“That’s what children are taught,” Adrian answered, “but no. That comes from a fictional story published by the Saturday Courier in 1847. Sort of an early example of ‘rebranding.’ Twenty years before the story in the Courier, the bell had fallen into disuse. In fact, in 1828, someone in the Philadelphia State House had tried to sell it to a local foundry for four hundred dollars, to be broken down for scrap. But the foundry decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It wasn’t until the leaders of the abolitionist movement took notice of the inscription that graced the bell—Leviticus 25:10 is considered one of the strongest biblical passages against slavery, or at least permanent slavery—in the mid 1830s that the bell got its more current name, and mythology. Overnight, it went from being a strangely awful sounding bell hanging in the Pennsylvania State House, to an emblem of freedom known across the nation.”

Adrian stepped back from the desk, wobbling a bit on his feet. But Hailey didn’t move from where she was leaning over the clapper, still studying the shape of it.

“A bell and its clapper go together like parts of a mathematical equation,” she started, quietly. Then she looked up at Adrian.

“This clapper connects somehow to Paul Revere. But Revere didn’t cast the Liberty Bell, did he?”

“Of course not. If he had, the Liberty Bell would likely have a shrine to it in Boston by now, the way people salivate over everything the man touched. The Liberty Bell has only been to Boston once, in point of fact—in 1903. It was brought to town by train to commemorate the hundred and twenty-eighth anniversary of the Battle of Bunker Hill. Briefly trotted out to the monument, before it was shuttled back to Philadelphia.”

Hailey glanced back at Nick, but her colleague was still busy running his hands over Adrian’s display case. Nick had paused at the flintlock pistol.

“Does this thing work?”

“I have papers that say it does,” Adrian responded.

Before Adrian could stop him, Nick had reached into the case and was handling the antique weapon with one hand, while admiring the ivory-handled walking stick with the other.

“Do you have any idea what those are worth?” Adrian snapped.

“I figure this might come in handy,” Nick said, lifting the gun out of the case.

“That’s because you’ve never tried to fire a flintlock pistol,” Adrian sniped back.