Two and a half.
Two and a third.
Three. I started and clung to the vine like it was Papa’s waist. The ivy swayed but bounced back like a spring.
Heaving, I climbed down, foothold after foothold.
The herbaceous fragrance of the leaves mingled with my perspiration. The scent reminded me of summer—of sneaking from my bedchamber window to escape chores, to hide from endless dress fittings, to avoid the suitors coming to sway the Sugar King’s daughters.
It meant a couple of hours of not hearing Mama’s critiques, her coughs, or the awful moment when she’d cough no more.
Hand over hand, toehold after toehold, I lowered myself until one boot hit the ground and then the other. I drew my arms about me and made sure my heart was still inside my ribs.
But it wasn’t.
It was in a dingy crib, three stories up.
The hawthorn hedgerows at my hips left tiny white petals on my breeches. The flowers reflected the moonlight, making my menswear look like lace. Mama must be looking down laughing.
I scrubbed off the flowers and headed across the wide field toward the gate, toward Jemina.
A screech sounded, followed by a wave of thunder.
I halted in place.
Then a drum, drum, drumming caught in my ear. It chiseled inside, hammering down my spine. I reached for my knife, but it wasn’t in my waistband.
I’d left it on the ledge.
Headstrong, impatient girl.Mama’s rebuke rang in my brainbox.
The ground shook beneath my boots.
A fast rider led one, two, three carriages. They barreled through Hamlin’s stone gates.
Men galloped toward me with guns drawn, flintlocks, the ones with the long barrels, the ones meant for war.
Kicked-up rocks stung my shins as the first horse passed, but the lead carriage shot toward me. Its large side lanterns blinded, stunning me like an insect mesmerized by light.
Couldn’t move, couldn’t stop staring. I’d survived Bedlam and the high ledge, only to be trampled.
No surrendering, not me, not this time.
I straightened and faced the raiders head-on.
CHAPTER 2
A MOTHER’SRESOLVE
The tart stench of horses’ lather and the odor of burning pitch wrinkled my nose. The carriage moved closer, coming for me, but I wouldn’t back down. I’d hidden too much.
My father’s blood pumping inside kept me from a faint. His endless talk of insurrection from the American rabble, Samuel Adams, stuck in my heart. I understood and absorbed his troubles, his defiant quest for life and liberty.
Each time I picked up my son, felt his skin next to mine, I became a revolutionary. For him, his life, his liberty, I charged forward.
The driver cursed at me but steered to the right.
I was saved, but I knew from the number of guns I’d seen, the battle hadn’t been won. Clenching my gloved hands, I remembered my disguise and waved the carriages toward the steps. I acted like a footman and did what those servants did whenever my husband arrived from Town. I kept signaling with arms wiggling and pointing.
