Townsend pulled a book off the shelf and set it on the counter before me. It was a blank book—a commonplace journal. “Perhaps this will be of interest to you. The leather is dyed in carmine and treated with a special oil to give it water repellence.” He opened it. “The paper is Venetian. Very thick and soft, as you can see.” He paused, glancing at the other customers, then asked very quietly, “Have you any idea the danger you’re courting, Miss Coates?”

I’d prepared myself for his objections. “I do,” I replied. “And I also know that I will not be stopped by any warnings you give me.”

“But this is…” He leaned closer. “This is beneath you.”

If only he knew the truth. Nothing was beneath me. “What I wrote—was it helpful?”

“It was not poor, but…” He sighed and glanced around the store again. More people had entered, seeking shelter from the rain. My pulse skipped as four Hessian grenadiers ducked inside. Unlike British regulars—who tended to be driven into the army out of poverty—Hessian soldiers were hired mercenaries. Dangerous men, easy with violence. Men who wouldn’t hesitate to run a spy through with a bayonet.

Townsend held my gaze. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He turned the leather book on the counter so it faced me. “The details are what make this exceptional. The quality of the paper, the strength of the binding. You can clearly see it was fashioned by a master who understands the value of precision. None of the materials used are ordinary.”