The door swung open with a scrape, bringing a wave of fresher air and the tang of burning tallow. Thompson filled the narrow frame, candlelight outlining a huge jaw. Slack-jawed, yellow of complexion, he sought out Hawkeye's gaze.

"Fifteen minutes," he mouthed. He stuck the candle on the shelf next to the door and turned away as if the women waiting behind him were invisible, which Nathaniel supposed was true. A coin of large enough denomination could make a man like Thompson blind to almost anything. Luckily Nathaniel had left most of his silver with Iona, who knew how to put it to good use.

The women slipped in quietly, their arms straining at the weight of the split-oak baskets. Pépin's mother, her face hidden by a deep hood, and the serving woman from the inn. Nathaniel saw Adele's eyes flitting through the dark cell to fix on Moncrieff and flit away again.

Pépin embraced his mother, and she pulled his head down into the curve of her cloak where she could talk to him, a hushed whisper in a country French that only Denier would have understood, had he been awake. Adele busied herself with unpacking the food onto the old board that served as a table. There were meat pies, bacon, sausage, cheese wrapped in brine-soaked cloth, two massive loaves of dark bread and a smaller corn cake still warm from the oven, a crock of beans, and a small keg of ale. To men living on gruel and dry bread, it looked a feast, but it would be a week at least before there would be any more. If other plans did not come to fruition first.

Adele had come to the bottom of the baskets: a bit of soap, some tobacco, and a half-dozen fat tallow candles. She straightened and caught Nathaniel's eye.

"The king of spades," she whispered, and pushed a small packet toward him. Without a backward glance she disappeared toward the shadowy corner where Moncrieff waited for her.

Nathaniel unwound the packet from its paper casing quickly, Robbie and Hawkeye leaning in close to watch. A deck of cards. The round, bland face of the king of spades was circled with neat, careful handwriting. The dark ink seemed to shiver and jump in the guttering candlelight.

Robbie squinted hard. "Iona's hand," he whispered. There was enough sunlight from the small, high window now to see him clearly. He was filthy, tangle-haired, his lower face lost in a snarl of beard.

Nathaniel's heart gave a leap. If Iona would risk sending such a note things must be coming to a head.

Hawkeye made a sound in his throat and Nathaniel tucked the card into his shirt just as Thompson appeared at the door again, chewing on bread so that the crumbs fell in a wet shower over his jacket. He jerked his head over his shoulder. With last murmured words, the women pulled down their hoods and slipped out as quietly as they had come. The guard thumped out after them, his key rasping as it turned in the lock.

Denier woke and came sniffing around the pile of food. The knife cut on his cheek had finally closed, but it still wept an angry yellow-red. His appetite was intact; he retired to his cot with a meat pie and his share of the sausage.

They ate silently, concentrating at first on the meat and on slick white cheese they washed down with Adele's ale in a tin cup that circled once and then again. Nathaniel wished, as he did every day, for water. For all of his life he had begun every day spent at home by diving into the cold pool under the falls at Lake in the Clouds; now he daydreamed of drinking until he had his fill, and more.

"Well?" Moncrieff's voice was thick. He had been sick with a fever for almost a week, and he was still prone to coughing fits.

They waited another five minutes until they could hear Thompson talking out in the courtyard above the normal noise of the garrison. Nathaniel read Iona's note in the light from the little window, and then he pressed his forehead against the cold, damp stone for a moment. When he came back to them, he could see the cautious hope on his father's face.

"Tonight," he said, his voice cracking with the effort and with relief. "When the seminary clock strikes ten. There'll be a diversion in the barracks and we should be ready to run." The little he knew of the plan worked out between Pépin's brothers and Iona didn't take long to relate.

There was a tense silence when Nathaniel finished, each of them alone with their own thoughts. Denier had stopped eating, and was tugging at one huge ear in a thoughtful way. He muttered a question in Pépin's direction and got a brief word in reply. The escape plans seemed to have brought about an uneasy truce between them, but Nathaniel intended to keep a sharp eye on the butcher.

"Any sign of Runs-from-Bears?" asked Robbie, putting voice to the question that kept Nathaniel awake night after night. They could not even know for sure if Otter had made it out of Montréal.

"Not yet," said Nathaniel, passing the card to his father.

Hawkeye took the king of spades and held it to the guttering candle flame until it was nothing but ash. Then he reached for the corn bread. "Eat up, boys," he said, new energy in his voice. "No sense letting good food go to waste."

Moncrieff was looking between Nathaniel and Pépin. "But what of weapons?"

Although the young farmer's English was spotty, he had followed most of the conversation. Still gnawing on a bit of sausage, he picked up a candle from the pile and handed it to Moncrieff. "From ma m`ere," he said.

Moncrieff raised an eyebrow at the weight of the candle. Then he tested the narrow end with his thumb and jerked in surprise. A bead of blood appeared, bright on his grimy skin.

"It's a wise woman wha' kens the worth o' a guid strong candle," said Robbie grimly as he tore off another chunk of bread. "An' should we meet wi' Pink George on the way oot o' his filthy gaol, I'll demonstrate the truth o' that tae him wi' great pleasure." He narrowed an eye at Moncrieff. "Did Adele ha' any news o' Somerville?"