The landing was cramped and dim, with only one door. A child’s weak cries came from the other side. I nudged it open, my heart racing, and found a tiny, stuffy storeroom illuminated by a single window covered with newspapers. Crates were piled against the walls. At the center, a woman slept in a rocking chair as a baby whimpered in her arms. A girl sat by her feet. She held one of chair’s spindles and rocked it in a slow rhythm. Beside her, a little boy played with a doll made of sticks and twine.

The girl saw me and froze. “Mama,” she whispered.

The woman jerked awake. “Who are you?” she spat, fixing a vicious glare on me. She had jostled the baby in her arms in surprise and the child began to wail.

“I—I’m Emmeline—Emmeline Coates,” I stammered. “A friend of Mr. Townsend’s.”

“A friend of Robert Townsend?” Mrs. Burgin scrutinized me from my Oriental silk shoes to the French hat perched on my head, her gaze so biting my hands came defensively to my stomach. “Forgive me, madam, but I hardly believe you.”

It had been ages since anyone had spoken to me so coldly. I felt more awake for it. More alive. “Mrs. Burgin, may I come in please?” I reached into my purse. “I’ve brought something for your—”

“Stay where you are and never speak my name again.”

“I have medicine.” My eyes had adjusted, so I could see the poor child’s sallow skin. “Please. Let me help.”

As her severe expression melted away, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes and her gnawed fingernails. She looked like a woman who’d been holding the world together with her bare hands.

“Mama, please let her come in,” said the girl. “Millie is sick.”

“The lady only wants to help,” added the little boy. “She won’t tell the lobsterbacks where you are, will you, miss?”

“Hush, Elias!” Mrs. Burgin hissed, slapping the arm of the rocking chair. The boy jumped clear off the floor, then buried his face in her petticoats and began to sob. His older sister blinked twice and burst into tears as well.

As all three children wailed, Mrs. Burgin and I stared at each other. My heart thundered in my chest and the little boy’s words echoed in my mind. I went over them, again and again. Lobsterbacks. It was an insulting term for regulars. But even more shocking was the part about staying hidden. This woman was hiding from the British military.

I swallowed. “What have you done?”

Her smile was grim. “Do you think I’m going to tell you?”

I didn’t, but I had to know. Then I realized I already did. The British were fighting for control of an entire continent; they wouldn’t trouble with prosecuting a woman for any small crime. I licked my dry lips. “Have you—have you committed treason?”