Jake'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 Cadwallader'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 shoreline, 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 lying, 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. Addressing Alison as "sir," he soon led her down the hallway 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 polished 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, "being 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 escape 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 carpets 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?"
Alison nodded her head up and down. She could tell that the woman did not believe her, but had no other lie to offer.
"And what happened to your boat?"
"The waves took it," said Alison. "We had to swim to shore, from at least midway. My father — saved me."
"Fishing? At night?"
"It was only late afternoon when we sank."
"Your father seems quite young to have a boy your age," said Lady Patricia.
"He seems old to me. But he has said my mother and he were young sweethearts."
"I see. And where is she?"
"She died. I was to have a younger brother."
Lady Patricia, who despite her high birth knew the trials of childbirth all too well, nodded sadly. "Let me have George get you some breakfast. My husband and brother are in the city," added the woman as she rose, "or we would have been able to greet you properly. With the rebellion, of course, times are strained. And my brother's ways here are somewhat different than our own — refreshingly so, I think."
Alison nodded. She belatedly realized she should have gotten up when the woman did — it would have been considered the gentlemanly thing to do.
Fatigued by his exertions and relative lack of sleep, Jake found it difficult to shake off Morpheus's shackles. He pushed his arms against the hard rocks beneath his chest several times before actually rising. When he succeeded he found himself squinting not into the sun but at a member of Her Majesty's Light Dragoons, an impressive if slightly haughty unit whose members spent considerable time each day primping the smart blue facings on their red uniforms — and a lot more time practicing with their swords and carbines.
Only the fact that Jake's legs were still weighed down by the invisible forces of exhaustion kept him from bolting.
"Lady Patricia directed that I wait on you," said the man. He was nominally at ease but still gripped his carbine tightly. "Your son has already been taken inside."
"My son?"
"He's quite safe inside Mr. Clayton Bauer's house. Were there others in your boat?"
"In my boat — no. Just myself and my son," said Jake. Fatherhood had come upon him unexpectedly, but he saw no option but to accept the condition gracefully and without comment. "Is he all right?"
"He has been seen to, sir. Please come with me."
Jake nodded and followed. He'd picked a fine bit of shore to wash up on. He wasn't sure who the lady would be, but Clayton Bauer was responsible for a good number of Tory spy rings around the freshly declared nation. He was an important member of the city commission, known as the police, besides.
Nor was he reputed to be particularly hospitable toward "rebels," no matter how cheerful the guard promised breakfast would be.