“Stop yelling, Francisca.” His gaze fell to the knife. “And put that away. I got one of those too—only mine’s bigger and I know how to use it.”

Sick. I felt sick with rage. “You think you’re the only one who can slit a throat?”

“Lord, Fran. Calm yourself. I don’t know where Asa Latimer is. Never laid eyes on him.”

I didn’t understand. “You don’t—you don’t know him?”

“No.” He grinned. “He served his purpose, though.”

He’d tricked me. He’d used the one name I’d mentioned at the gardens. But I only felt relief—blessed, blessed relief that Asa was safe.

Sewel set the oars in their locks and dug the blades into the river, heaving his big body forward and then back. “Might as well put that down and settle yourself. You won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

I didn’t put the knife down.

Sewel’s big shoulders lifted. “Guess that’s how this is gonna be.” He stroked the oars again. Water trickled. Wood whined. In the fog, every sound seemed louder as I watched Manhattan’s shores grow farther away.

My eyes fell to the stocking, which rested on the straw at the bottom of the well. I’d dropped it when Sewel threw me in. In the murky light, it looked pale as a fish belly in dark water.

This shouldn’t have happened. Sewel was supposed to have taken it and left for Long Island on the skiff. He was supposed to have been caught by Duncan, or by gunboat patrols, and searched—then the false spy letter should’ve dealt the fatal blow.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. I was supposed to be making my way back to see Townsend. When the sun rose tomorrow, I should’ve been starting my new life. A life of truth.

When only fog surrounded us, Sewel shipped the oars and gave the skiff to the river. “This is better, en’t it?” I said nothing. “I think so.” He rummaged in a leather satchel and uncorked a bottle. He tipped it back and drank, sighing loudly. “I didn’t want to trick you, Francisca, but you’d never have come otherwise.”

“What do you want, Sewel?”

“A bag of precious stones made a fine start, I must say. But I want more. I want justice.” He drank deeply. “I want revenge. Amends. Reparations.” He tipped the bottle again and went on. “I want pain. I want you, weeping. You, begging.” Another deep tilt, and long sigh. “I think I want blood, Francisca. You sorry you asked?”

I was sorry. I couldn’t even speak.

He finished the bottle and tossed it aside. Then he eased his head back and gazed at the sky, staring and staring, like he’d locked eyes with God. “It’s time to put that knife away now,” he said after a while, his voice dropping to a depth that put ice in my veins. “Toss it aside or I’ll come get it.”

Quickly, I hid the knife in the folds of my petticoat and pulled my pocket watch over my head, tossing that down instead.