Neat stacks of papers sat on top. Rolled charts. A quill and inkpot. A lamp. I grabbed a stack of papers and took them to the window to catch the moonlight.

They contained lists and lists of names. Muster rolls for Hessian troops.

I grabbed another stack. It was correspondence in German. No help to me. I hurried back for more. I had no idea how long I’d have to search, but I knew there had to be something here. I could feel it. The call of treasure, pulling me toward it.

I checked the desk drawers. More letters in German on the left, but the drawer on the right was locked. I knelt and rummaged through the boxes at the foot of the desk for a key, my hands moving on their own. I knew this searching. I had found thimbles on the seafloor once—a desk key was nothing to me. Easy.

As soon as I found the gilt snuffbox, I knew I had it. I opened the box carefully. A key rested inside on a little swatch of burlap. I took the key out and ran my fingers over it. It was hefty for such a small thing. Decorated with elaborate whorls and designs.

I felt for the lock in the drawer and tried the key. I heard the satisfying click and smiled.

Carefully pulling the drawer open, I discovered more paper—paper stuffed to the top. I took the first sheets and rushed to the window. More German. I grabbed another stack—every second I knew the risk increased. Finally, I found pages in English.

The first few sheets were field reports that I skimmed. Recommendations for courts-martial. Soldiers punished for things like theft or “war atrocities,” such as the killing of enemy combatants who’d surrendered peaceably. At last I came to a letter written in a numeric code that resembled the paper hidden inside my watch.

A spy message! My heart roaring, I stared at the cipher, a senseless jumble of numbers except for the figure toward the bottom. Unlike the rest, it was a neat round number. Right there, plain as day, it read 10,000 pounds.

A shiver rippled through me.

The message was dated at the top—only two weeks ago.

Recent.

My mind raced back to Liesje’s wedding in August. General Knyphausen had been at the tavern that night with Duncan, André, and the sweaty-faced man, Rattoon. Ten thousand was the sum Monk wanted for his information. This couldn’t be a coincidence. This was proof of a high-level plot. Whatever Monk planned, top men were involved. Probably General Clinton himself. And it was still unfolding now, months after I’d first learned of it.

I had to know more. I bent to continue my search—and froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Quickly, I shoved the papers back into the drawer and pushed it shut, but I had no time to replace the key.

Two men were talking just outside. I was trapped—no way to leave the room. My head whipped to the window. I could leap through it—but that was certain death. I lunged for the wardrobe instead, throwing myself inside.