“I’ll tell you of it later.” She glanced at the slumbering woman by the fire. “Will that wretched girl of yours be back tomorrow?”

“I hope so. Damnation isn’t so bad—”

“What?” Abigail blinked at the non sequitur.

“Damnation. That’s her name. Damnation Awaits the Trembling Sinner.” A smile flickered across his face. “I’m lucky my mother had me before joining the congregation I grew up in, or I’d be called something like Breakteeth or Doomed unto Hell. As I say, Damnation isn’t a bad girl, just . . . lacking.” He touched his temple.

“She will perish,” observed Mrs. Hazlitt, waking and regarding them with jade green eyes that seemed very brilliant with the narrowing-down of her pupils. “Four things the earth cannot bear: A servant when he reigneth; a fool when he is filled with meat; an odious woman when she is married; and a handmaid that is heir to her mistress. Jezebel the Queen was the daughter of Eve, and the Lord smote her, and with her her handmaid that was privy to all her ways. Have you brought us supper?” she asked, with a sudden, dazzling smile. “How very sweet of you, dear, though not at all necessary. It won’t take me but a moment to put together a green goose pie and some veal fritters; I’m sure my son has told you how well I cook. The prophet of the Lord says that my cooking would be sinful, if I were not so righteous myself.”

And smiling, she fell asleep.

When Abigail returned to her house it was to find Sam in the study, talking quietly with John. “Has there been any word?”

Sam shook his head. “I’ve put out word to every patriot in the town,” he said. “And I’ve been to see Hancock. He’s having all his tea smugglers look in every cellar, every hidey-hole, every warehouse along the wharves—every nook and cranny throughout the town. Revere tells me that white-faced pup from the Provost’s office found Pentyre’s chaise sunk off Lee’s shipyard, and the chaise was all they found. No word of the book, either.”

His brow clouded further when John told him of their visit to the Tillets’, and Mrs. Tillet’s declaration that all Rebecca’s things would be put out of the house. “I’ll see what I can do, about getting one of our men to rent it,” he said. “That way it can be searched properly.”

“If you can find someone pious enough to suit Tillet,” muttered John.

“Doesn’t have to be pious, my boy.” Sam grinned, putting on his hat. “Just an enemy of someone—like Charles Malvern—whom Tillet hates.”

When Sam was gone, John put an arm around Abigail’s shoulders. The kitchen was quiet: the children engaged in playing with wooden soldiers near the hearth, Pattie working at her tatting, a task which to Abigail’s baffled disbelief gave her pleasure. The gray tabby cat, Messalina, purred by the fire, dreaming of the slaughter of mice. Precisely as things had been last night, thought Abigail: when she’d known her friend was safe, when the doors that looked into households of pain, and sourness, and distrust had all been shut. When she knew that she might sleep and dream of gardening, not blood.