It seemed a fitting spot for what was to come next. Adrian walked his bike the last few feet, then leaned it up against the lamppost. No lock, because if things went the way they were supposed to, he was going to need to beat a hasty retreat. Down the back slope of the hill—the area that in Revere’s time was known as Mount Whoredom, a term coined by the sailors and British soldiers who traipsed through these narrow streets before the Cabots and Lodges finally chased them away. Then he stepped back, straightening his overcoat. He took one last look up at the town houses on either side; the windows were all dark, most of the shades drawn. The timing was right, the location perfect. Deserted, close enough to the State House for the desired effect, but far enough away to give Adrian a fitting head start.

“Now or never,” Adrian whispered.

Then he reached into his overcoat and pulled out the flintlock pistol from his display case, along with the small hemp firing sack. The gun felt surprisingly heavy in his hand; he’d held it before, of course, when he’d first purchased it at auction and a handful of times when he’d showed it off to particularly annoying undergraduates and visiting scholars. But of course, he’d never taken it out of his office, and he’d never even considered doing what he was about to do.

And yet, despite the tremors of fear moving up his spine, he couldn’t ignore the second sensation growing inside of him as he tilted the pistol back, eyeing the long barrel and the firing mechanism behind it: a palpable surge of excitement.

He chased the feeling away, because it wasn’t becoming of his stature or the moment, and because he had work to do. Carefully opening the hemp bag, he withdrew a small powder flask and carefully tilted it over the opening of the barrel of the pistol. He could only guess at the appropriate amount of gunpowder to pour down the barrel; if he’d had the time to peruse his office library, he could have been exact—but heroism, it seemed, was an inexact science.

Once he’d added what he hoped was enough shot, he made sure the powder had settled up against the base of the firing mechanism. Then he retrieved a small section of thick cloth from the bag and placed it over the opening of the gun. After that, came the bullet; it took a moment of searching with his fingers to find the round piece of lead. Originally, the sack had held four bullets, but he’d only needed one for the job ahead.