Hewlett had been relieved to stumble across Robeson at the water's edge, relieved to set foot in Setauket again, and relieved to find himself in a proper bed, a roof over him and a fire in the hearth. But the tightness in his chest did not truly ease until Anna stood in the foyer of Whitehall. He struggled to take his eyes off her, watching as Aberdeen took the cloak from her shoulders, half afraid she would disappear if he so much as blinked. Late as it was, and despite the protests of his every muscle and bone, he was glad he had not waited until the morning to find her.

"We'll put you in your old room, Anna," Mary was saying, watching with a hand on the bannister as Anna's trunk was carried upstairs. Richard had retired before their arrival—Hewlett had sensed his friend's resistance to Anna's return, but that conversation could keep. Mary, at least, received them with the bustling efficiency of a mother hen.

Hewlett glanced at Anna again. Her cheeks were red from the cold night air; she pressed her hands against her skin to draw out the chill. She had eagerly departed the tavern, and on the short journey home, her shoulder bumping against his in the cart, she had had the look of a bird let out of a cage. But now that she was here, he saw a certain uneasiness in her clasped hands as she hovered, tentative, near the threshold. He caught her eye and gave her an encouraging smile, beckoning her with a tilt of his head. Letting out a breath, she stepped closer.

"Major, will you be able to manage the stairs?" Mary, one arm outstretched, ready to catch him, cast a worried look at his feet.

"I shall, Mrs. Woodhull," he assured her, even though his maimed foot throbbed painfully. "Please, don't let us keep you up any longer—you need your rest as well."

"It is no trouble, truly," Mary said. "But I should look in on Thomas, if you have everything you need."

His eyes darted to Anna. She gave a small nod.

"Indeed we do," Hewlett answered, his eyes only slowly finding their way back to Mary.

"I will say goodnight, then," Mary glanced between them, taking a candle from the hall table before she headed upstairs. Anna and Hewlett murmured their replies, but neither moved to follow her. Hewlett watched the light from Mary's candle disappear down the hall. When he finally looked back at Anna, he found, not for the first time that night, that her eyes were fixed on him.

His heart caught in his throat. Her face, soft in the dim light, suddenly stunned him. It was her face that he had held in his mind through all the horrors of the past month, and he had prayed that no harm would come to her just as fiercely as he prayed for salvation. His relief at the nearness of her was overwhelming after being so lost, in the freezing dark, with nothing but her face and the stars to steer by.

"Are you sure you can manage the stairs?" Anna asked him. "You must be exhausted."

He was not so sure now that he could move, let alone drag himself upstairs—all the strength he had managed in front of the Woodhulls and his men and that devil Simcoe was drained from him. His eyes were full of tears before he could form an answer and he found he could only gasp for air, his lungs failing him.

"What is it, what's wrong?" Her hands landed softly on his chest, her worried eyes searching his face.

"You're safe." He took her face in his hands, carefully, terrified that she might vanish, that he would awaken on frozen ground with the unforgiving dawn chasing away this dream. "You're safe."

"I am." Her hands curled over his. "I'm safe, Edmund."

Gradually, his lungs settled into a comfortable rhythm and his racing heart slowed as Anna waited, patient. Finally she drew his hands away from her face, but she kept them gently cradled in hers.

"You should rest," she told him.

He nodded his assent and allowed her to lead him towards the stairs, but his foot failed him at the first step. He gasped sharply, but Anna caught his arm.

"Here, lean on me."