It wasn’t Sewel—it wasn’t—but it took me a few seconds to recover. I released a hissing breath and opened the door for Malcolm. My memories needed to quiet down again.

He stepped inside and pulled off his cap, brushing a hand over his spiking red curls. “My turn not to be able to sleep this time.” He wrung the black wool cap in his hands. “I heard what that woman said earlier, at Mr. Townsend’s. I have been worrying that…” He glanced at the basket. “That you would go back.”

“I am going back.” I slid the basket onto my arm. “I have to help her.”

“Let me go with you. It’s dangerous out there, Miss Em. At night especially.”

I knew it was. New York brimmed with soldiers and displaced men. Attacks on women were far too common. I wanted to point out that I had a jackknife and that my dark cloak would keep me hidden, but they seemed like ridiculous defenses now. “You would be dismissed if we were discovered. You and Maggie would be sent away.”

“I will lose my honor if I do not go with you. That I cannot live without.”

I shook my head. He had more dignity in one eyelash than most gentlemen I knew. But why shouldn’t he come? We were only going a few blocks and we’d only be gone an hour. Two, at most. “Whatever happens tonight, you must never speak of it to anyone. Do you promise?”

“You have my word.”

That was more than good enough for me.

We left through the courtyard gate and made our way into the streets. My legs felt shaky at first, but I soon found my stride. Walking with Malcolm felt familiar—it was everything else that seemed strange.

New York was a different place at night. Only weeks ago, General Clinton had issued a curfew at evening gunfire, but no one would ever know it. Laughter and music poured from taverns. Sailors and soldiers crashed through the streets, stumbling and stinking of rum and ale. Every second that passed, I felt better about having Malcolm with me.

In minutes, we arrived at the door with the slanted latch in the alley behind Townsend’s store and took the narrow steps up. I felt light-headed as we reached the top.

The door to the little storeroom was open. Mrs. Burgin stood inside, fastening the ties of a mobcap under her chin. She stilled as she saw us, the lone candle burning on the windowsill painting her in silhouette.

“You’re back,” she said, without a trace of surprise. Her three children slept on the floor, piled together like kittens.

I licked my dry lips. “How is the baby?”

She finished tying her cap. “Asleep now. The tonic you left helped.”

Never had thanks sounded so ungrateful.

“I am glad to hear it.” I lifted the basket. “I’ve brought food for—”