My heart skipped at the mention of endurance. “Yes, but Virgil also said ‘The descent into hell is easy.’ ”

Townsend coughed in surprise. I’d sounded coarse; a lady spoke reverently about heaven, not brusquely about hell. I needed to tighten my grip again.

Through the fogged store windows, I saw Malcolm waiting outside, his hands tucked under his arms against the cold. I couldn’t remember the last day we’d had without snow. A group of redcoats strolled past, their regimentals bright against all the wintry white.

“You were right about Duncan,” I said. “He left this morning.” He had come over last night to say goodbye. Alone in the dim entryway, we had kissed. It’d felt like our mouths were discussing something complicated and trying to reach an understanding. After, he’d patted his coat pocket, where he’d tucked the portrait André had sketched of me, which Duncan had asked to take with him. Then he’d whispered sweet things into my ear, telling me he’d always wear it over his heart and that I was the most precious thing in the world to him.

“Miss Coates…,” Townsend said, pulling me back to the present. “What we do…it is very trying and difficult.”

“You understand.”

He nodded. “Yes. One grows weary of dissimulating and spinning lies.”

I was more than weary. Being untrue, inauthentic, deceptive…it was closer to a slow suffocation. I’d thought spying would let me breathe—but lies were lies. Even when they were told for noble reasons. And yet, I wanted more. I needed more. Without the hunt, without Duncan, I had no idea how I’d manage.

The door opened with a burst of frigid air. A group of young gentlemen entered the store, carrying on a loud conversation. My time with Townsend was over till next week.

“Will you send that to Anna Strong for me?” I said, glancing at the key on the counter. It could never go back to General Knyphausen. “It’s pretty enough to wear as a necklace.”

“Of course.” Townsend smiled. “I can think of no one better to have it.”

Outside, I joined Malcolm and we began our trudge home through the snowy streets, leaning into a bitter wind. It was a colder November than anyone could remember. Streams all over Manhattan had frozen over, and the rivers were filling with ice.

“Do you think we’ll get there this year?” I said. My thighs burned from wading through drifts.

“Perhaps after the spring thaw.” Malcolm glanced at me. Beneath his hat, the lobes of his ears were red. “It might help to think of warm things, like a crackling fire.”

I smiled. “Or steam rising from a cup of tea.”

“A hot pie, fresh from the oven.”

“The summer sun, shining through a window.”

We kept going all the way home, talking as we used to before things had become awkward and distant between us. I never stopped smiling.

Sometimes little things could turn an entire day around.