Author's Note: This unintentionally ended up becoming a mammoth of a chapter. I hope you enjoy.

John prayed for death. He didn't mean any of his words, but at the same time, if he did die right there, he knew it would be done out of mercy. Shortly after Molly Strong had finished bandaging his head and departed for the evening, his wound had reopened and bled completely through the dressings. He managed to get it to stop again, but not before smearing blood all over his uniform, and the bedsheets, and the doors of the wardrobe.

He wanted to be angry; he wanted to be filled with hatred towards Rogers, for maiming him. But in truth, he was scared. Scared that Rogers may return; he had underestimated him, and now John didn't have any idea what to expect from his predecessor. He was scared for himself. His mind kept going to death. Was he dying? Was this what it felt like to die? Existing in torture and praying for the end?

His head was pounding so loudly, he thought he'd never know true silence again. He knew the pain would eventually dull, but he didn't want to be patient. He was in agony. He had broken out in a cold sweat, and he suddenly couldn't stand the feeling of his clothes sticking to him, and he had stripped out of them so that he was only in his breeches, shivering at the foot of his bed. And that's when he was overwhelmed by the feeling of nausea, and he'd stumbled over to one corner of the room and emptied the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot. When he was finished, he fell back and sat on the floor, trembling. His throat burned from the vomit, and he could feel hot, frustrated tears streaming down his face.

He'd fallen back onto his bloodied bedsheets soon after, too exhausted to remain upright. And that's where he's been for the past hours, in and out of sleep, tossing and turning. His hand kept cramping where it was under the pillow, gripping his knife; his only defense if Rogers returned to finish him in his sleep.

He had finally drifted off again when he heard the door handle turn. He jolted awake, fumbling with the knife, instantly feeling lightheaded and nauseous from sitting up so quickly. But his anxieties quickly dispersed when he recognized the figure in the doorframe. It was Sergeant Odell. Neither man said a word as Odell stepped into the room with Aberdeen on his heels. John wanted to be self-conscious at his state-of-dress, but Aberdeen didn't bat an eye. She wordlessly placed a bowl of water and cloths on the desktop, then she bowed her head slightly as she exited the room, closing the door behind her.

"O'Shaughnessy told me what happened." Odell said quietly, peeling his coat off. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and dipped one of the rags into the bowl of water. He hesitated upon seeing the carnage on the desk. John hadn't bothered to touch anything; the remains of his left ear were still on the desk, beside the bowl. But then Odell remembered himself and then he was beside John, who was still sat up in bed, and he began to wipe away the dried blood and examine his ear.

"Damn, the Major sure made a mess of you." Odell said under his breath.

John groaned in response, flinching slightly under his touch.

"You're not gonna like what I've to say, but it's not a clean break." The Sergeant continued.

Odell had no intentions of doing away with the entire ear. Most of it was still intact, it was just what wasn't that would cause problems. Washing it while it was healing was a concern. It could become infected, and if the infection spread to the Captain's head… It wouldn't be good. The earlobe was still intact; it was just the auricle that was mangled. It would have to be cut down almost to the skull. But the bottom part would remain, so it would not affect the Captain's hearing too much, but the truth was that John wouldn't hear the same as he once did.

During all this, Odell's voice remained calm; he was used to seeing gore after all; and John was grateful for that. As an officer, John didn't like picking favorites. He'd never say it aloud, but he favored Odell over the rest of his men. He liked him because Odell didn't act afraid of him. John still remembered when he had first taken command of the Rangers. When the men learned he was former King's Army, they had a fit. One of them had tried to kill him. And John admitted to himself that he found it strange that he was forced to lead them unconventionally through violence and fear, but it was the only way most of the men would listen to him. To earn their respect, he had to play upon their fears. All except Odell, who didn't see a problem with whomever was his commanding officer. Odell followed orders all the same.

Not a clean break. John knew what that meant. Odell was going to have to cut off more of his mangled ear, so that there were no uneven remains that would get snared on clothing, reopening the wound.

"Do you want a drink, Captain?" He was on his feet and at the dresser now, where John kept a few bottles of alcohol and some glasses. He didn't wait for an answer and he filled a glass and handed it to John. As John accepted the glass, he hesitated. Odell knew what he meant, and he handed him the entire bottle as well. Then he found a place to sit on the bed and watched the Captain as he began to gulp down the amber liquid. He noticed that the Captain's hand was shaking. John abandoned the glass after the first few drinks, and then brought the bottle to his lips.

"Careful there. Don't want you being sick." Odell knew the Captain had been sick. The smell of vomit stull hung in the air.

John glanced at him side-eyed and then took another long swig. He knew he was dangerously close to vomiting again, but he didn't care. He wanted to… he needed to be drunk for what he knew was coming. If he didn't separate himself from his sound mind, he knew he would protest and stop Odell from completing the task at hand. So he drank through the rest of the bottle, then he demanded the second bottle be handed to him.

He was nearly done with the second bottle when he felt a wave of dizziness pass over him. He assumed it was just from drinking too fast, and he continued, taking smaller sips at what remained in the bottle. But then he felt a new sensation. It was a mixture of deliriousness and exhaustion and numbness all at once. He decided to lay back down and wait for the feeling to pass, but his eyes were closed, and he became lost to the world the second his head hit the pillow. And that was when Odell got to work.

Red. That was all she could see. Red. She knew she had to get out of there, she knew she needed to escape. She couldn't see his face, but she was trying to get her mind back to images of Ben. But in that moment the last thing she wanted to be thinking about was Ben.

She was atop of Lieutenant O'Connell again. Just like the day before. She was sat there, unmoving, but she could remember the way her body moved as she plunged the blade of the knife into O'Connell's stomach. She remembered the fury that had settled deep in her gut and made her eyebrows narrow and her nose twitch. The feeling that made her bare her teeth when she decided she would kill him. She could remember her frustrated shouts as she continued to push the blade into him. The way the knife kept getting stuck in his flesh. The way she had to use all her strength to ensure the knife was lifted out and then right back into his chest. The way the blood gurgled from his mouth, and from the new openings in his chest. The way his arms had flailed. The way he kept pawing at her skirts, at her thighs, in desperation as he died.

The memory was not linear. Images, feelings, kept coming in and out of focus. Everything was red. And then O'Connell was gone. But she remained. A thick layer of blood matting her arms, her dress. She wanted to be horrified of what she had done. She wanted to feel the same nausea she had felt upon killing MacInnis. But even that memory was becoming distorted. And the truth was, now. Now. She wasn't sorry for what she had done. And that's when she began to laugh. And she didn't know why, but she couldn't stop laughing.

Molly jolted awake, sitting up in bed. She cried out, the sudden movement causing a wave of pain to go through her shoulder. She was covered in a sheen of perspiration, and she was trembling. She had no idea why she had had that dream, or what her dream even meant, but it frightened her. That's not me. She thought in a panic. This isn't me. This… She turned her head slightly and gasped upon seeing someone sat near her bed. It was a Ranger. She pulled the covers to her chest, trying to hide her state-of-undress. But the Ranger seemed unfazed by all this, and he lifted a hand indicating for her to relax.

"Morning." He yawned. That's when she noticed how tired he looked. He had dark circled under his eyes. In fact, he kept blinking, as if he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. And his uniform was disheveled. His coat was unbuttoned and his shirt was untucked and the fabric was rumpled.

"No need to look so frightened." The man continued. She recognized him. He was the Ranger who had restrained her when Simcoe was holding a pistol to Abe's head. She remembered his name was Odell. "And no need to be embarrassed. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"I was the one who patched you up." He explained.

She relaxed slightly.

"Thank you." She wasn't sure what else to say, so she added, "Were you waiting for me to wake?"

"Aye." He nodded. He rose out of the chair and to his feet, shuffling to the dresser. He grabbed a few pieces of cloth. "Figured I outta change the dressings. See how you're holding up." He returned to her and took a seat beside her on the edge of the bed. She tensed slightly, becoming evermore aware at the fact that she was dressed only in her shift. He looked at her shoulder, gesturing with his chin for her to be the one to reveal the injury. She complied, pushing the fabric off her shoulder, but he didn't motion to look at the dressings. He shot her a glance and raised his eyebrows slightly. That's when she understood.

"Will you look away for a moment?" she asked quietly.

He nodded and averted his gaze. Molly pushed the fabric off her other shoulder and then shimmied the material down her body so that the fabric pooled at her waist. Then she returned her hands to the blankets and clutched them close to her form, to hide her bare chest.

"All right."

Odell turned back and began to unwind the dressings her shoulder. Molly arched her neck, trying to give him room, but she couldn't help glancing at his hands as he worked. And she couldn't help noticing the dried blood that had seeped into the fabric he unfurled from her skin.

"How are you holding up?" Odell asked.

"I suppose alright. I'm alive, after all."

He exhaled in amusement. "Aye. Suppose that's well enough."

Her injury was exposed now, but she couldn't get a good look at it. It was too high up on her shoulder and she couldn't crane her neck enough to see it. Odell probed at her skin for a second. She quietly winced; she was sore. He was satisfied with his work.

"Just as I thought." He deadpanned. "You'll live." He grinned at his own comment, and the gesture made Molly smile as well. Then Odell got to work rebandaging her shoulder. He kept talking, "You'll be stiff for a while. Not sure how long, but you'll know when you'll be fully healed."

"How will I know?"

"You'll finally be able to lift your arm completely above your head again."

"And if something happens and I can't?"

Odell smirked, "Then you best hope Major Rogers doesn't get ahold of me. If I'm still breathing by then, I'll see what I can do about it."

They had only exchanged a few words, but she already liked him. And she was suddenly grateful she had not spoken to O'Connell like this. Because she knew she would've lost her nerve and O'Connell would still be alive right now.

"I suppose it's not safe for me to return to the tavern." She commented. She wanted to speak with him more. Talking helped her forget how shaken she had been after her dream.

"That's right."

"Has anyone informed Mr. DeJong?"

"Corporal Fitch was sent yesterday. He was one of the lads who found you on the road, so he said it'd be fitting that he tell Mr. DeJong about your injury. But of course, that was before he returned here and…" his voice trailed off.

"And what?" she asked.

"The Major got him too. Same way he got Lieutenant O'Connell."

Molly felt her stomach churn. She remembered what Mary had said, "I killed a Ranger". Fitch must've been that Ranger. But Odell said that Rogers had gotten him in the same way. What did that mean? She had stabbed O'Connell to death, did that mean… It must mean what she thought it did. She tried to imagine Mary stabbing someone to death, but she couldn't conjure up the image… Molly felt a pain of guilt upon hearing that Fitch had been one of the men to find her. He had helped carry her here, and that was how he had been repaid.

"I'm sorry." Her voice sounded hollow. "I didn't know." She licked her lips which were still cracked and dry from sleep. And as she did so, another detail of last night came back to her, and it made her think of another pair of lips. "How's the Captain?"

Odell shrugged, "About as well as a man can be for having his ear shot off."

She nodded slowly, but she was lost in thought now, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she did so. She remembered her head feeling foggy last night. And she remembered the feelings of panic and anger and exhaustion and shock that had worked through her as she heard the words: "I feel affection towards you…" That and the fact that he offered to protect her; that she was now under his protection. She didn't know how to feel about any of this. On one hand, she was still planning on killing him, so then his words would mean nothing. He would be dead soon. But on the other hand… She wondered if this was how Anna felt when she formed her friendship with Hewlett. Before that, Anna despised the man, but then something happened. Anna had genuinely liked Hewlett, and that only made it harder for her when Abe tried to kill him. Molly didn't want that to happen to her. She didn't want to get to know her victim. She wished she could feel the same way she did years ago, when she was filled with nothing but dislike for Simcoe, but she couldn't deny that she needed to figure out how this new detail would factor into her plans.

Odell finished his work and departed not long after. As soon as he was gone, she loosened her clutch on the blanket, letting it fall, and she began pulling her shift back into place. She had no clue what she was going to do, but one thing was certain: She was starving.

John didn't know what compelled him, but he decided he wanted to go down to breakfast. It was late in the morning. The Judge and Mary Woodhull were both off doing whatever it was they did to occupy their day, so John was looking forward to eating alone. Between feeling so ill and the hangover, he was starving. When he entered the dining room, the last person he expected to see was Molly Strong. She was alone at the table scarfing down food. From the assortment of dishes surrounding her place, she was just as famished as he was.

She met his gaze as he took a seat across from her at the table. There was still quite a bit of food in the center of the table, so John didn't bother calling upon Aberdeen. He served himself. Both Molly and John sat there wordlessly as they ate. He found himself glancing up at her, but she refused to meet his gaze, and he was almost glad because he was certain she would notice that he was staring at her lips. He was still trying to make sense of what had happened the previous evening, but his memories were foggy. He had been overwhelmed by pain, and he knew he wasn't making much sense. But the last thing he expected was for her to gift him a kiss. He had no idea what had compelled her. Was it pity? Because he didn't want her pity. But he was certain that was why she had closed the space between them.

She used few manners while she ate, shoveling food into her mouth and drinking heartily from her teacup; she was hardly using utensils, instead using a piece of bread to mop up what was left on her plate before reaching out and helping herself to seconds, thirds. As strange as it may seem, he was grateful for it, because he was in no mood to behave as simply a houseguest. That was what he missed most about England, about home; he missed being master of his own house, missed being alone.

He never had to think anything of it when it was just him at Whitehall. He was secretly glad that the Magistrate disliked him so. The older man was constantly retiring to his quarters, giving John and his men reign of the house. As for Mrs. Woodhull, she was always coming and going, and even when she was there, she was doing something to busy herself, and she was quiet as well. But whenever Molly was at the house… He didn't know why, but he had always felt as if he needed to walk on eggshells around her. She knew much more than she let on, about all sorts of subjects, but she seemed to be content in keeping those things to herself.

He remembered when he was staying at her home, Strong Manor. He hadn't paid much thought to her then, and he had only stayed in her home for a week or so, but recently he found himself trying to remember details of his stay there. But all he could remember was his memories of the investigation into Captain Joyce's death. That and the fact that he had still been seeking the attention of Anna Strong. That was another thing he had been thinking about recently; Why had he sought the attention of Anna? Molly was another ample candidate – Heck, she was perhaps a better candidate. When he tried to consider all that had happened, he could never imagine casually discussing the morality of slavery with Anna. Just as he could never imagine asking Anna to be his confidant. She had too much of a history with the Woodhulls, a family he was beginning to despise more and more. But, of course, Molly had a history with the Brewsters and Tallmadges… just thinking about those two now made his blood boil. Tallmadge… How Molly ever felt affection towards that man… Just the thought made his stomach church. Trying to imagine her pressing her lips to Tallmadge's. Trying to imagine the two of them, engaged, with their bodies tangled together… The more he thought about the subject, the more frustrated he always became, because he shouldn't be thinking about things like this. He shouldn't care about Molly Strong, the poor farmgirl. He shouldn't care about her past; he shouldn't have this urge to ask her countless questions; he shouldn't want to understand her; and he certainly shouldn't be admitting in a moment of deliriousness that he found her attractive and that he felt affection towards her. He felt as if he was losing his mind! – but he hadn't even considered her as an option.

Although Molly had been at the dining table before him, she was still eating when he decided he was full. He supposed it made sense; she had gone into shock, after all. He remained in his seat, beginning what was his fourth cup of tea; although it was more sugar than tea. – Sugar was a luxury he rarely had during his time being stationed haphazardly around the colonies, and during his time being passed back and forth to be quartered at different households. But he was well aware that money was no object to the Magistrate, so he allowed himself to indulge.

He tried not to stare at her, knowing how he would feel if their roles were reversed, but he couldn't stop his eyes from wandering to her shoulder, where he knew under the material of her dress, her shoulder was still wounded and bandaged. He almost wished she would say something, but she refused to meet his gaze as she continued eating. He wished she would say something because he was uncertain what to say. He remembered well the words (and the kiss) they had exchanged the previous night, but he decided he would be stubborn, and he would not acknowledge those words until first she did.

He was also uncertain what to say because, in a way, he felt pride towards her. He was unsure how to explain it to her, but he felt as if she was one of his men. She had survived her first battle, in a way, and she had received a red badge of courage. If she was a soldier, that was no small feat. But she was a civilian, a woman… No, she wouldn't understand if he tried to explain it. Finally, he decided he had rested enough, and he rose to his feet, leaving her at the table. He had things to attend to.

As soon as Simcoe was out of sight, Molly let out a sigh of relief and leaned back in her chair, resting her hands on her stomach. She had nearly finished her breakfast when he had first come into the room. Not wanting to leave him and appear rude, she had pretended she still had an appetite and managed to gulp down more food. Her plan was to eat as a way to avoid conversation with him. And while she was glad he did not bring up what transpired last night, her gladness was now overshadowed by the fact that she had eaten way too much, and she now felt like throwing up.

She let out a heavy sigh and rose from her chair. She needed to walk around, to settle her stomach. She briefly considered going to the library, but then she heard a small noise coming from the parlor. She recognized it as coming from Thomas.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

Molly suppressed the urge to roll her eyes as she entered the parlor. Mary was there, sewing, with Thomas playing beside her on the settee. Molly hadn't seen her friend since last night when Mary was in her bath.

"And why are you dressed?" Mary continued. She was concerned, but she was keeping her voice down.

"I got hungry." Molly mumbled in response, lightly nudging Thomas so he would move and she could sit beside him.

"Aberdeen would've brought you something. You should've asked."

Molly tiredly scowled in response.

It felt strange; being cross with Mary. Molly knew how ridiculous it would sound, but she was still annoyed at her friend. When she considered everything that had happened over the past day, she realized that most of the blame could be placed on Abe and Mary. It was Abe's fault that Rogers stayed in town as long as he did; and it was Abe's fault that Rogers had gone to the Townsends. As for Mary, she was responsible for what had transpired last night. If she hadn't shot Simcoe, Molly wouldn't've been startled from her slumber, and she wouldn't have wandered downstairs. In turn, Simcoe would not have been injured, so there would be no need for Molly to offer to bandage his head. And then he wouldn't have said the things he did last night. And she wouldn't have kissed him. And she wouldn't be doubting herself right now.

Mary tried changing subjects, "How are you?"

"About as well as one can be for being shot in the shoulder." She repeated the same words Odell had said earlier. She liked the Sergeant's bluntness. It was comforting in a way. "Have you heard anything about Abe?"

Mary leaned forward slightly, keeping her voice just above a whisper. "He's still at our farm. Simcoe's not letting him leave the property."

"He's alive though?"

Mary furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "Yes, he's alive."

"Has he said anything to you? …Simcoe. Does he suspect?"

"No. He suspects nothing. He still thinks it was Robert Rogers who killed his men and hurt the two of you." A beat. "What are we to do? Do you have any ideas?"

Molly scoffed in disbelief.

"You can't be serious." But Mary was. "Mary, it's only been hours since you-" she paused and looked around to ensure they were alone, "Since you shot him. We need to be patient." So I can kill him myself. But she didn't say that aloud.

Mary considered those words for a moment, then she nodded. She knew Molly was right, but Mary was still anxious from last night. She had hardly slept at all after she had hidden the evidence of what sin she had committed. Mary shook her head lightly, trying to push the subject, "Fine. Fine." She let out a sigh. "At least Abe's father cannot say a word about you being here. Simcoe's ordered that neither of us leave the estate until our safety can be assured."

"Well that's a relief." Molly deadpanned.

Their conversation trailed off after that. Both women were too preoccupied by their thoughts and with the secrets they refused to entrust to one another.

This was John's least favorite part of being an officer: Writing to the families of his fallen men. They had buried O'Connell and Fitch that morning. It was bothersome enough that both men had succumbed to injuries brought on by Robert Rogers; almost as bothersome as the fact that they were now buried in an unmarked grave on the grounds near Whitehall; on an island, countless miles from their homes. He finished the letter quickly enough; letter, singular. He wrote to O'Connell's sister. He did not write to Fitch's next of kin, for the man did not have any.

With that task done, John felt a new wave of exhaustion. Odell said this might happen after the brief operation done on his ear. He said it was best to get rest. He could still hear Odell's words. "You lost a lot of blood. Wait a few days, then you should be closer to normal." John wasn't satisfied with that, though. He wanted to be doing something. He needed to be outside, relaying orders and leading his men. He wanted to be the one to head the search in the woods for Rogers. He needed to find him and take care of that problem once and for all. He wanted to do all those things, but at the same time he could hardly stand without feeling lightheaded, and that frightened him. He knew it was best to recover from his injury. Wait just a few days, then some normalcy could return.

He was avoiding her. That much Molly was certain of. It had been a week since receiving her injury, and Molly was finally permitted to return to the tavern. She hadn't seen Simcoe since that first morning at breakfast; the man had hidden himself in his quarters during the duration of her stay, and that worried her. It worried her because she had no idea what he was doing

The only thing keeping her anxiety at bay was the fact she was working again. In lieu of her injury, her duties were limited compared to before. She couldn't do any heavy lifting, and she still had limited mobility in her injured shoulder, so she was mainly responsible for refilling drinks and clearing away mugs from tables. DeJong was busying himself by doing everything else. Despite everything that had happened, Molly would admit that it was a nice break. Or at least it was a nice break, until one evening she went down to the cellar to ensure that everything was put away. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard a familiar sound.

"Pst."

And she knew instantly who it was.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" she hissed, closing the cellar door behind her.

From behind the barrels of ale and into the lantern light was Caleb Brewster.

"What? Is that any way to treat a guest?" he grinned.

"Caleb!"

She wished she could say she was glad to see him. But that would be a lie. As soon as she warned him in the woods, she expected him to find his boat again and flee across the Sound. But seeing him here… She felt anxiety like she had not felt before. What if DeJong came down to check on her? What if they were discovered here? Worse yet, Caleb had snuck into the middle of town. What if someone saw him? What if they knew he was down here right now?

"C'mon!" Caleb's tone remained lighthearted. "It's Christmas!" The upcoming holiday was just an excuse, but it did nothing to ease her anxieties. Molly still had a scowl on her face, and Caleb found her demeanor more annoying than anything else. He knew they were at war, and he knew they were both in danger of being discovered, but he still missed when she used to be excited when she saw him. He rolled his eyes, "The Rangers got to my boat, alright? What was I supposed to do?"

"Steal Robeson's boat." She didn't hesitate to respond.

"That's the same thing Woody said."

John Robeson may be a farmer, but he was a fisherman too. And it had been too cold for him to go out on the water. His boat was at the cove near his house. He wouldn't be using it for at least another month, and he certainly wouldn't immediately notice if his boat disappeared.

"You need to get out of here. You should already be out of here."

Caleb scoffed, "You're joking, right? After you came to me in the shape you were in, there was no way in Hell I was leaving. I had to make sure the lot of you were alright."

"Well, we are. You need to worry about yourself now."

"Listen, Woody and the Missus can't come. Woody's decided on that. Besides, that wife of his can look out for the both of them. She's the crazy one."

Molly furrowed her eyebrows together.

"What?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought when I saw her at Whitehall running around with that rifle."

Molly stepped forward and grasped the collar of his coat.

"You saw that?" she hissed.

He chuckled, "Yeah, and the little lady sure gave our favorite Captain quite the souvenir."

Molly couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Who else saw it?" she demanded, shaking his roughly. "Did anyone else see her?"

"Hey, that's enough." Caleb pushed her away. "Now, Moll, you're coming with me."

"I am not." She was the one scoffing now.

"And why not?"

"Because I have a plan."

"What kind of plan?"

A beat.

"…I can't tell you."

"Does Abe know?" She wouldn't answer. "Would you quit being so stubborn?"

"Ben still trusts me, doesn't he? You still trust me, don't you?"

Caleb quietly fumed for a second.

"Fine, fine. You're right." He admitted.

"I'm sorry for being so cross. You– God, you scared me to death."

"What? And I wasn't scared to death? How are you? I mean, you look to be in one piece now."

"I'm fine. Honestly, I'm fine."

"Good…" Caleb smirked, trying to lighten the mood again. "Now would I be out of line if I troubled you for some food?"

She found herself relaxing slightly. "You'll leave first thing, right?" He shrugged. "Right? Caleb!"

He chuckled, "I will."

She turned back to the cellar door. She would go fetch some food and be right back. But then he added,

"Oh, and Moll."

She hesitated and turned back to look at him.

"Happy Christmas."

She mechanically said it back to him, even though she knew this Christmas would probably be just as unhappy as the previous few had been.

December 25, 1778

John hunched his shoulders in discomfort as another burst of winter wind ripped at his uniform. He didn't realize how cold it actually was until Whitehall was already out of his sight. That was why he had decided against taking a horse. But he was regretting that decision now as he continued down the main road, and as the first snow flurries of the year began to fall around him. He was suddenly grateful for his vanity. The remains of his ear was nearly healed, and there was no reason to continue wearing a bandage, but he was ashamed of his wound, and he decided he would continue to keep his head bandaged until he could grow out his hair enough to cover the scarring.

He hadn't intended to make this trip. Days earlier, he vaguely remembered Mary Woodhull making a comment about inviting Ms. Strong for the holiday, and he assumed it was decided. But then came that morning, and there was no sign of Ms. Strong. And that's when he learned that she had declined the invitation to Whitehall. And that's when he decided to leave the festivities and trek to the tavern.

His teeth were still slightly chattering when he stepped through the threshold and took in the scene of the bar. It was early afternoon, and few locals were scattered around the room. The tavern was filled with redcoats, Wakefield's men who had the afternoon off. And they chatted noisily amongst each other. He noticed one of his Rangers on the opposite side of the room; Corporal O'Shaughnessy. He was the man John had ordered to watch after the tavern today.

It took him a moment to locate Ms. Strong, but then he saw her across the room. She had a pitcher in her hand, and she was conversing with two redcoats. She was laughing, and he knew the men were flirting with her. He didn't make a move to approach her, instead he walked to the bar and stood there, waiting. A few minutes later, she returned to her place behind the bar, to refill her pitcher. When she met his gaze, any hint of friendliness was gone from her expression.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"And a Happy Christmas to you as well." He paused. "I came to have a drink."

She procured a mug and filled it to the brim with ale, then she placed it in front of him. He lifted the cups to his lips and that's when she added,

"Have you been avoiding me?"

He was glad he had not yet taken a drink, because he was sure he would've choked. He placed the mug back on the bar.

"Not you alone." He admitted.

And that was the truth. He had been avoiding everyone lately. He knew it was foolish, but he was embarrassed by his injury.

"Have you found him?" she blurted.

"Who?"

"Rogers."

"No." A beat. "While I was recovering, my men scoured this town as well as neighboring areas. There is no sign of him."

"Do you think he's still on the island?"

"Hard to say." He had had the thought before, but he hated how the only think they ever talked about was the war. But even though he thought that, it didn't stop him from asking a question that had been on his mind, "This business with Rogers, you said you had no involvement with it?"

Her expression changed, almost as if she was hurt by what he was implying.

"Aye. I didn't know."

"The insinuations Woodhull made…" John lowered his voice. "Does he understand the severity of his accusation?" He sighed. He had been pondering that a lost lately; Could she be involved? At first, he thought it a possibility, but the more he thought of it… He was unsure. It would be strange to involve her. As Woodhull said, Rogers had threatened him with the knowledge of his affair with Anna Strong. As for Robeson, he discovered the man was queer. But what could one threaten Molly Strong with? She had little to give. What knowledge could be held against her? The fact that her fiancé and her brother were rebels? But that was not a secret. It was common knowledge. No, it didn't make sense for Rogers to involve her in this; she had no influence, no power.

"What of you? Do you think it could be true?"

She was barely speaking above a whisper now, "All I know is that if it were true, no one would be too keen to involve me."

"Woodhull mentioned John Robeson."

"What of it?"

"That is the man responsible for your brother's arrest, is he not?"

She hesitated, and he could tell she was uncertain how to respond. But he knew it was the truth. He was in the tavern the day of her brother's arrest. He remembered the verbal confrontation that had taken place. He remembered the way Robeson had shoved Selah Strong into Captain Joyce. And that set all this into motion.

He continued, "We've spoken in the past of a plot involving the Magistrate and Hewlett, and perhaps how they may have plotted with Rogers. But what if perhaps it was part of some larger conspiracy to weed out the rebels in this town? Like your brother, for instance."

"Leave my brother out of this." She snapped.

He was taken aback. He could see the fury forming in her eyes, and that's when he realized, they had never spoken of her family before. Never spoken of her brother. He remembered when he returned from his capture, Hewlett made the comment that the Strong women were still adamant to hear news of Selah Strong. He remembered when they believed the man to have perished on the Jersey. He, of course, hadn't thought much of it. He never thought much of it, and now he felt foolish for self-obsessed he had once been. He thought briefly of his own brother, Percy – God rest his soul. He tried to imagine how he may feel about the subject if it was applied to his own brother. If Percy was arrested and then believed to be dead, and then his brother's reputation besmirched forever. John decided he would be angry as well.

"Apologies." He said awkwardly.

"And will you stop speaking of conspiracies?" she added, her voice strained. "What does any of that have to do with me? I've just a tavern wench,"

He cringed slightly upon hearing her refer to herself like that.

"Regardless, I don't plan on doing anything until the New Year." He tried to steer the conversation in a different direction. "I will give your neighbors their holiday, but that is all." A beat. "Why did you decline the invitation to Whitehall?" He noticed her confused expression and quickly added, "Mrs. Woodhull made a comment."

"I had to work." She said slowly. She seemed confused at where their conversation was going, but John hoped that wouldn't deter her from continuing. "Besides, I figured it may be for the best if we had some… distance."

"If this has anything to do with the kiss you bestowed upon me, know that I thought nothing of it." He internally swore. His tone was borderline frantic, but he didn't want a detail as minor as that to end their friendship.

"Really?" she sounded surprised.

"I certainly wasn't of sound mind, and I doubt you were either. Besides, I agree with you on one matter, I don't want your pity."

Her expression softened, and she almost looked sad.

"No." she said quietly. "I didn't do it out of pity, I –" She stopped herself, but she couldn't think of the right words. "I don't know… Besides, it's not like it was the first time or anything."

He scoffed in amusement, but then felt self-conscious realizing that that detail was probably not amusing to her. His tone became sober again.

"I've never apologized for that. I do hope you can forgive me."

She smirked, and that's when he realized that she had never smiled around him before.

"I forgive you." She was struggling to hold her grin at bay. "Besides, it was almost worth it when I saw your expression after you declared Major Hewlett to be dead, but then he walked into the tavern."

John held his breath. She knows. He thought in disbelief. This entire time, she knew I was the one who framed Hewlett to the rebels. I was the one who tried to kill him when the rebels failed to. And that frightened him, because if she knew that, what else did she know?

January 1779

Just as he'd said, John give the townspeople their holiday. But now he was tired of waiting. It was the start of the year, he was to have no mercy upon them. He went alone, to Woodhull's farm, and as much as he dreaded speaking with Abraham Woodhull, he knew he had to. As his horse approached the shack, he noticed Woodhull was already outside. His man, Sergeant Cavil, stood to attention.

"Cavil, you're to stand down from your post. I require you for a guard duty." John said calmly. He had stopped his horse beside Woodhull, amused at how short, the already short man, looked beside him.

"What happened?" Woodhull stammered. He was looking anxiously between John and Cavil. "Did he do that to you?" He as in Rogers. Woodhull pointed to the bandage wrapped tightly around John's head.

John ignored the comment.

"You said Rogers had you watching someone. Tell me again, who was it?"

"My wife and child. How are they?"

"Answer the question."

"Answer mine."

John rolled his eyes. He supposed it only made sense. Of course, Woodhull would've heard about the assault upon Ms. Strong and the attack upon Whitehall. He had specifically ordered his men not to give the man any details though. John didn't trust Woodhull.

"Mrs. Woodhull braved the entire assault from her bathtub." John shrugged, "I believe the boy slept through it."

Woodhull didn't hesitate with his answer, "It was John Robeson, as I already told you."

"Would you swear to that on the lives of your wife and child?"

"And on my own."

John and Cavil exchanged a look.

"Come with us."

"I knew it. Bloody well knew it. Washington's made a pact with the devil. He's promised Rochambeau if the rebels win, the French can help themselves to all of New England."

"Allemachtig! Are you saying across the sound would be France?"

"It ain't ever gonna happen, though."

Molly rolled her eyes from where she was across the room. For the past hour she had been forced to endure listening to Mr. DeJong, Mr. Smythe, and Mr. Robeson discussing politics. Robeson had become interested in the opinion pieces written in the Royal Gazette and that was all the men could seem to talk about. This was exactly what she meant when she said she heard old news. All the men were talking about were rumors which were more fiction than fact at this point. It was nothing she could use, and she was trying her best to ignore them and focus on sweeping the tavern floor. She was briefly chilled as the door opened and someone entered, but she didn't bother turning her head. But then she noticed that Robeson and DeJong's conversation had faltered, and then she heard a familiar voice.

"Excuse us."

It was Simcoe. And on his heels were two of his Rangers, Sergeants Cavil and Boone, as well as Abe Woodhull. They approached the table where DeJong and Robeson were, and the men began to disperse.

"Not you." Simcoe said shoving Robeson back into his seat. "I know you killed Captain Joyce."

The scene had Molly's full attention now, and she quietly stepped forward, to better see and hear everything.

"What?" Robeson asked in confusion. "No, no, no. It was Clayton, the company drummer."

"That's what Robert Rogers said to protect you. Isn't that right, Woodhull?"

Abe nodded, and Molly wished he would look in her direction. But he refused. He looked tense. Robeson looked over a Abe as well, and that's when he blurted,

"It was him. He's the one trying to cover his–"

"Where is Robert Rogers?" Simcoe demanded.

"I swear I haven't seen him in years."

"Then where's your boat?"

"My boat?" Robeson stuttered.

"The one you used to smuggle on the London trade," Simcoe's voice was calm, and it was the same calm anger he had used when he spoke to Judge Woodhull all those weeks ago, "the boat he used to evade me. We found his craft near Frog's Cove. When we searched for yours, we found it missing."

"My boat's gone?" Robeson sounded outraged. Then he composed himself enough to add, "Listen it wasn't Rogers. It was him." He pointed at Abe. "He's the one who threatened me."

Simcoe chuckled darkly, "Then it was Woodhull who kill Captain Joyce?"

"No, it was her."

Molly blinked in surprise as Robeson moved his arm so that he was pointing at her.

"Me?" she scoffed.

"Woodhull's been covering for her because she's friends with that wife of his." Robeson was on his feet now, and he pushed past Simcoe, approaching her now.

"Robeson, you know that's not true." She didn't know what else to say. What could she say? She couldn't believe he would blatantly lie like this. Robeson reached out and roughly grabbed her arm. She winced, his fingers digging into her skin.

"Joyce was the one who arrested your brother. And we all know how you are when someone insults your brother."

She could feel herself panicking now. She had no one. She was all alone, with no family, few friends, and no one was speaking up for her. She was terrified.

"Let go of me." She whimpered.

It became quiet when they heard the hammer of a gun being pulled back. Robeson loosened his grip on her, and he turned back in the direction of the Rangers, just in time for Simcoe to raise his pistol and fire. The bullet tore through Robeson's throat and he stood there in shock, a hand fumbling to stop the blood from pouring out of him. He had completely released Molly now, and she didn't know how to react, so she stood there silently, her mouth agape in shock. And that's when Simcoe grabbed the second pistol from his best, and he fired a second shot and that bullet imbedded itself in Robeson's head. Molly blinked, feeling his blood splatter across her face. Robeson hesitated briefly, then his body crumpled to the floor, and he law unmoving, blood pooling around his form. They all knew he was dead.

Everyone in the room had their eyes fixed on what used to be John Robeson. Molly didn't know what to think. On one hand, she had never been fond of Robeson. And it was true that he was responsible for Selah's arrest. But on the other hand, she had known the man her entire life, it didn't seem right to die the way he did. They all turned their attention back to Simcoe when he spoke,

"It was in self-defense. You all saw that." He lied, defending his actions.

Simcoe's men didn't hesitate to walk over and move Robeson's corpse.

"Not the first time I've had to carry him out of here." Cavil chuckled, and Molly envied him for being able to make a joke of this situation.

"Spent a lot of time in the tavern, did he?" Simcoe asked.

"You'd think he owned the place." Boone replied.

Cavil: "Aye."

Molly felt as if everything was moving in slow motion. No one asked her how she was, no one made a move to reassure her of anything. She stood there by herself, her boots and the bottom of her dress becoming stained with blood as Robeson's blood spread further across the floor. All she could do was stand there, her breathing shaky, as she took in what was happening around her.

"Robeson was your best customer?" Simcoe asked, approaching DeJong.

"I wouldn't say so, no." DeJong stammered. He sounded scared. "He owed me money."

"Then why didn't you collect?" he smirked, "Woodhull was watching Robeson. Robeson was watching you."

"What?"

"He knew all their dirty secrets. And yours."

"What secret?"

"The one you're going to tell me."

"But I don't... I don't have any..."

Simcoe lashed out and grabbed DeJong by the collar of his coat, shoving him against the railing to the nearby staircase.

"My rum, my rum!" DeJong yelped. "I buy it from a privateer."

"The London Trade?"

"Yeah, yeah. The black market. That's all I did. I swear! I don't even know Roger Roberts."

There was more commotion as Simcoe tightened his grip on DeJong and began to drag him out of the tavern. His men followed behind him, dragging Robeson's corpse between them. Molly knew she could go to the door. See what was happening. But she was rooted where she stood, feeling as if she couldn't move. And then Abe was beside her.

"You alright?" he asked quietly.

She moved her mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He said something else, but she couldn't quite remember what, and then he was walking outside to see what was happening. She could hear shouting outside. She could hear DeJong pleading,

"Please don't kill me! Please help me! I'm innocent!"

She could hear Simcoe shouting, but she couldn't make out everything he was saying.

"…People of Setauket, pay close attention. Which of these people did Rogers command you to watch? I want names! … I want names! … You're scared of Robert Rogers. But you should be scared of me... Whatever he's threatened you with is nothing compared to what I will do unless those aiding and abetting him come forward… I will raze this town if I must!"

And then he was back in the tavern, and he was approaching her. And she wanted to be frightened. She knew she should be. She had just seen him kill a man in cold blood. But when she looked at him now, she didn't feel any fear. She felt something else… she wasn't sure how to describe it.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded her head. He reached into his coat and produced a handkerchief, then he offered it to her.

"Your face." Was all he said, and she knew what he meant. She accepted the cloth and wiped Robeson's blood from her face before handing it back to him.

She wanted to thank him, she knew she should be thanking him. But she didn't know what to say. She felt so conflicted about so many things, and she could feel doubt seeping into every single one of her thoughts.

"I-I need some air." She managed to say.

He nodded, not pressing the matter, and then she stepped around him and exited the tavern. She hesitated upon seeing Robeson's body flung on the ground beside the door. She didn't feel nauseous though, it was a different sort of feeling. She saw DeJong, on his knees a few yards from her. He was crying and trembling, but she felt no pity towards him.

She began to wander aimlessly away from the tavern, to compose herself, that's when she noticed Abe across the main square. He was stood beside a horse, speaking with a short man with a wide brimmed hat and a cloak. She furrowed her eyebrows, unsure of what to make of anything, but then she saw Abe walk back towards the tavern. He didn't walk inside though; he went over to a horse, and he mounted it. Then he began to ride in the direction of the main road, and his farm. She looked back across the space at the short man, and he had mounted his horse as well. Several minutes passed, and then he began to ride in the same direction as Abe. And she knew he was following him. But she didn't understand what was happening, and she didn't know what compelled her, but she found her legs moving, and she was walking in the direction of the main road as well, following Abe and the man in the wide brimmed hat.

She was outside of town and by her lonesome on the main road when she realized what the feeling was that she was feeling. She was aroused. And it was strange to admit that to herself, but that was the truth. She wanted to be disgusted with herself, especially knowing which person it was that made her feel this way. Yet she felt that way, even after the violence she had witnessed. And that frightened her. For a moment, she thought perhaps she was going mad.

She recognized both Abe and the stranger's horses beside Abe's farmhouse, and she knew they were both there, so she altered her path and carefully approached the location. She could hear their voices long before she saw them.

"I'm serious. Eye for an eye."

"Caleb, he's a Quaker. He doesn't believe–"

She heard a fist come into contact with flesh, and she heard Caleb let out a grunt.

"Jesus! Knew I loved this bastard." Caleb laughed.

And that's when Molly stepped into view.

"Molly?" Caleb asked.

The stranger: "Who is she?"

Abe: "What are you doing here? Were you followed?"

He sounded frantic.

"No, it's just me." Molly's voice still sounded hollow. She looked at the stranger, and she could tell he was trying to size her up. "Who's this?"

"Culper, Jr." Caleb said.

"Good to meet you, Mr. Townsend." Molly stuck out her hand, and Townsend awkwardly shook it. She didn't bother questioning anything. She knew she wasn't fully in the loop, and she was beginning to accept that.

"Madam." He nodded uncertainly, looking towards Abe.

"Don't worry." Abe reassured him. "She's one of us. She's Tallmadge's fiancée."

Upon hearing him say that, Molly remembered herself, and she suddenly felt disgusted for everything that had just transpired in her mind. Ben hadn't even crossed her mind. How could she be so disloyal to him? How could she even think about feeling aroused towards a man like Simcoe? No, it was just a lapse in judgement. Because she was frightened. That's all it was.

"Robert, you need to start talking." Abe said to Townsend, trying to continue their conversation. "We thought you were out."

"I am. But this is bigger than me." He produced a paper from inside his coat. "This needs to get to Washington with haste. They know where your camp is. It's only a matter of time."

Ben. Molly thought in horror. He was in danger.

"Shite." Caleb breathed. "Well, I got Robeson's boat stashed at the Fingers."

Abe: "I heard. Simcoe thought he lent it to Rogers. Killed Robeson right in front of me and Molly."

"Jesus. Well, let's grab your family and get you out of here."

"No."

"No?"

Abe: "No. Townsend is right. There's no time to waste, all right? You'll be faster without us."

"Woody, I'm not leaving here without you. Same goes for you, Moll. No more delaying."

Abe: "I can't go, Caleb. I can't go as it stands. Simcoe, he's chasing a ghost. I'm the one who set him off. He will burn down Setauket."

"No, he will burn you." Caleb snapped. "That is what he'll do."

Abe: "Look, this man had every reason to run, all right?" He was talking about Townsend. "But instead he ran to us. 'Cause he's the only man who could. Now, if you don't get this to Washington, who will?" A beat. "If I don't stand up to Simcoe, who will?"

Molly perked up upon hearing that, and that's when she realized she couldn't keep her secret anymore.

"Wait, Abe, wait."

"What?"

"I'm planning to kill Simcoe."

Abe's brow furrowed in confusion and Caleb burst out laughing.

"What?"

"Is this that plan you were telling me about?" Caleb asked.

"You knew?" Abe demanded.

"Moll said she had a plan, but I never would've guessed it was something like this."

She had all three men's attention. Even Townsend's, who didn't know what exactly was happening.

"I can do it." She said decidedly. "I just need more time."

Abe: "Molly, you saw him in there. We're lucky he didn't turn on you right there. You need to get out of here too."

She brushed aside the warning. She was aware of how she was becoming like Icarus. She knew she was flying too close to the sun.

"I just need more time." She repeated.

"No, Moll–"

"We'll set a date then. If he's still alive by that date, feel free to do whatever you see fit."

Caleb and Abe both exchanged a look.

"Can you do it in… I don't know… a week?" Abe asked.

"No. That's not long enough."

"Then when? When do you think it'll be over?"

"Give me…" She paused, trying to think of any date. "Give me until Ben's birthday."

February 25th. They knew the date well enough.

"Abe, you can't be serious." Caleb chastised, not liking this proposal one bit.

Abe ignored him though.

"All right. Until Ben's birthday. But no longer than that."

He stuck out his hand and Molly shook it. They were in agreement.

John was in a bad mood. As soon as Molly stepped away to get some air, he took up a seat at the table beside the puddle of blood on the floor. Then he took a hearty drink from one of the mugs that was already there. He needed to calm himself; his hands were still trembling from rage. He knew he had lost his temper. He could still see the look of disbelief on Molly Strong's face. But he didn't care. He offered her his protection for a reason, and he intended to see it through. And he had. He had protected her.

What's more, it seemed everything he was fearful of was coming true. Robert Rogers had been here. He was aided by one or many of the townspeople, no doubt. That's how he had evaded John's men so easily.

John remembered when Major Andre first ordered him to return to Setauket. He had very nearly laughed in the man's face. But Andre insisted that there were more traitors on Long Island that he could begin to imagine, and now John had to agree. He had to squash this rebellion before it became too prominent. He had to, if not to protect Wakefield's men, then to protect himself and his own men. John may no longer be part of the King's Army, but he had not forgotten where he had come from. And he would've been grateful if someone had been able to stop the rebels before they sent him on a goose chase to that safehouse in Connecticut, where he was captured and tortured.

With this new information, he needed time to think. He was beginning to doubt his belief that the Magistrate was solely responsible for having dealings with Robert Rogers. Most likely, the Magistrate had only been working with Hewlett, and in that case, John would have nothing to fear. Hewlett was gone. No, it seemed the very people he didn't expect were the true traitors all along. Men like Woodhull and Robeson and DeJong, and God knew who else.

This entire time, he had been so sure of himself. But he understood now, he needed to stop doing that. As much as he disagreed with it, he needed to speak with a man who would always choose wealth over loyalties. For Richard Woodhull would never aide Robert Rogers unless some form of wealth was involved; working with the King's Army was too beneficial for him. And to John's knowledge, Rogers was a fugitive who had no wealth. Yes, that's what he'd do. He was decided on it. He'd return to Whitehall and speak with the Magistrate.

By time Molly returned to the tavern, the Rangers had departed and Robeson's body had been moved away. DeJong was the only one inside; he had closed the tavern early to compose himself after what had happened. She used her key to get inside, and she found DeJong behind the bar, busying himself with reorganizing the shelves.

There was a mop leaning against one of the tables, and the fabric at the end was stained red. She looked in the direction of the blood puddle, and it was mostly gone. But the floorboards had a red hue to them.

"I'm back." She said. "Mr. DeJong, are you alright?"

The older man jumped slightly upon hearing her enter, and he turned to look at her.

"Molly. Good, I need to speak with you."

"How are you?" she asked. They were across from one another at the barn.

"Well, that's the thing." He was stammered and he sounded nervous. "I have your references here…"

He placed several pieces of parchment on the bar. She looked at them for a moment, then she looked back up at his face.

"What?" she asked, in total confusion.

"Well, you see. It's become too expensive to board you here."

Her eyes widened and it felt as if her heart had stopped.

"Sorry?"

He repeated what he had said.

"No." She said firmly, still in disbelief. "All my wages go to that room. What do you mean it's too expensive now? What's changed?"

He stuttered again, but he refused to give her a proper answer.

"Maarten! Please Mr. DeJong."

"I'm sorry, Molly." And he did look sorrowful. "There's no more I can do."

She leaned forward on the counter, trying to wrap her mind around everything. But she could feel her temper rising.

"I have nowhere to go. You know that."

He didn't say anything. And in that moment, her mind flashed to Judge Woodhull. The man did not like her, and she knew for a fact that the Magistrate and DeJong were well acquainted.

"Is someone persuading you to do this?" she demanded.

"Of course not!"

"If you are to fire me, at least have the decency to tell me the truth. Everything has been taken from me, so allow me this."

"I will not change my decision." His tone was becoming angrier as well.

"I know. I'm asking you to do so. Please. Tell me the truth."

DeJong refused to answer her, and that's when she hit him. She punched him in the nose, and he crumpled back into the shelves behind the bar, knocking several mugs to the ground. She immediately regretted what she had done, but she refused to apologize.

"When do you need me gone?" she asked, her tone wavering now.

"By the end of the week." DeJong groaned, cradling his face in his hand. He didn't lash out at her though. He ignored his fresh injury. "I don't expect you to work the rest of the week, in fact."

"Thank you." She silently cursed herself for sounding so erratic. "I-I'll be back for my things."

DeJong waved for her to go on, so she did, and she exited the tavern once more.

The further she walked, the more her anger dissipated, and now fear was creeping in. She had experienced a similar feeling after discovering the attainder nailed to her home's front door. Everything had been taken from her. She was not bitter because of her reputation. She knew the blame was hers for her past behavior, and she was not sorry for it. But as for everything else, it had all been taken because of the war.

Being a single woman was not scandalous. Even without her family, as long as she could find a means of making a living and finding a place to live, there was nothing unusual about it. But all that meant nothing when there was nowhere for her to go. She had nothing. She could not return to Strong Manor. She could not return to the tavern. She could not go to the Reverend's former home. She could not stay with Abe or Mary, for they only had their shack. And she was certain Caleb had already left for Washington's camp with the news from Townsend, and only God knew when he might return. She had nothing. She had nowhere to go.

She was visibly shaking, both from fear and the cold as she made the trek to Whitehall. She could feel the tears welling in her eyes, and her face was hot, and her head was pounding all at once, and she just wanted to hide from everything. But she couldn't.

"Are you quite alright?"

She was startled by the sudden voice. She turned and a few hundred yards away on the main road was Captain Simcoe mounted on his horse.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. She was suddenly aware of how cold it was, and she moved to hug her cloak tighter around her form, and that's when she realized she had forgotten her cloak at the tavern. She was confused by her own absentmindedness; that wasn't like her.

"I've just come from Woodhull's farm. I needed to speak with him."

He rode to her and dismounted, closing the distance between them on foot, his horse's reins in his hands. The horse continued to step forward, and he pushed his muzzle into her skirts, he was looking for sugar, and she lightly pushed his head away. When she felt how warm his coat was, she kept her cold hand on him and started petting his muzzle, trying to warm up.

"Are you quite alright?" Simcoe repeated.

She was trying to focus on his horse and not on him. She was angry at herself for how she had been feeling that day, and she decided to project her anger onto him.

"Aye, I'm fine.

"No, something's happened. What is it?"

She narrowed her eyes slightly.

"It's nothing to concern you."

"We are allies still, yes? You are the one who prefers to use that term." She fought the urge to roll her eyes. She wished she could just get the whole thing over with then and there. She wished killing him was that easy. But it wasn't. "What's happened? As allies we can be expected to conspire with one another."

"Mr. DeJong fired me."

She was blunt and with little emotion, and she could see the surprise on his face from her words.

"And what purpose did he give?" he asked slowly, taken aback by the news.

She shrugged, "Money. Said it was too costly to board me at the tavern."

"I recall the arrangement Hewlett made for you when you first began staying there. Did not all your wages go toward that room?"

"They did."

A beat.

"I will speak with him." Simcoe said decidedly.

Molly snorted in amusement, "You will not."

"You cannot dissuade me. I have already made up my mind."

"You will not." She snapped.

They stood there glaring at each other for a moment.

"I recall you were close with the Brewster family. Will they not welcome you?"

Molly shook her head, "Caleb Brewster's half-sister is stricken with palsy. She had been her whole life. The last thing she or her husband need is for me to seek their charity."

"It would not be charity–"

"Yes, it would. You know it would."

"Where will you go then?"

She shrugged.

"I suppose I have no choice but to cross over to the rebels' side." She knew she was being dramatic, but she was not in the mood to act coy or reasonable. She had forgotten her fear, and she felt nothing but anger now, towards DeJong and the Magistrate alike.

"Come to Whitehall." Simcoe said after a beat.

She blinked.

"Pardon?"

"In lieu of the circumstances, I cannot in good conscience stand by and do nothing. I would like to extend an invitation for you to move into Whitehall."

She laughed aloud, but when he did not say more, she realized he was being completely serious.

"The Judge would never allow it." She protested.

"You will not be there as his guest. You will be mine. And when you stay, you will continue be under my protection."

She felt a blush rising to her cheeks. This wasn't what she had wanted. She hadn't wanted a solution, she had just wanted to bitch about her misfortune.

She considered voicing her protest further, but then she realized how she could manipulate this proposal to her advantage. She thought about all she could do at Whitehall and she realized this was the perfect opportunity to spy. She had already gone through his things once, but it had been done haphazardly, and little had come from it. But if she was living there, she would have time. She could eavesdrop on conversations. And she could do all this and still kill him within the time window she and Abe had agreed upon.

"Sir, do you understand the implications of this offer?" she decided to say.

"Of course. But considering the circumstances, I doubt you are too prideful as to care about the state of your reputation."

She grinned at the comment, genuinely amused by his words, and that surprised her.

Simcoe added, "When Hewlett extended an invitation for your sister-in-law to come to Whitehall, was that considered to be in poor taste?"

Only by the Judge. She thought.

"No." she admitted. "When he did so, it was honorable."

"So how is this any different?"

It was no different. And that's why her answer was,

"I accept."

It had been a few days since Molly had moved into Whitehall, and she would be the first to admit how bizarre the entire affair had been. For the first time since before the war, she had nothing to do. She had no work, no responsibilities. Even when she offered to help Aberdeen with a chore, the slave always denied her assistance. So, Molly was left to her own devices. Her time was her own.

She took up hobbies she had nearly forgotten she once had. She abandoned tasks she never liked much anyway like needlework, and she began reading again, and painting, and drawing. And all the while, she was still plotting the demise of both Captain Simcoe and Judge Woodhull. It was hardly the second week of January, but she knew she didn't have much time left, and she wasn't ready. She needed that time to compose her plan, for she didn't have one yet.

So far, she spent most of her time in the library, for hardly anyone frequented that room. It gave her an ample excuse to avoid the Judge (for obvious reasons) and Mary (for Abe had told her of the agreement, and now Mary was insistent on aiding Molly is plotting murder).

No, she just needed time to think. That's what she kept telling herself as she stood before the wall of bookcases. And that's what she kept telling herself as she came to the conclusion that in order to commit murder, one needed inspiration. And that's why she located the section of the library filled with Greek tragedies. And that was why she decided on Sophocles' Antigone. She had read it before, but not since she was a teenager, and she remembered little of it. But she soon came to regret her decision. All of it was too familiar. The sister defending her brother, the questioning of morals, trying to defend one's position to their enemy, the uncertainty of it all… While some lines brought her reassurance, others made a nervous pit form in her stomach and she found herself questioning all her thoughts.

She decided to choose another Greek work. After all, Antigone did have death in it, just not the right type of death she was looking for. On a whim, she chose Euripides' Orestes. She hadn't read that one before. And a similar happenstance ensued. It was another Greek play, but the entire story involved justice and war and consequences of seeking revenge, and the entire matter made her stomach churn as she began to think about what she herself was going to do. And that was when she decided that she would no longer be consulting the Greeks for advice. And her afternoon continued, with her scouring the shelves for something, anything, that may provide her with proper inspiration.

When John walked into the library, he was startled to find that he was not alone. Molly was there, asleep on the settee, a book resting on her stomach, one of her fingers buried in the papers to remember her place. Truth be told, he was disappointed to find her here. Since his injury, he found little pleasure in writing at his desk in his quarters. Seeing as the library was rarely frequented, he had taken to writing letters and responding to reports here. Of course, he could just use the Judge's study, but when he commandeered that room, he had no intention of using it properly. He had merely taken it as a way to annoy the older man.

He hesitated in the doorframe, almost hoping she would wake up and he would have an excuse to leave the space. But the longer he stood there, he realized she was in a deep sleep, and the longer he stood there, the more he realized that he needed to make a decision. It was far stranger to continue staring. So, he decided to stay.

He walked quietly over to the writing desk near the window, being mindful not to step too loudly with his boots, and he spread the handful of papers with him out on the desk. And he took up the quill from where it was at the top of the desk, and he began his work. He was uncertain precisely how long he was sat there, but he knew from the way the sun changed the lighting on his papers that it was several hours.

He read through the couple of scouting reports and began to transcribe those into more condensed versions of themselves (for his own notes and for Major Andre). He compiled several new reports to Major Andre (being careful to omit too many details about Rogers and about his own men's incompetence). He responded to his godfather's correspondences; he had fallen behind in writing, but his godfather had not faltered in sending more letters, and they were beginning to pile up. And when all that was said and done, he was utterly sick of signing his own name over and over again.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched, and although he was tired, he still felt like writing. He retrieved his journal from where it had become buried under all the paperwork, and he began flipping through what he had previously worked on. Most of the pages were filled with unfinished beginnings, such as "…harsh are the words of those - held dear, / Better to endure than say we are Strong". John was annoyed at how poor these fragments were; poor structure, poor word choice, poor everything. But, then again, he hadn't intended for these to be full poems, he was just playing with an idea for a rhyme scheme. He had considered crossing out all these fragments many times, but when it came down to it, he could never see it through.

He continued flipping through the pages until he came to a beginning was actually proud of:

To raise the iron Spear of War, victim of Grief and deep Despair:
Say, must I all my joys forego and still maintain this outward show?
Say, shall this breast that's pained to feel be ever clad in horrid steel?
Nor swell with other joys than those of conquest o'er unworthy foes?

He had written this weeks ago, and he was certain he wanted to use it for something, but he just wasn't sure. He had had a lot of idea recently, but as of now, none of those idea made much sense. He still wasn't entirely sure what he was writing about. He had just had a sort of feeling, and he had taken up a quill to scribble it down.

He read over those four lines again and again, and he was still undecided where he was going with the matter. If he was being quite honest, he enjoyed moments like these when he was frustrated with his personal writings. It provided a level of normalcy he had not known for many years, and he liked to think that if he had never enlisted in the King's Army, then perhaps he would be in England – and ignoring his family's wealth he would be – living as a struggling poet.

He arose from his seat and decided to take a turn around the room. His legs were stiff from sitting for so long. He found himself walking in front of the settee where Molly was still fast asleep, and he wondered how she could sleep for so long in the middle of the afternoon. As he walked to the front of the settee, nearer to the bookshelves, he noticed just how many stacks of books were on the floor surrounding her. Curious, he stooped over and picked up a handful from the stack. As he did so, he caught a glimpse at the book still clasped tightly in her hands, Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus. He fleetingly thought that that seemed a bit morbid for her liking, but he shook off the feeling. All the books he grabbed her also by Shakespeare; Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard III, Romeo and Juliet, Merchant of Venice. A part of him wanted to be nosy and make assumptions about why she was had become interested in Shakespeare (and his more violent plays) this afternoon, but another part of him understood. He doubted she had had access to a library like this in a long time.

When he knelt down to return the books to their stack, he noticed a book that had been kicked until the settee, laying open with the pages down. He reached out and grabbed it, and when he saw what page it was on, he saw it was the Taming of the Shrew. He hadn't read this particular title since he was a schoolboy, but he remembered the plot well. The book had been left open to Act 2, Scene 1, and as his eyes automatically skimmed over the dialogue, he found it was the scene where Petruchio and Katherine first meet. His eyes fell to Petruchio's line, "For I am he am born to tame you, Kate, / And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate / Conformable as other household Kates". He continued reading, and as he did, he felt a blush creeping onto his face.

The banter, the underlying bitterness, the erratic flirtations… He read Katherine say, "I'll see thee hanged on Sunday first", and that's when he understood. That's when he realized why Molly Strong had seemed almost familiar all these years. Because she was just like Katherine.

He looked back at her. She was still asleep, and as she slept, she looked almost peaceful. She was far less intimidating now. And with his new realization, he felt as if he understood her better – if not her as an individual, then at least her as a person. And as all those thoughts were going through his head, he thought back to the lines of his poem. He had no intention of becoming a Petruchio, but as he thought back to his words, he realized what it was he had been writing about. It was her. It was about how she was so hard to read and about how he couldn't for the life of him understand why he would be curious about such a hardened individual.

He returned this book to the stack as well, and he quickly crossed the room back to the writing desk. He had another idea. He knew how to use those lines for his poem, so he wrote on.

Exactly one week after staying at Whitehall, Molly decided it was time to confront the Magistrate. The man had been avoiding her; of that she was certain. She saw him during meals, but that was only when he didn't take lunch or dinner in his own quarters. So, on a day when she was certain that Mary and Simcoe and the Rangers were all out of the main house, she confronted him in the parlor.

"I know it was you."

She didn't bother with formalities. The older man looked up from his place in his armchair, where he was surrounding with his papers. He removed his spectacles, so he could look at her.

"Pardon me?"

"I know it was you."

The Judge rolled his eyes. He had no idea what she was referring to, and he found her poor temper more annoying than anything else.

"Well whatever it was, may you enlighten me?"

Molly clenched her fists. She couldn't believe him. Couldn't believe he was acting so coy; so cowardly that he wouldn't admit what he'd done. She crossed the room and found a place on the settee. She leaned over the arm of the settee towards his chair, so that she was practically beside him now. She kept her voice low.

"DeJong fired me from my position at the tavern, and I know it was your doing."

The Judge laughed aloud. But Molly's expression remained unchanging.

"You can't be serious." He scoffed.

"Why did you do it?"

"Because I didn't. I didn't persuade DeJong to do anything."

"Bullshit!"

Richard Woodhull let out a sigh. He had been dealing with the antics of the Strong children for decades, and he was disappointed he still had to deal with it now.

"I do not like you. It's true." He admitted, but that was nothing new. "But even I have morals, standards."

"Then why–"

He held up a hand to stop her.

"I've spoken with Maarten often over the past weeks. He's noticed your acquaintance with Simcoe. He said that the two of you often drink together."

Molly blushed furiously.

Richard continued, "He's also overheard the two of you speak at the tavern."

"W-What does that have to do with anything?" she asked defensively, trying to piece together what it was he may have overheard. Had he heard about their kiss? She was already feeling the humiliation of that detail; if other townspeople knew of it, her reputation would be besmirched even more.

"At the tavern last week, what happened between Simcoe and Maarten?" the Judge continued.

"He thought he may be league with Robert Rogers." Molly said slowly, unsure where the Judge was going with this.

"And is that what you believe?"

"Of course not."

The Judge shrugged.

"I'm not denying that Robert Rogers was here, and I'm not denying your injury or Simcoe's, or the violence that has happened over the past months. But how did their meeting end last week?"

Molly paused, trying to remember. She hadn't been there, hadn't seen it herself, but she remembered the yelling she had heard, and she had heard others describe the scene.

"With Simcoe smashing the barrels of ale." She finally said.

Richard nodded, "From the privateers."

She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"I-I still don't understand. If you didn't persuade him, then who did?"

"You did."

She blinked, taken aback.

"Me?"

Richard nodded, "Maarten thinks you're the one who told Simcoe about his illegal dealing with privateers."

Her mouth fell agape in shock.

"That's ridiculous!"

"Is it? Just like it's so ridiculous to believe that you had a hand in the death of John Robeson."

She stared at him, unsure what to make of it. She was still in disbelief. DeJong was scared of her. Scared of her because of her friendship.

"Just out of curiosity, why did you assume it was me?"

She blinked again, realizing that the Judge was still speaking with her.

"Because you hate me." She said quietly.

He chuckled quietly, "Now, I never said I hated you. I do not like you. There is a difference."

She didn't respond.

"Molly, perhaps it is you who hates me. If that is the case, then so be it. I am not offended. But I thought you may be wise enough to know, never hate your enemies; it affects your judgement."

She pondered those words for a long time, but they were no more reassuring than everything else that had been happening over the past weeks.

February 1779

John went to see the Judge. He found him sat at the dining table with his ledger book – oh, how John found it amusing how the older man was forced to use any room as an office now. Although their acquaintance was still strained, the Judge seemed to be in better humor now that John had apologized for his harshness. John never liked apologizing, but he was doing so as a strategy, not because he necessarily meant it. There was a difference.

"I was wondering if there had been any callers from town." John said, walking around the room to the window. "Someone who may have brought information on Rogers."

"No."

"Pity." John didn't like being friendly with those he didn't like. That's why he decides to skip the formalities with the Judge. "They leave me no choice. I'm compelled to strike at random until the conspiracy comes to light."

The Judge hesitated slightly, and John knew it was because the man was still wary of him. That was comforting in a way.

"No, surely there's a better way."

"If there is, I'm not aware of it. Though as Magistrate, you know this town better than anyone." He turned back to look at the older man.

"You already have a list of suspected Whigs and of people who haven't paid their taxes to the king."

The list. The previous one Hewlett had used all those months ago. That still felt like a lifetime ago.

John shrugged, "Rogers is too clever to be found amongst the usual suspects."

"What makes you so sure he's still here?"

"He missed his chance to kill me."

"A clever man would cut his losses."

John wanted to laugh aloud. He couldn't expect a man like Richard Woodhull to understand, a man who was more coward than man. He was not a veteran, even though he was in well enough shape to serve during the French and Indian War. But he had heard the rumors well, from the neighbors, who talked of how the Judge had used his wealth to avoid serving his King and country.

"But he and I are cut from the same cloth." John replied. "Neither of us will cease until our enemy has been destroyed. What I require are secrets. Greed, revenge, perversions. The sort of secrets that cannot be hidden in a small town." He moved across the room to take a seat beside the Judge at the table. "The sort of secrets that can be used against someone. Not by me, of course, but by Rogers."

A beat.

"If you give me time, I will draw up a list based upon what I know." He offered.

"Be quick about it. There's no telling when Rogers will strike next."
John was surprised when the Judge came to him the next morning with the list. He remembered he was sat at breakfast across from Mrs. Woodhull and her son. Molly was nowhere to be found, and he suspected she was sleeping in; she was doing that most mornings and he would catch a glimpse of her coming down to a late breakfast, although it was typically late enough that it seemed she was coming down for an early lunch.

He had been speaking with Mrs. Woodhull when the Judge entered the dining room.

"Captain, a word if we may."

"I haven't finished my breakfast." John retorted. "Whatever you need to say can be said in front of Mrs. Woodhull."

"I have that list."

"Ah, the names." He accepted the list from the man and skimmed over it. "Who'd have thought a town this size could have so many secrets? I would appreciate if we kept the source of this information between us. It'll be our secret."

With that, he rose to his feet, no longer interested in his food, and he left the room. He needed to start forming a plan of action.

Molly was in and out of sleep when she heard a floorboard creak on the other side of her bedroom door. Her eyes snapped open, and she remained completely still, listening. She knew from her tiredness that it was the early hours of the morning, and she tried to make sense of who might be outside her bedroom door. It couldn't be Mary; she was with Abe tonight. And it couldn't be the Magistrate; they had come to an understanding. And it couldn't be Simcoe…

She had a moment of realization, and she remembered the words Anna had said to her all those years ago, right after Selah's arrest: "That man, Simcoe… He frightens me… I hear him outside my door at night."

Molly sat upright in bed. No, she thought, No, I'm just being paranoid. But that didn't stop her from rising to her feet and grabbing the candlestick holder from the dresser. And that didn't stop her from walking silently on the balls of her feet to her door, and that didn't stop her from turning the lock and yanking the door open.

She blinked. There was no one there. It was just the darkness of the hallway. She pouted, almost disappointed she didn't have another reason to despise Simcoe, and she closed her door once more, and she returned to bed. She left the candlestick holder on her nightstand, within arms' reach.

John silently thanked God that he returned to his quarters when he did. As soon as he was back inside, he heard a small commotion from across the hall, and he knew it was Molly, who had awakened and was seeing who was outside her bedroom door. He felt almost sorry for waking her, but he felt even more sorry for himself, for behaving as he was.

He had stood outside her bedroom door for close to ten minutes. And he just stood there, debating whether or not to slide the letter in his hand under the door. He had been debating showing her the letters for weeks. And he finally thought he had built up enough courage to do it, but then he had doubted himself in the last moment, and he had fled.

He turned the letter over in his hands for several minutes, then in a moment of impulse, he picked at the wax seal and unfolded it, rereading its contents. He decided that if he was really going to do this, he needed to do it impulsively, and then behave too cowardly as to take it back, for you couldn't take something like this back. But as he reread his words, he was proud of what he had written, and it seemed a shame if the inspiration behind the meaning didn't get to see these words as well. He had made a decision.

February 14, 1779

Molly awoke that morning to knocking on her door. She groaned and pushed herself to her feet, pulling one of the quilts from the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders. She was cold. She padded to the door and opened it, surprised to see Simcoe standing there. He was dressed in his uniform, ready to begin the day, unlike Molly who wished to sleep in as long as physically possible.

"Captain." She greeted awkwardly, unsure what to make of this visit.

He put out his hand and offered her a folded piece of paper.

"What's this?" She asked, hesitantly accepting it. She looked back up at him, but he remained emotionless.

"I pray you will do me the goodness of reading it. And I pray your opinion of me will not suffer because of it."

Her eyebrows knitted in confusion, and before she could further question him, he had turned and was walking down the stairs. She closed the door once more and returned to sit on her bed. She looked uncertainly at the paper, and then shrugged, unfolding it. To her surprise, it was a poem, and from what he had said, she knew it must be his handwriting. Of all the people in the world to dabble in poetry, she never would've suspected him. She read:

Fairest Maid, where all is fair, Beauty's pride and Nature's care;
To you my heart I must resign, O choose me for your Valentine.
Love, Mighty God, Thou know'st full well, where all thy Mother's graces dwell,
Where they inhabit and combine to fix thy power with spells divine;
Thou know'st what powerful magick lies within the round of Molly's eyes,
Or darted thence like lightning fires, and Heaven's own joys around inspires;
Thou know'st my heart will always prove the shrine of pure unchanging love.
Say; awful God. Since to thy throne two ways that lead are only known—
Here gay Variety presides, and many a youthful circle guides
Through paths where lilies, roses sweet, bloom and decay beneath their feet;
Here constancy with sober mien regardless of the flowery Scene
With Myrtle crowned that never fades, in silence seeks the Cypress Shades,
Or fixed near Contemplation's cell, chief with the Muses loves to dwell,
Leads those who inward feel and burn and often clasp the abandon'd urn,–
Say, awful God. Did'st thou not prove my heart was formed for Constant love?
Thou saw'st me once on every plain to Delia pour the artless strain—
Thou wept'sd her death and bad'st me change my happier days no more to range
O'er hill, o'er dale, in sweet Employ, of singing Delia, Nature's joy;
Thou bad'st me change the pastoral scene forget my Crook; with haughty mien
To raise the iron Spear of War, victim of Grief and deep Despair:
Say, must I all my joys forego and still maintain this outward show?
Say, shall this breast that's pained to feel be ever clad in horrid steel?
Nor swell with other joys than those of conquest o'er unworthy foes?
Shall no fair maid with equal fire awake the flames of soft desire:
My bosom born, for transport, burn and raise my thoughts from Delia's urn?
"Fond Youth," the God of Love replies, "Your answer take from Molly's eyes."

Molly had never been one easily swayed by words; she was swayed by actions. But reading this… she had never read anything like it before. And she couldn't for the life of her understand why she was moved by his words.

"With equal fire." She whispered aloud.

She felt goosebumps rise on her flesh as she read over that line again and again. With equal fire. She felt strange again. It was the feeling she didn't want to describe, because if she thought too much about it, she would identify it for what it was, and she didn't want to admit how she was feeling. She cast the letter to the foot of the bed, suddenly wanting to be as far away from it as possible.

"He's wrong. We are nothing alike." And she wasn't entirely sure why she whispered that aloud to herself. Perhaps so she could reassure herself. But it didn't work, because she knew she was lying to herself. And she was frightened with herself, because that was when she realized that perhaps she didn't hate him so much after all.

Author's Note: I was inspired to alter Robeson's death after watching the movie "The Drop" from 2014. There's a really similar scene like that at the end of the film, and when I first watched it, I thought it had major Molly/Simcoe vibes, and I decided to adapt it in my own way. I would highly recommend the film!

Also, am I shamelessly having Richard Woodhull quote Don Corleone? Yes, yes I am ;) The quote's from the book btw (which is superior in my humble opinion). I don't remember if he ever says that in the movie.

Like the Molly Pitcher thing in my original fic, the timeline weirdly worked out so I could make this a tad more historically accurate. For those who don't know, the real Simcoe was stationed on Long Island during the war, but he and his Rangers were actually quartered in the Townsend household. While he was there, there are historical references that he and Sarah "Sally" Townsend (Robert's sister) were flirtatious with one another. It's really not known if this was more one-sided like the stuff from the show with him and Anna, but then again, Sally never married, so ya never know ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Simcoe is credited as writing the first Valentine's Day letter in colonial America (which he did give to Sally on Feb 14, 1779!), and the poem from the chapter is verbatim from the actual letter Simcoe gave Sally. All I did was replace "Sarah" with "Molly".