Disregard the M warning at the end of my previous chapter, I've had a different idea.

-Hawkfrost

(Present Day, Early Winter 1778)

Astrid picked up the soap soaked-sponge and began gently scrubbing at the dirt and grime sticking to his chest and arms. A small part of her was embarrassed at the fact she was doing such an intimate act with a men to whom she was not wed, but the rest of her was too tired and angry to give a damn. God knows you've done worse things than this. He didn't react, he barely took notice of her at all, so lost in his own thoughts, was he. The room could've caught fire and he wouldn't have taken notice. She rolled up her sleeves and grabbed a bar of soap, she worked up a lather and began scrubbing his scalp. Still, he took no note, not of her closeness, not of her fingers in his hair, not of the soap trickling down into his face and eyes. So she continued to scrub, trying not to speak, for if she did her voice would crack. If she did, he would ask why, and she couldn't very well tell him that the reason she was crying is because she was complicit in the deaths of all those people out there. Thinking about it, processing it again, was causing bile to bubble up in the back of her throat and she had to take a break from massaging his hair to regain control of herself. With an angry shake of her head and a deep breath, she resumed her task. It was only then she realize he had been staring at her through the mirror. She froze, wondering if she had been carrying her emotions on her face. What would he think if he saw that she felt guilty? He'd probably want to know why she felt guilty which would lead her right back to square one of not being able to tell him.

She forced a smile and tried not to think about the many secrets she was carrying. Instead, she avoided his gaze and focused her efforts on eradicating all vestiges of uncleanliness on his person. It gave her an excuse as to why her hands were shaking and why she didn't talk much. So sat there in silence they did, the only noise being that of the water being disturbed and the sounds of their breathing. Hers like a horse after a race, his as if he was barely alive. Once she was done, she excused herself and permitted him to wash…the rest of him and then dry himself off. She closed the door behind her and put her hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. With a supreme effort of will, she forced down all errant emotions. Straightening her back, she strode into the kitchen to fix something for them to eat.

She decided on a simple meal of deer meat, a block of cheese, and a loaf of bread with some dried fruit. When she had first arrived here, in this manor, she was astounded at the availability and freshness of the food stores. She knew farmers and peasants that could barely feed themselves, let alone their families, but if Henry, or anyone who worked here, was hungry all they had to do was ask. Some maid or servant would fix them something to eat. While so many starved, these arrogant few dined well on whatever caught their fancy. At least, that's what she had thought when she first arrived, now, it seemed as normal as waking up in a soft bed with nice comforters. Soft bed with nice comforters? God, you have been corrupted by privilege, haven't you? The words should've been spoken in disgust, she should've felt ashamed for forgetting so quickly all that she had suffered at the hands of the British, but she didn't. Why? The question came to her as she gingerly sliced the meat with a rather sharp knife. As the blade connected firmly with the wooden board and as each piece of venison took shape, she pondered over her feelings.

Because you're angry, and you're tired of being angry. The statement rang out with the finality of a death sentence. She had been angry for so long, angry at the English for the oppression of Ireland, angry at her parents for being so bloody foolish, angry at them for dying and leaving her all alone. It was her anger that had made her join up with the rebels, her anger that had flared at the humiliation of being thought of as nothing more than a cook or a maid. That anger that caused her to, quite easily, break the wrist of the soldier that lacked the good sense to avoid touching her. After he had stopped crying, her superiors had reconsidered her value. So joined she had, as one of the members of the Culper spy ring at first. Before being reassigned to New York to serve as an addition to (Blank). It was thanks to that assignment that she had been hired at the Loyalist Tavern, it was because of that she had met Henry, a most peculiar of men. She sliced open the bread and laid the strips of meat inside, reaching over, she grabbed the cheese and began cutting into thin strips as well. But what does this mean? You were sent here, to him, as a spy. A plant in order to surveil, and if possible, disrupt British intelligence efforts. She looked out over the balcony, the sun had risen on the snow-kissed city and the fires were no longer burning, but the smoke remained. She looked out over at the destruction and recoiled at the pointlessness of it all. All this, for a drop of blood? For what? So that Rebel Command might be able to ascertain injection points in Henry's counterfeiting operation? All these people died, for a bloody map? She still felt guilty for her role in all this, but she was more so appalled by the lengths the Patriots were willing to go to throw off the shackles of British colonialism. She snorted, and they say the Brits are murders.

"Perhaps we are, but this murderer is starving, and owes you a thank you."

She damn near jumped out of her skin at hearing his voice a few feet behind her. He was standing there, looking far better than he had only a little ago. He was dressed now, the beginning of that grin on his face again. She realized how foolish she must look staring at him with her mouth open and cleared her throat.

"How long have you been standing there?"

He grinned at her. "Long enough to appreciate the concentration you give to, uh, handling meat." The eyebrow wiggling again.

She couldn't help herself, a short peal of laughter escaped from her and she rolled her eyes. He laughed then grew serious for a moment.

"I mean that. Thank you."

Astrid shifted uncomfortably. She found it almost intoxicating to be the focus of his gaze, with all its intensity. It was as if his eyes were peering into the deepest layers of herself, unraveling all the layers and walls she spent so much time carefully constructing until she was naked. Left bare with nothing hidden but a sickening realization that she found more comfort in the idea of him seeing her so completely, then she did fear. She made a dismissive notion and gestured to the food she had prepared. She took the moment of interruption to bring her breathing back down to something akin to a normal level. He sat at the table and she placed his plate in front of him, taking her plate, she sat as well. He didn't take her eyes off her, continuing to watch her with that unnerving intensity. She stared back him, trying to hide the warring emotions within her.

"Henry you're making me nervous."

He gave her a rueful smile and leaned back in his chair. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. I was coming to a decision is all."

He picked up his knife and used it to cut a chunk of the cheese, using the knife as a plate, he brought it to his lips. "I keep replaying in my head the past 12 hours. The thing I can't get past is how the Rebels could've snuck that much explosive material past the checkpoints, sentry posts, and navy patrols."

Astrid's heart had skipped a few beats.

"It makes no sense. New York is as secure as London, maybe even more so. There's simply no way they could've brought all the materials needed. Not just that, they set up pre-designated demolition points, and kill boxes. Which means someone had to plan this out, someone had to surveil optimal defensive and offensive locations. Someone had to time patrol duration and guard changes. None of this would be possible." He paused and looked at her again, his eyes ablaze with fury.

"That is, it wouldn't be possible without help, highly placed help. Which means we have a traitor in this city. Someone who walks among us under the guise of a loyal subject, of a friend, of a tavern owner, of a lover. All the while secretly plotting the most shameful and hideous crimes known to man."

Astrid wasn't breathing now and her fingers were gripping her knife so tightly she was afraid she'd break them. Her face was as rigid and stonily as blocks that made this house. This is it, this is how I die.

Henry's stare didn't waver in intensity or focus, and with each passing moment, she felt more and more of her life ebb away until she was left with barely enough strength to remain upright. A few seconds more, and he looked back down at his plate. "Whoever he is, he'd better pray I don't find him. For when I do." His voice became a murderous whisper. "I will take a mallet, and crush. His. Balls."