A week slipped past and the weather turned colder. Sarah woke each morning expecting to see snow on the ground, but it seemed to be holding out. Samuel spent his days in the fields, overseeing the farmhands as they worked to get the fields turned over. Sarah tried to convince him to rest, as his health was still fragile, but he would not be swayed. Although she knew it was unwise, Sarah began to slip into a comfortable routine on the Townsend farm.

One day, as she was coming home with the groceries, she was stopped by Samuel, who was in the back yard, tending the garden.

"You'll find a copy of the Royal Gazette on the table. You might want to look at the advertisements," he said, leaning on his rake. Sarah rushed in shoving aside the groceries in her haste. She quickly found an ad for French raspberry brandy; Robert's signal.

Sarah immediately ran to her room and packed a bag. She wanted to change into her old clothes, but thought better of it, as the soldiers were still on the lookout for them.

"I will try to be back by week's end," she told Samuel on her way out.

"Travel safe and tell Robert it would be nice to see him at Thanksgiving this year," he replied. Sarah paused.

"Why, Mr. Townsend, wouldn't that be considered a holiday?" She asked.

"So don't tell the other Quakers," he said. Sarah laughed and hurried to the stables to start the long journey back to York City.

Rivington's Corner was bustling with customers when Sarah arrived in the late afternoon of that next day. She was stopped at the door by a large man with a heavy cane which she suspected was not for walking.

"No women without sponsorship," he said gruffly. Sarah tried to look past him, but he blocked the door.

"My name is Sarah Goodman, I know the owner, Mr. Rivington, and his partner, Mr. Townsend. I'm sure that either of them could vouch for me." The man didn't seem convinced and started ushering her away, when Robert appeared behind him.

"It's alright, Tommy." Tommy grumbled but let Sarah through.

"How good to see you again, Ms. Goodman."

"I got your message and came as fast as I could." Robert led her to a counter in the back and pulled out a Geneva Bible.

"Give my regards to Mr. Culper."

"I shall indeed. And tell me…" Sarah was cut short by Rivington's loud exclamation.

"Ah, Ms. Goodman, what an unexpected delight. I did not dare to hope you would be back so soon after your last visit."

"Mr. Rivington, how lovely to see you again. Yes, I received a letter from Mr. Townsend just yesterday, saying that he had acquired this Bible for his father, and as he is unwell, I came in his place." Rivington reach for the Bible.

"May I?" Sarah handed it over and he rifled through the pages.

"Are you a religious man, Mr. Rivington?" Sarah asked.

"I am a newsman, which is a religion all its own. Where others worship mysteries, I seek to dispel them." He shut the book and handed it back to Sarah. "And you, Ms. Goodman, seem to be the greatest mystery here."

"Whatever do you mean, sir?" Sarah shifted, casting a nervous glance towards Robert, who seemed equally concerned.

"Well, you did not tell me you and Robbie were such close, childhood friends, and now I find you have been exchanging letters? What other secrets are you hiding behind that pretty smile?"

"Well, sir, it is true that Robert and I grew up together, indeed, our fathers were close friends. But I hardly tried to disguise this fact. And as for our exchanging letters, I'm afraid it was just the one." Rivington gave a secret smile.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," he said, winking at Robert, who replied with an unamused stare. "No need to defend yourself, Ms. Goodman. Every lady must have her secrets. But I pray thee, since you know him better than I, lift the veil on the mystery of our young, Quaker friend. He says so little."

"Robert may ration his words, but I have found that what you see is what you get."

"Really, now? It's always the quiet ones who hold the darkest secrets. Don't they?" Robert looked at Rivington.

"Or perhaps their darkest, most shameful secret, is that they have none," he said, adding a smile for punctuation. They studied each other for a moment, before Rivington turned back to Sarah.

"And what's this I hear, that you have taken up lodging at the Rose and Thorn?" Sarah laughed nervously.

"My goodness, Mr. Rivington, is there anything you don't know?"

"I am a journalist at heart. But I insist you move out of that retched place at once and rent with us."

"I'm afraid we don't have any vacancies at the moment," Robert interjected.

"Don't be ridiculous Townsend. There's that room across from yours, or have you completely consumed it with your books?"

"I suppose I could find room for them elsewhere."

"Excellent! Then it's settled. I'll have Tommy bring over your bags."

"I'm afraid I couldn't afford your room, Mr. Rivington," Sarah said quietly.

"Oh, we'll settle all that later. In the meantime, have some Madeira, on the house."

"You're too kind."

Suddenly the door opened, revealing a handsome officer, who strode in with purpose. Rivington quickly excused himself and rushed to greet him. Sarah noted that Robert's face had gone pale.

"Who is that?" She whispered.

"Major John Andre, the British head of intelligence." Behind Andre trailed a burly, mean-looking man in a long overcoat.

"And that?" Robert simply shook his head. Major Andre motioned for the man to come through. He was followed by several more men, carrying large sacks of paper. Sarah was beginning to get nervous.

"Robert, what is going on here?" Sarah asked.

"Mr. Rivington is in the fashion of reporting the news before it happens. Perhaps some great victory is expected soon."

"They'd be fools to try anything now. It's nearly winter, for goodness sake."

Rivington came out a few moments later, looking like the cat who swallowed the canary. He came back and grabbed Robert.

"Excuse us, Ms. Goodman," he said, pulling Robert away.

Sarah tried not to seem too interested in their conversation, but when she noticed Rivington sliding a large stack of Continentals towards Robert. Robert slid them back, and Rivington tucked them away. The men came back over, and Sarah pretended to study their wine selection. She looked up as they approached.

"I was wondering, Mr. Rivington, if I might have the tour of your presses I was promised at my last visit. I am very eager to see one in in action."

"And that you shall, Ms. Goodman, but I'm afraid the tour will have to wait a little longer."

"Oh," she said, disappointed she would not get to spy out what the British were planning.

"You see, two of our printers have been drafter into service for a top-secret mission. It's all very hush, hush. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. I wouldn't want to stand in the way of such an important mission."

"Very kind of you. Robbie boy, round up some drinks and I'll take them down to our friends. Nothing too strong, eh?"

"Of course… James." Sarah smiled a little at Robert's obvious irritation, which Rivington was oblivious to. He took the platter of drinks and disappeared down the stairs once again. As soon as Rivington was gone, Sarah turned to Robert.

"We have to find out what they're up to."

"And we will, but not right now."

"So you have a plan?"

"You could say that."

"Good, how can I help?"

"No, it's too dangerous." Sarah stood back, offended.

"I am not a child in need of protecting. I want to help you, now tell me how I can help."

"You can help by staying out of the way, and that is final," Robert said in his infuriatingly calm manner. Before she could argue further, he poured a pitcher of ale. "Your room is the last door on the right. I trust you can find your own way," he said, and then left.