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legs up on the cushions. She wondered where Ezra was now. She had lived her entire life in Boston and had rarely ventured from the peninsula. She thought of the rest of the continent as being a vast, uncharted place, darker than the city. Yet there was promise out there, and she wished she knew whether he had run away from something here in Boston, or whether he had been drawn toward something out there. Her brother James, in his subtle way, would suggest that this was not the time for such thoughts, reminding her of the sacrifices soon to come. And she thought of Paul Revere, crossing the Charles to warn the countryside that British troops were coming out from Boston. Perhaps this was the beginning of what was to come, the hard times James said were drawing near. She was tired, exhausted really, and she knew she should go up to bed. But this was her window, her view, and the moon was on the rise over Boston, reason enough to linger a few minutes longer. From this angle, she looked across the rooftops toward the North End and Christ Church, the tallest steeple in Boston.

IV
    Tea and Togas
    T HERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR AND A BIGAIL AWOKE, LYING on her bed, still fully clothed.
    â€œYou there, dear?”
    â€œWhy would you ask that, Mother?” Vaguely, she recalled getting up from the window seat in the middle of the night and making her way to her bedroom. “Where else would I be?”
    â€œComing down for breakfast, then?”
    â€œI’ll be just a few minutes.”
    The floorboards creaked in the hall as her mother moved toward the stairs, but then she returned, and this time her voice was barely a whisper. “Benjamin didn’t come home last night.”
    Abigail was undoing buttons, but she paused and went to the door, saying, “He didn’t?” Raising the latch, she opened the door—her mother looked startled and she shook her head. In the early morning light her pale eyes seemed to shine from within.
    â€œI don’t know what’s happened to him,” she said. “And there’s word on the street—Jonas, the milkman, says that hundreds of soldiers crossed Back Bay last night.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThe streets, they’re quiet this morning. It’s strange, and frightening.” Her mother’s voice had an unusual quiver to it. Over the winter she’d suffered from a long spell of the ague, and she still hadn’t regained all her strength. Her step was slower now, her shoes often sliding along the floorboards, and, perhaps of greater concern, she seemed more forgetful. “Where would he be?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Abigail took her mother’s fidgeting hands. “He’ll be all right.” Her mother’s hands, too, seemed reduced of late; thin, frail, and always cold, even though it was already quite a warm morning. “Let me just wash and change, Mother, and I’ll be right down.”
    â€œTea!” her father hollered from downstairs.
    â€œHe’s—” her mother said, pulling her hands free. “Please hurry, dear.”
    Abigail watched her mother shuffle to the staircase and take hold of the banister as she eased herself down each step. At the landing, she paused to look back toward her daughter.
    â€œI’ll be right down,” Abigail said.
    She stepped back into her room, and as she shut the door she heard her father’s voice again, louder. “Tea, woman! And biscuits.”
    After she finished getting dressed, Abigail quickly went down the hall and climbed the ladder to the attic. This was Benjamin’s usual hiding place, in the house. Since he’d been small, she’d find him up here, sitting on some boards laid across the rafters. He would just sit, often after a row with Father, and he would refuse to speak, refuse to come down. But he was not in the attic this time. Still, this was not unusual. He had a tendency to wander, and sometimes days would