The Golden Flask (15 page)

Surprised, Keen turned to his right. Standing in the
doorway to the back of the house was a woman holding
a musket.

"I don't know who you are," declared the girl's
mother, "but if you do not walk backward from this
building this instant, you will sing with the angels in
heaven."

"As you wish, madam."

Keen was a man of science, but he considered that
there are certain times in life when Fate herself may be
playing a hand, and it is best not to interfere. He could
always return here at some future date, once his job was complete.

He paused at the door, and reached inside his vest for his purse.

Mrs. Daley brought the musket up and steadied her
aim.

"Permit me, madam, to pay for your troubles," he said mildly. "And a little extra."

He threw thirty crowns on the floor, a princely sum in this, and indeed most, households.

"I hope that you will spend a portion of it on that
beautiful gown," he told Kristen, pointing it out. "It
would look most beautiful on you."

He did not pause to hear the reply.

Chapter Fourteen

Wherein, Alison promotes Jake to fatherhood, without
the usual preliminaries.

J
ake's
exertions, along with
the tide and current, had delivered them to a point not only across the river but far south of the shore where he and Alison had departed. If the reader were to stand on the ridge at the
girdle of the island — in the same batteries that slowed the Hessian advance the previous fall — he would find the two patriots to the south, though still beyond Cad
wallader's mansion in the rocky portion of the city's outer precincts.

Anyone who has only visited the seaport and close
streets at the tip of the island before the war will do
well here to adjust his vision from brick buildings to
farmland, or more properly, swamps and rough shore
line, which is where Alison and Jake found themselves
as dawn ran its fingers through their damp hair.

Alison was the first to wake, roused from slumber by
some warm licks on her face. These came from a large
but friendly mastiff, who stood over her with a quizzical look. When she opened her eyes, the dog took a
half-step back and gave a triumphant bark, as if he had
breathed life into an inanimate object.

Alison recoiled from the brown-toned dog, with its well-meaning but spittle-ridden tongue. The tragedy of the previous night returned to her in a flood of horrible memories, and tears flowed freely, sorrow and fright
combining in a way the fifteen-year-old had never felt before. Kneeling against the rough sand, she buried her head in her hands as the dog looked on in confusion.

"Do not cry, young man," said a gentle voice. "Here
now, you're all right."

Alison — whose hair was cut short and who was still
wearing the breeches, shirt, vest and coat of a boy —
was helped to her feet by a woman in a spotless white
dress.

"Am I in heaven?" she asked.

The woman laughed. "I doubt Manhattan island has
ever been considered that, or it wouldn't have been sold so cheaply. Were you shipwrecked?"

"Our boat sank. My father —"

Alison looked back at the rocks where Jake was ly
ing, his arms crowded over his head. The dog was standing over him with a quizzical air, perhaps not knowing quite where to apply his tongue.

"Back, King, stand away." The woman patted the
dog's neck lightly. "He means well, but he is such a
slobberer. Come with me to the house, young man. We'll send some servants back to help your father while we get you some dry clothes. What is your name?"

Alison, well aware now that they had washed up in
enemy territory, hesitated for only the slightest moment before answering "Al."

"Mine is Lady Patricia. Come along." The woman
took her by the hand. "King, stay here until I send one
of the soldiers down."

At the sharp tone, the dog's ears became erect. He gave a quick bark and bared his teeth, then began
strutting back to Jake. No member of the Black Watch
mounted a prouder patrol.

If the woman had appeared to be an angel when Alison opened her eyes, the building she led her to could have been Heaven's own mansion. The gabled roof gleamed bright red with the light from the rising sun behind it, and the brick front was glazed with a
glowing warmth that welcomed her as she stepped on
the oyster-covered path leading to the door.

Lady Patricia led her gently by the hand, opened the mansion’s door and then called to a servant to assist. A
young black man only a few years older than Alison
appeared; he was dressed in a silk suit finer than any
clothes her father or any of their customers had ever
owned. He bowed as he received his instructions. Ad
dressing Alison as "sir," he soon led her down the hall
way and up two flights of a back staircase to a small guest room.

"If you take off your clothes, sir, I will have them
dried."

"I can't do that," blustered Alison.

"Sir?"

"I—I'm afraid of catching a cold."

"That would be the point of your taking the wet clothes off your back, sir."

"I won't change until I have something to change into."

The servant frowned, but as he had been planning
on fetching new clothes anyway, merely bowed and left.

Alison closed the door and examined the room. It
was sparsely though elegantly furnished. The bed and curtain fabric were thick and sleek beneath her fingers,
ten times as luxurious as any her father had ever used at the inn. The wardrobe and small chest of drawers
glowed a reddish brown, their surfaces so strongly pol
ished that Alison could see her reflection in the wood as clearly as if it were glass.

The harsh river currents had scrubbed her body clean of the blood that had bathed it last night. With
her short hair and thin face, she did indeed look like a
boy — an exceedingly fair one, and a few years younger
than she actually was, but a boy nonetheless.

Her clothes were very damp; finally feeling the chill
through them, she made sure the door was barred and
window curtains closed, then whipped off her coat and
shirt. She peeled back the breeches and walked naked
through the room, her toes tickling the fine wool of the
carpet, feeling as if she had been reborn.

Her father's death was as yet a bad dream, unreal to
her. Jake, on the other hand, was very real, and her feelings toward him sharp in a way she had not felt before.

It was as if some new part of her had grown inside; if
she were able to reach inside her chest she might find a
new heart or lung there.

It took a few seconds for Alison to hear the knock on the door, and a few more to realize it was for her.

"Sir? May I come in, sir?"

"Wait," Alison said, running to the door. She
wedged her bare foot against the floor, then leaned her head over to the edge of the doorway as she creaked it
open. "What do you want?"

"I have your clothes, sir, if you'll permit me."

"Give them here."

"Sir?"

To open the door even another inch would be to give
herself away. Alison eased her hand into the hallway —
and pushed her weight harder toward her foot.

"Please give me my clothes," she told the servant. "I'll dress myself."

The servant sighed heavily, but nonetheless complied.

"Tell the lady I'll be down shortly."

"The lady is a dame," said the servant heavily, "be
ing the wife of an earl. Her full name is Lady Patricia Eileen Buckmaster. You may call her Lady Patricia, if
she so directs you."

"She already did," replied Alison. "Tell her I'll be right down."

"As you wish."

Alison whisked the clothes into the room, then fell
against the door, closing it. She stayed against the oiled wood panel until she had finished pulling on a shirt and
then the breeches.

The servant had not brought a coat, which presented
her with a bit of a problem. As Jake had discovered,
her chest was not so completely unnourished as to es
cape close scrutiny. She saw no choice but to wear her
damp waistcoat over the linen shirt, buttoning it despite the moisture.

Barefoot, she emerged from the room to find the servant waiting impatiently.

"Here," she said, handing him a wadded pile of wet
clothes. "Can you dry these?"

"You are expected in the north parlor."

Alison had no idea what a north parlor was, much less where to find it, and so followed quietly as the servant led her back downstairs to a large paneled room twice as large as her father's inn. The thick car
pets covering the floors were the first thing the shoeless
girl noticed. Then a pair of massive chandeliers caught
her eyes and led them to a white marble fireplace that
took up nearly three-quarters of the wall. Despite the
fact that it was summer, a fire had been started, and as
Alison approached she felt the heat blow across her face, chasing the last vestiges of the river's chill. Her vest seemed to dry immediately.

"Isn't your waistcoat still damp?"

Startled, Alison spun quickly and took a step back, avoiding Lady Patricia's touch. The woman moved so
silently and quickly, she might well be an angel or a ghost.

"It's not wet at all," she told her.

Lady Patricia frowned briefly, dimples forming in her
round cheeks. But they soon slid into an indulgent smile. "You are just learning the rules of decency, I see. Very well. I am glad to see Thomas's old clothes
fit. They haven't been worn since he was thirteen or
fourteen, when he first came to visit his uncle."

"Is that long?"

"Too long, now," said the woman. "Take this chair and sit by the fireplace, child. With luck, the Servant will find you some shoes."

Alison nodded and sat.
"Tell me how you came to be, on my brother's beach
while we wait for your shoes," said Lady Patricia. "Then we will go inside and eat."

"There's not much to tell, ma'am. My father and I were fishing."

"Fishing?"