“No” Miriam fumbled in her pouch for it. It clicked open easily and she shut it at once. “Ick. It’ll work, alright, if I don’t spill my guts. It feels rougher than the other one.”

Frozen leaf skeletons crunched beneath their boots. The post house was soon out of sight, the road empty and almost untraveled in winter. Bare trees thrust limbs out above them, bleak and barren in the harsh light of morning. “Are we out of sight, yet?” asked Miriam.

“Yes.” Brill stopped walking. “Might as well get an early start.”

Miriam paused beside her. She shuffled her feet. “Don’t wait long. If I don’t return within about five minutes, assume it means everything’s alright. Just keep walking and I’ll join you at the post house. If you hear anyone coming on the road, hide. If I’m late, wait over for one day then buy a horse or mule, head for Fort Lofstrom, and ask to be taken to Angbard. Clear?”

“Clear.” For a moment Brill froze, then she leaned forward and embraced Miriam. “Sky Father protect you,” she whispered.

“And you,” said Miriam, more surprised than anything else. Abruptly she hugged Brill back. “Take care.” Then she pulled away, pulled out the assassin’s locket, and stood in the middle of the road staring into its writhing depths.

It was twelve o’clock, and all the church bells in Boston were chiming noon.

The strange woman received nothing more than covert glances as she walked along The Mall, eyes flickering to either side. True, she wore a heavy backpack—somewhat singular for a woman—and a most peculiar cap, and her dress was about as far from fashionable as it was possible to be without street urchins harassing her with accusations of vile popery; but she walked with an air of granite determination that boded ill for anyone who got in her way.

Traffic was light but fast, and she seemed self-conscious as she looked both ways repeatedly before crossing the street. An open Jolly-car rumbled past behind her, iron wheels striking sparks from the cobblestones. There was a burst of raucous laughter from the tars within, returning to the North Station for the journey back to the royal dockyards. She dodged nimbly, then reached the safety of the sidewalk.

The pedestrian traffic was thicker near the fish market and the chandlers and other merchant suppliers. The woman glanced at a winter chestnut seller, raised her nose as she sidestepped a senescent pure-collector mumbling over his sack of dogshit, then paused on the corner of The Mall and Jefferson Street, glancing briefly over one shoulder before muttering into her scarf.