When her eyes adjust to the ill-lit room, she sees that the boathouse contains a small rowboat and a few canoes, stacked one on top of the other. An assortment of oars and push poles lay in a pile on the floor, but Cecily doesn’t realize they are there until she trips over them. The paddles make a sickening clatter, and she prays no one is close by to hear.
A big piece of thickly woven sailcloth lays in folds at the bottom of the rowboat, and Cecily shakes it out in a hurry, desperate to get warm. Immediately, she hears the panicked cries of a family of displaced mice. “I’m sorry,” she whispers as she wraps the nubby material around her shoulders, then looks for a good spot to hide.
Her eyes settle on the stack of canoes. If she can climb into the topmost canoe and pull the sailcloth over her, no one will know she’s here. But the problem is, Cecily’s body has begun to work against her. Her head is pounding, and in the last several hours, the marrow in her bones has turned to ice; she shivers uncontrollably and feels clumsy with cold. When she tries to hoist herself into the boat, her feet feel too large to find a foothold and her fingers too fat to find a grip. All her strength is gone.
She scours the boathouse for something she can use as a step stool—a crate or an empty pail—but finds nothing that will work. So, she tries to pull herself up a second time and then a third, and when she finally managesto heave herself into the belly of the canoe, she is breathing so hard she thinks she will die, right there on the spot.
Cecily pulls her knees up tight against her chest and wraps the sailcloth around herself like a cocoon. Then she waits for her shallow breaths to warm the space. For a while, her body is shaking so hard, she worries she’ll cause the boats beneath her to topple. But eventually, her breathing grows steadier, and her body relaxes into a dreamless sleep.
JACK
Where is everyone?” Anderson asksPlacide when Placide walks through the door of the tavern’s back room—alone—at seven o’clock in the morning.
When Anderson convinced Jack to return to the tavern, several hours ago, they had been surprised to discover the back room empty. They checked the upstairs bedrooms, but could find none of the actors, so they plunked down in front of the fire to wait for the troupe’s eventual return. The first hour or two passed quickly, both of them relieved to doze in their chairs, but Anderson had recently begun to pace, worried about where everyone had gotten off to.
Placide goes to warm himself by the fire. “The men are out, trying to dig up members of the slave patrol.”
“And the women?”
“I just got them settled back at the boardinghouse.”
“Any sign of Nancy?” Anderson asks.
“None,” says Placide with a shake of his head.
“That’s too bad.”
Placide turns to Jack. “So, our friend convinced you to return to us?”
In lieu of an answer, Jack shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers.
“As you’ve probably guessed by now, he’s not in favor of blaming the fire on a slave revolt,” says Anderson.
“Because you think it won’t work?” Placide asks Jack. “Or because you are a man of principle?”
Jack doesn’t know what the correct answer is, so he says, “Both?”
“What about the principle of loyalty?” Placide says. “Or, dare I say, gratitude?”
“Alex,” Anderson warns.
“What? We gave him this job as a favor to Girardin. He gets a decentwage, room and board, and the opportunity to make something of himself. And what does he do? He burns the place down, then has the nerve to question the means by which we ensure our own survival.”
“He’s on our side,” says Anderson. “I’m just registering his concerns.”
“I am grateful for the job, Mr. Placide,” says Jack. “Truly, I am.”
“Well, then, act like it,” Placide says as he pulls out an empty chair and gestures for Jack to sit.
Jack doesn’t argue.
“How’s your penmanship?” Placide asks.
Jack clears his throat. “Penmanship?”
Placide goes to get a piece of letter paper, an ink pot, and a pen and places the items in front of Jack. “I’ve been thinking, what we need is a letter.”
“A letter?” says Jack.
