Will blazed a trail through swarms of derby hats and walrus mustaches (the seaport was a domain exclusively masculine). He had mastered the New York way of walking, which seemed to consist of making abrupt adjustments in your pace and quick turns of your shoulders to avoid crashing into other pedestrians while simultaneously preventing them from knocking you into a lamppost, a wagon, or some other large obstacle, such as the rotting horse carcass that lay at the intersection of South and James Slip.

Gleason’s Boarding House, its sign affirming that it welcomed seamen, was two blocks up on James, in a redbrick building nestled between establishments that fulfilled two of the sailor’s primary needs—a sea biscuit factory and a liquor wholesaler. Its colonial windows and white shutters gave it a homey appearance. Nathaniel, recalling the whispers about Lockwood’s financial straits, had expected something seedier.

The woman who answered the door told them that she did not have any vacancies before they had a chance to speak.

“We don’t want a room,” Nathaniel said, or rather stammered because the woman, auburn-haired, about thirty-five, wearing a striped dress that pinched her waist to next to nothing, was distractingly beautiful. “Uh, we’re looking for someone who lives here? Lockwood Braithwaite?”

“And who’s calling?”

“We’re his brothers”—he gestured at Eliot and Drew—“and this is our friend Will. We’ve just sailed down from Maine and thought we’d stop by to say hello.”

“Brothers? He never mentioned that he had any brothers,” she said, with a skeptical arch of her brows.

“Well, we are. I’m Nat, the middle one’s Eliot, the young ’un’s Andrew. Are you the owner?”

“I am Mrs. Gleason. Now that I look, I can see the resemblance. In him, anyhow. Andrew, is it?” She motioned to them to come inside. They entered a hall where a tall clock ticked and the walls smelled of fresh paint. “You see, Lockwood isn’t in. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. Pardon me, young man, but where and how were you raised?”

The question was directed at Will, who was at a loss for an answer.

“It is courteous, in the presence of a lady, to ask her permission to smoke”—eyeing the cigarette Will was about to light.

“Sorry. Forgot my manners at sea. May I smoke?”

“No. Go outside, if you must, and why are you staring at me like that?”

“Your beauty is arresting, ma’am,” replied Will, without missing a step.