Anxiety struck him. He said, "You aren't a supporter of the Court Party are you, Debby?"
Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she said, "Nay, not yet—but unless certain folk cease plaguing me in the name of the Colony I shall become so in self-defence."
"Don't switch," he assured her, relieved.
They walked the streets of the Old Town, down Belcher's Lane and the Battery March, whence they could see scarlet-coated soldiers at frigid sentry duty atop the Fort ramparts. They warmed chilling bodies with boiled beef and bacon and steaming buttered Medford rum at Stratton's tavern just off King Street, then on to the Province House toward Beacon Hill.
Look at the palladian gable of that small but stately structure, at the gilded lion and unicorn that adorned its cornices, Justin reflected it looked scarcely younger than when he had paused on his way home in the dusk to survey it a scant sixteen hours—or rather a hundred and ninety-two years—away. If anything, in his own era, it was rather better kept up.
Then they rambled back along Rawson's Lane to Milk Street and Deborah's house, which by daylight proved to be a stoutly comfortable dwelling in obvious good repair. To his surprise Deborah bade him enter. He followed her inside, said, "How are you going to explain me, honey?"
"I'm not," she replied with a flicker of dimple. "There's no soul here but ourselves."
He pulled her close and for a few blissful moments they embraced. Then, again, Deborah pushed him away. He looked at her, said, "What's wrong?"
"Ye must leave quickly," she replied. "I have something to attend to and with ye around I cannot."
"Is it your mission from Ortine?" he asked her.