We reached the Commons, where Hessian grenadiers in tall furry hats drilled in neat formations, and finally came to Provost Prison, where I smelled the reek that used to make me want to vomit. Men crowded at the barred windows, their garments filthy, their faces grimy and gaunt. The British didn’t think it necessary to adequately feed or care for American prisoners. No speaking was allowed, to them or by them, so they stared at me with agony shouting in their eyes.

This was the war I saw—these men. Not fighting. Not the battlefield heroics, nor the frantic retreats, but what came after. Defeat. Injury. Disease. The tragic and undignified deaths of men wasting away in prison. Yet another injustice done by British Parliament that left me livid.

“What have you got for me today, Miss Coates?” said the pox-scarred guard at the entrance, his gaze roaming to my chest and then to my hips.

Prayers for your rotten soul, I wanted to say. But I pretended I didn’t hear.

Malcolm set the crate down and removed one of the glass vials, then pushed the crate to the guard.

“Skimming right before your mistress, are you?” said the man.

I instantly felt defensive; Malcolm was as upright as men came.

“No, sir,” Malcolm replied, his back straightening with surprise. “Mr. Robert Townsend ordered this tonic. I am delivering it to him next.”

“So you say. Put that back or—”

“I’ll take it to Mr. Townsend, Malcolm.” I snatched the bottle from his hand and stalked away in a fury. “He accuses you of pilfering?” I said as he caught up to me. “He’s the one who’s stealing.”

Everyone knew the guards took anything they wanted from the prisoners. I’d long suspected many of our medicines were resold elsewhere for a profit. Maybe all of them.

“We don’t know that for certain,” Malcolm said.

“No, we don’t. But what do you think?”

His eyes met mine. “I think we must trust he carries out his responsibilities with honor.”

I sighed. That was Malcolm’s flaw, right there. He always assumed the best in people. “That man is a thief, Malcolm.”

“If he is, he’s a thief invested with the king’s authority.”

There was nothing else I could say. Like everyone else in my life, Malcolm was a Loyalist who’d never speak a word against the Crown.

We parted ways at the corner of Smith and Wall Streets. Malcolm would go on to Rivington’s Gazette to collect medicine orders that came in from the newspaper ads Uncle Henry ran, then meet me at Mr. Townsend’s dry goods store a block away. For thirty steps, I got a tiny glimpse of independence.

Inside the store, Mr. Townsend was at the counter, predictably lost in a book.