Sam glanced at John, who looked aside, being a firm believer in letting people fight their own battles. Sam, Abigail had noticed over the years, had a habit of getting between Bess and anyone who wanted to have words with her. She didn’t know whether this was because he considered Bess his property, or because he liked to control the flow of information, and edit it if necessary for the good of all concerned. Taking John’s silence as tacit permission, Sam turned back to Abigail and said, “You do, I’m afraid.”

John sat down on the settle where Charley had been sleeping, and picked up the nearest book, which Abigail had been reading earlier in the day. Had the rest of the house not been freezing he would have left the room. Sam clearly waited for either John or Abigail to make some remark, and when neither did, went on grimly, “John tells me you’re going to Castle Island tomorrow, under the auspices of the British Provost Marshal.”

“Corrupting his servants was proving rather costly, I’m afraid, so I thought I should save money by making my inquiries direct.”

“What have you told that Lieutenant?”

“Nothing,” said Abigail.

“You’re sure of that, are you?”

She folded her arms. “Obviously, not having been party to any of my conversations with him, you’re not.”

Sam’s face seemed to darken in the flickering light. “You’re not to go.”

“Ah,” said Abigail in an enlightened voice. “You know where Rebecca is, then. I must say, that relieves my mind—”

“Don’t you be pert with me, Nab—”

“And don’t you be bossy with me,” she returned. “I’m trying to save a woman who is almost certainly in appalling peril—”

“And I’m trying to save the liberties of our country. Something I think you’re in danger of forgetting.”

“Not at all,” responded Abigail. “And the reason we seek to retain our liberties, is so that the life of a single individual—even if she is a mere woman—does not get snuffed out or thrust aside because it isn’t expedient for those in charge to take the time to save her.”

Sam opened his mouth, glanced sidelong at John—his nose still in Pamela and giving no sign of having heard a word—and seemed to settle a little, like oatmeal taken off the boil. Very quietly, he said, “I have had every patriot in this town searching for her, for seven days now. Cellars, attics, warehouses . . . smuggler hidey-holes and the hulls of ruined ships. You forget that we’re not only hunting for Mrs. Malvern: We’re searching for the book that contains our codes and ciphers, and the lists of our contacts in other colonies where we are perhaps not strong enough to protect those the British would seek to arrest.”

“I don’t forget.”