“He was a technologist,” Charles said, feeling his face flush. A little embarrassing, how excited he could get over Revere. “An innovator. He worked with silver, but also bronze and wood. And copper—it was Revere’s shop that first covered the Boston State House dome with copper. He was also one of the most talented engravers of his era.”

He glanced at the print of Revere’s famous engraving of the Boston Massacre on his study wall, made just three weeks after the actual event itself. The drama of the piece was palpable; the viciousness of the redcoats and the misery of the injured and dying colonists engraved with such passion, it was no surprise that the work had helped incite a nation.

“He was also a Freemason,” the woman said, looking at the screen.

Again, it did not appear she was reading something she did not already know. Which was odd. Who was she, exactly? A fellow historian? He didn’t want to be judging her by her appearance, but she didn’t look like any American history buff he’d met before. And he’d met plenty.

“He was a founding member of the Massachusetts chapter of Freemasons, correct. Many of the Revolutionary names were Freemasons. Ben Franklin, of course, but also Hancock, and Revere. But Revere’s connection to the Freemasons was really besides the fact.”

Most people knew about the Freemasons; they’d been the subject of numerous pop novels and movies, and why not? A mysterious organization, or private club, dating back hundreds of years, with secret rituals and symbols, shadowy clubhouses and influential, often wealthy members, some famous, some infamous—wonderful grist for the conspiracy theorists. But Charles knew: Paul Revere’s relationship to the Freemasons paled in comparison to his true affiliation.

“Revere wasn’t just a Freemason,” Charles said, lowering his voice. “He was part of something much more mysterious and ancient than Freemasonry.”

He almost continued, then stopped himself. If she’d read through his paper, she knew where he was going—but if she hadn’t, well—he took another sip from his coffee, while watching her face. Those incredible cheekbones glowed in the light from his computer. He supposed it didn’t make any difference. He was going to be submitting his paper within days. And then his research, his discovery, would be everywhere.

“And now we’re at the gist of it,” she said. “That midnight ride.”

Charles was happy to shift from the revelation of what Revere really was, to the facts of that fateful night.