“You’re a nosy little minx, Brielle. I regret to say it’s for you.”

  She laughed, and took it eagerly, tearing at the wrappings with a will. Inside she found an inlaid box, and within that a brush, a comb, and a hand mirror, all worked in delicate, filigreed silver. She touched each softly. “Oh, but this is a gift for someone important. I mean—”

  “And you are. You’re the sister of two of my best friends.”

  She closed the box with a sigh. He gave with one hand, took back with the other, and never realized it. “Thank you, Mr. Fallon. It’s a lovely gift.”

  “I thought of you as soon as I saw it.” He glimpsed Mr. Carver though a door of the warehouse and turned that way, then hesitated. “Brielle, will you wait here in the shade for me, just for a moment? I won’t be long.” He hardly waited for her assent before ducking into the warehouse.

  “Mr. Carver?”

  “Yes?” The old merchant looked up from his bills of lading and a smile lit his face. “Michael, my boy. Welcome home. A safe voyage, I trust?”

  “Safe enough, sir, but passing long. I missed our chess games.”

  “And I. Were you able to make the purchases I requested?”

  “Yes, sir. The packet of books is in my cabin. I intended bringing it by this evening.” He paused. “In England word was the port of Boston has been closed. How does the city stand on it?”

  “I fear it’ll drive your friends to greater acts of desperation.”

  “Acts of desperation?”

  Carver sighed. “There’s a meeting under way at this moment, in the Exchange Building. More treason brewing. More trouble. The city is restless. I do not know what will come, now.”

  Carver was aging, Michael saw. It wasn’t right to disturb him further. “Sir, I must go. I left a young lady standing outside.”

  “A woman’s anger is indeed to be feared,” Carver chuckled. “This evening will see you come for chess?”

  “It will, sir. I promise.”

  Outside Michael bit back an oath when he found Gabrielle gone. Where was the girl? He walked out to the street and there she was, in her carriage, with the driver and her maid up on the perch. He shook his head and started toward her, only to be stopped by Christopher Byrne, panting up to him before he’d gone five paces. “Where’s the rest?” he breathed.

  “The rest?”

  Byrne took his arm and turned them away from the street’s bustle. “Michael, fewer than fifty stands of muskets came to Gadsden’s warehouse. You were sure you could get twice that.”

  “Well, I couldn’t. Everywhere was suspicion. They hadn’t heard of any Indian trouble. Hadn’t there been a lot of rioting and such lately in the Americas? Man, as it was I was sure I’d be boarded before sailing. And Gadsden can forget about those eighteen-pounders, at least for a time.”

  Byrne ground his teeth in frustration. “Ah, Michael! We need cannon worse than muskets. Men have fowling pieces if they don’t have muskets, but nobody has field guns hanging over the fireplace.”

  “There’s a chance. A small one, but a chance. Franklin gave me a letter to a Frenchman. Reluctantly, I might add—but I think he’s beginning to see it must come to a fight in any case. I crossed the Channel and talked to this Frenchie; but I don’t know. He’s a playwright, name of Beaumarchais, but he’s some sort of tie to the French government. I couldn’t pin him down. If the moon is high and the wind is right, there’s a chance. And you couldn’t get the word cannon out of him with a prybar. I take it you’d better luck?”

  With a scowl Byrne shook his head. “Never a bit. Far from being willing to sell powder, our friends in the Caribbean wanted to buy it. I came back with not a pound more than I took.”

  “It’s hell, so little trust in the world. Look you, I must go. I’m keeping a lady waiting.”

  “If you insist. But be at the Exchange early tomorrow morning. There’s a meeting over the Boston to-do. Delegates from every parish in the province. You do know about the trouble, don’t you?”

  “I know about it. I know, but I’m not a delegate.”

  “Gadsden’s taken care of that. Be there, Michael. Don’t fail us.” And he was off down the Bay.

  Gabrielle swung open the carriage door for him. He shook his head. “I doubt your father’d approve.”

  “Papa specifically said it was all right for me to be at readings with you.” Well, that was almost what he’d said. “If I may be with you in a secluded garden with only half a dozen girls for company, it must follow that a carriage on a public street is allowed.”

  “Sophistry, I think, but you dance it around as nimbly as a man.” He didn’t see her eyes blaze; he was climbing into the carriage.

  “Like a man! And why can’t a woman think? Not all of us spend all our time fretting over perfume and silk. The richest crop in the colonies, indigo, is due entirely to Eliza Lucas Pinckney. Why—”

  “Easy, child, easy. If half the reason I read for your circle is that there’s pleasure in being the focus of six or eight lovely girls, then the other half is that one of them has the wit to do more than blush and giggle at love poems. Now then, if I’ve not offended you too much, would you carry me across the peninsula? I’ve rented a house beyond yours.”

  She gave the order in a happy fog, and the carriage threaded its way slowly out into traffic. He’d done it to her again, she thought. But then, how many girls would be flustered at a compliment to their intelligence? They wanted sonnets to the softness of their skin, or the curve of their breast. Lord, what a thought to have. If only he wouldn’t smile at her so. She shook her head and took hold of herself.

  “Mr. Fallon, may I offer some advice? If you don’t mind taking it from a woman.”

  “Lord, girl, am I not to be forgiven for a slip of the tongue? Yes, I’ll listen, whatever it is.”

  She took a deep breath and didn’t look at him. “If you’re going to smuggle muskets disguised as iron, ship them to a blacksmith. Mr. Gadsden hasn’t any need for iron, and someone might suspect.”

  “God’s wounds!” With an effort he waited until Martha and the driver turned back to the front and several people in the street who’d turned to look had been left behind. He went on in a quieter voice. “Is it such common knowledge, then, that schoolgirls talk of it?”

  “I’m out of the schoolroom, Mr. Fallon. I heard you tell that wharfman those crates contained iron, but they were plainly marked for Mr. Gadsden. Iron would go to an iron worker. That said you were smuggling something heavy. My father calls you a dangerous radical. And, well, muskets were the first thing to come to mind.”

  “God save us,” Michael breathed. “Do you intend telling anyone about this?”

  “Mr. Fallon, I’ve no wish to see you hanged. I wish to see you take more care, or, or, someone else might—”

  “Tush, little Brielle! Childish worries!”

  Her eyes snapped open. “Childish! It’s you acts the child! And I”—she shuddered—“I can’t stand the fear. If you should—” She swallowed convulsively.

  Michael stared at her in surprise. The child cared what happened to him. God’s name, how long had it been since anyone cared what became of Michael Fallon, even Michael Fallon himself? Oh, if he died tomorrow Christopher would hoist a tankard in his memory, and Gadsden would regret the passing of a revolutionary, but who would care beyond the day? It seemed this girl would.

  He touched her wrist. “Look at me, Gabrielle. That’s better. I promise you, Gabrielle, that I’ll be as careful as I possibly can.”

  She smiled wanly. “I suppose it’ll have to do.”

  At nine the next morning he entered the Exchange. In the meeting, already under way in the Great Hall, a hundred or so delegates sat on benches in the center of the hall, with the walls around packed with mechanics and more than a few idlers. Some delegates cast wary glances at the spectators; others acknowledged friends among them. On the dais Judge George Powell presided.

  Byrne appeared at his side as soon as he entered. “It’s good you made it, though I think we’ve enough votes as it stands.”

  “I don’t even know what I’m to vote on. And can I vote, just walking in off the street?”

  “You can. Gadsden got the vote thrown open to every man present. Anyone can vote.”

  Michael shook his head. That was like no voting he’d ever heard of. “And what do we vote on?”

  “Why, delegates, man. There’s to be a Congress in Philadelphia. Every colony will be represented. We’ll present a united front to those English bastards.”

  Suddenly Gadsden darted up. “Come, Michael. I need you. Give them some fire. Tom Eadie’s putting them all to sleep.”

  It took a moment for Michael to realize Gadsden meant him to speak. Damn Gadsden! Even with his involvement he’d managed to avoid large public meetings, but to back down now was impossible. Gadsden was already on the dais, cutting into Eadie’s steady drone.

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Your pardon, Mr. Eadie, but I believe it imperative that we hear immediately from one of our number who returned from England only yesterday. Mr. Michael Fallon.”

  Michael moved to the dais amid encouraging shouts. Even Eadie joined in.

  “Tell us what it’s like, Fallon!”

  “What’s Parliament going to do now?”

  “Give them hell, Fallon!”

  He turned to face them in a wide-legged stance, silent, with an eagle’s glare. The shouts faded till there wasn’t a sound. Even the idlers were silent. Every face was turned to him.

  “I won’t give anybody hell,” he said grimly, “but England’s going to give us hell. You want to know what it’s like there? You want to know what they think? I’ll tell you. They think we’re unruly children who have to be chastised. Aren’t colonies supposed to be managed for the good of the mother country? Can’t they do any damned thing they want to us? You planters, you farmers with a slave to help with the harvest. They think of you in England as you think of your slaves.” An angry muttering began, some contradicting Michael, others agreeing with him. “Yes, it’s true. But which of you is mean enough to starve his slave to death? That’s what they’re doing to Boston.”

  The muttering grew to a rumble. One voice called out, “What about Wilkes?”

  “There are a few. Wilkes, Fox, and Burke. But they’re too few. They can’t stem the tide; they can’t even slow it. And that tide is sweeping down on Boston. If they can close Boston, why not here? Crawl or starve, Charlestown!” Dead quiet had fallen. “Save Boston, or we’re next.”

  As Michael jumped down from the dais, men began shouting to be heard. The entire Hall exploded.

  Michael shook his head ruefully at Gadsden. “Seems all I did was disrupt the meeting.”

  “No, no. You did fine. You put fire and life back in it.”

  “There was something I didn’t say up there,” Michael said. Gadsden waited. “In Bristol we received word of something called the Quartering Act. They’ll billet troops in private residences, with or without permission. They’re getting ready to send a horde of soldiers fast—no time to build proper barracks.”

  “Damn! It’s moving too fast, Fallon. Too fast.”

  Michael looked at him in astonishment. “What are you talking about? You’ve been working for this for nearly ten years.”

  “Working for the time we’re ready,” the gaunt man said intently. “We’re not ready yet. We should move like lightning, and the British like cold molasses, but I fear it’s the other way around. Damn. Did you know your friend Carver and some other merchants have formed a Chamber of Commerce to oppose us?”

  “No, I didn’t. I suppose they feel like folk in England that Boston dumping the tea wasn’t an act of revolution, but only theft.”

  “It wasn’t only Boston destroyed tea. Do you realize we’re the only colony allowed the tea to land? And don’t tell me it’s locked up safe below this very building. That’s not the same. We should have burned the ship and the dock both.”

  “I always thought you were the one wrote those letters about burning,” Michael said dryly. “Have you considered this, though? Had we done it, when it was suggested, we’d have been first, ahead of Boston. We’d have caught Parliament’s eye. It’d be the Charlestown Port Bill. And do you think those New Englanders would come to our aid?” Gadsden looked quickly around, and Michael laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll not put that thought in any of their heads.”

  Words from the dais caught their attention.

  “—Mr. Miles Brewton, Mr. John Rutledge, Mr. Henry Middleton, Mr. Rawlins Lowndes, and Mr. Charles Pinckney.” Powell cleared his throat. “The other slate is: Mr. Christopher Gadsden, Mr. John Rutledge, Mr. Henry Middleton, Mr. Thomas Lynch, and Mr. Edward Rutledge. The clerks will now pass among you with pen, paper, and ink. God guide your deliberations.”

  How had Brewton been nominated? Michael wondered. He was respected, but well known for a King’s man.

  Young clerks hurried into the crowd, each carrying a tray with pen, inkpot, and sand shaker, and a stack of paper ballots. Following each was another with a closed box, a slot in the top. Men who couldn’t read or write gathered up into knots, with one of their number showing the others how to trace out the letters. One of the clerks stopped in front of Michael and Christopher. Michael quickly wrote the names of Gadsden’s slate, sanded the ink, and handed back the pen. He’d just folded his ballot and pushed it through the slot when something in the back of the hall caught his eye.

  A large crowd stood around two men in the plain dress of clerks, who seemed to be showing them how to vote. Behind them, a rough-dressed man with a bulbous nose and tiny eyes moved around the group, clasping shoulders, speaking in ears. From time to time he’d talk to a man, then write his ballot for him. He seemed incongruous in the role.

  The ballot boxes were stacking up on the dais.

  The crowd shouted for those in the back to hurry.

  As silence fell, Judge Powell and his assistants began counting out the ballots. Watching them pull out slips of paper, murmur to one another, and mark on sheets of foolscap soon palled on the crowd. A murmur rose as men began to converse, leaning over the backs of chairs, heads together along benches.

  “Gentlemen,” Powell announced at last, “Mr. Rutledge and Mr. Middleton, being on both slates, have been named on almost every ballot. Some had names that weren’t placed in nomination, which I tell you now is disallowed. Some were writ in hands too much like Arabic or Chinee to decipher. No one else has enough votes to be elected. Will this assemblage accept Rutledge and Middleton?”

  A solid roar answered. “Aye!”

  “Gadsden may have made a mistake, throwing this meeting open,” Michael said. Byrne only grunted.

  “The clerks,” Powell continued, “will dispense ballots once more. There are three more delegates to be selected. And please, gentlemen, only those names placed in nomination.”

  The clerks fanned out as before, waiting for ballots to be written and sanded, ballot boxes filling up, craftsmen’s helpers and layabouts slowly scrawling names. Curious, Michael moved closer to the group at the back of the room. A horny-handed man in a cobbler’s apron was talking to Beady-eyes.

  “Who do I want? Why, Gadsden, of course. You put it down there, Carey. Gadsden.”

  “Of course. I should’ve known. Gadsden.” Michael was in a position to see the name Carey laboriously formed. Brewton.

  With an oath he started forward, and stopped immediately. Carey looked up and nodded to the two clerks, and they nodded back. Damn it, he couldn’t clear them all out himself. He hurried back to his place and bent to Christopher’s ear. “There are some clerks and a man named Carey stealing men’s votes.” Byrne jerked to his feet.

  “Easy. Easy, damn it. Don’t scare them off. You see? Carey’s the one with the round nose, whispering in everybody’s ear.”

  Byrne studied him intently. “Anslow’s around here somewhere. I’ll have him gather a dozen of the boys and frogmarch Carey out. Those damned clerks, too!”

  “God’s blood, man, do you want riot? We’ll have to do it ourselves. You get one of them aside. The one with the pinched face. Looks like he’s costive; tell him you’ve got something to loosen his bowels. Keep him aside till after the next ballot. I’ll take the other.”

  “What about Carey?”

  “He’s not brains enough to do anything by himself, I’m thinking—”

  The second ballot had been counted, and Powell faced the gathering, hands on hips. “There is still no decision.” A swell of sound rose and died away. “And there are still those writing names which are not in nomination. Now, is there a wish to reopen the nominations?” A clamor broke out, and none could tell if it was for or against. Powell shouted vigorously for order.

  Michael threaded his way back along the wall. No one noticed him, so caught up were they, some even standing on their chairs trying to catch Powell’s eye. The stocky young clerk jumped when Michael’s arm dropped around his shoulders. He was turned and walking for the door before he realized it.

  “Let us talk in private a minute, lad. You seem a fine, upstanding young man. How are you called?”

  “Ah, McDowell, sir. But, sir, I can’t, I can’t leave the hall at the moment.”

  Michael guided him smoothly through the door.

  McDowell looked at Michael uncertainly and tried to back away. “I, ah, I am needed inside.”

  Michael caught him by the arm. The man tried to jerk away, and looked surprised when his arm didn’t move. It had to. He was the bigger of the two. He jerked again. And again.

  Michael moved off down the hall, pulling McDowell with him. The clerk didn’t stop struggling until they were on the second-story portico, looking down on Broad Street. Michael backed him to the railing. He looked at the street below, and back at Michael.

  “Rest yourself,” Michael said, “and tell me what you plan for your future.”

  “F—future, sir?”

  “Aye, boyo, your future. Have you given a thought to it?”