More shirts. More sheets. The gray overcast of the sky thinned, engendering hopes that the garments would all actually dry this afternoon and tomorrow. The yard took on the aspect of a labyrinth of clothes-rope and poles, of linen flapping slowly, like sails in the doldrums, in such dreary puffs of wind as sneaked down the passways between the houses. As always, a path was left to the cowhouse, down which in due time Johnny would herd Semiramis and Cleopatra after an unprofitable day on the Commons. Abigail had just gone into the house to put together a scratch washday dinner of pork and cabbage—early, because John would be meeting with the chiefs of the Eighth Ward again—when the kitchen door darkened behind her and she heard Orion Hazlitt’s knock.

“I can’t stay.” He set his hat on the sideboard with a hand so uncertain that it almost fell. “I only wanted to thank you for helping Damnation with Mother yesterday. She told me—Damnation did—”

“Is your mother feeling better?”

His jaw tightened so hard that she thought it must break itself, of its own strength.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s nothing . . . There’s nothing, really, that can be done. I’ve tried to act for the best,” he went on, in a voice taut with frustration and pain. “But I can’t be two people! Sometimes I feel—” He shook his head violently. “And Mr. Adams—Mr. Sam Adams—is on me hammer and tongs about these pamphlets, and this broadside Mr. Revere is engraving. I know the case is urgent. Mother doesn’t understand—”

He stopped himself, took a breath, and with a gallant recovery of a normal tone of voice, and the actions of a man unsavaged by expectations beyond human accomplishment, flourished the market basket he’d brought. “Thank you for bringing food.” He set the basket on the sideboard beside his hat. “Did we dwell in Paradise and were Mother—were Mother as calm and saintly as yourself—Damnation would still be the worst cook in the civilized world. You have once again saved our lives. You have—”

Again he fumbled for words. “You have heard nothing?” In the gray windowlight she saw that he was unshaven, and his green eyes had a restless movement to them, like a man haunted by things that only he could see.

Abigail shook her head. It did not seem to be the time, to speak of Charles Malvern, of her own questions and doubts. Time enough, she thought, when we know Rebecca will be alive to choose. Only a monster would slam the door of hope on this overburdened young man and leave him in darkness with his nightmare. “You did not tell me you grew up in Gilead.”

He blinked, startled. “I didn’t know you’d ever heard of the place.”

“I was there—”

His eyes widened with alarm. As well they might . . .