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tits, Silas, they’re coming here.”
    “Hell!” Silas shoved himself to his feet as George lurched away from the door, and the men crashed in.
    “Oi!” Silas bellowed, coming out from behind the counter as a redcoat shoved George back. “What d’you think you’re doing?” That was ignored. The men jostled their way into the little, dusty shop. It was crammed with books and shelving, no room for so many people, especially not ones who intended to cause damage. There was a heavy crash as a shelf was upturned and books cascaded to the floor. “Oi!” A plain-clothed man heaved at another pile of books, and Silas grabbed at his arm, knowing it was foolish, but too angry to care. “You! Get off that.”
    “Assault!” the man bellowed, and a fist crashed into Silas’s face from the side. Silas shook his head, swinging to fight, and caught a glimpse of two men at the back watching.
    “Stop,” said a voice, cold and clear. Not a gentleman’s, by the tones of it. A jackal of the law. “Silas Mason?”
    “Aye.” A redcoat was gripping his sleeve. Silas snarled at him, barely bothering to glance at the speaker. “Get off me. Get your dogs out of my shop.”
    “My name is Thaddeus Skelton of the Home Office,” said the speaker. “I am here with my colleague Mr. Frey to investigate reports of the printing and distribution of seditious and treasonous pamphlets from these premises. What have you to say?”
    Silas looked up then, looked from Skelton, an evil-faced weasel if ever he saw one, to his companion, and found he had nothing to say at all.
    The Tory stood in his shop. He was dressed with quiet severity, his expensive caped greatcoat giving his outline deceptive size and breadth. I’d have known you otherwise, Silas thought. I’d have known you the second you came in. He wore a curly-brimmed hat, held a gold-topped black cane. Looked like a gentleman.
    He was a man of the Home Office. He was Dominic Frey, whose name Silas had heard often enough and last on the lips of Harry Vane, as a friend.
    This was the duty, Silas thought. You were worrying about raiding my shop in case it implicated my lad Harry, and you went ahead and did it.
    You traitorous bastard.
    Frey was staring at him, trying to keep his face still, but he couldn’t mask the pure sick horror in his eyes. He looked like he was sweating ice.
    Silas cleared his throat. “There’s no sedition here, and no treason, and no printing, come to that. Where’s your warrant?”
    “Warrant,” said Skelton scornfully. “Would an innocent man demand to see a warrant?”
    “My right,” Silas managed.
    “Here.” Skelton tossed a paper onto the desk. “One more chance, Mason. Tell us where the press is, or we’ll just have to find it ourselves.”
    “Look all you want.” Pure defiance. If they found the trapdoor, they’d find the press, piles of Jack Cade’s pamphlets, several drafts of his ongoing work on the Peterloo Massacre. He’d be dragged to gaol under the Tory’s blank, dark stare.
    The Tory wouldn’t speak for him. He couldn’t expect that.
    Skelton sneered. “Carry on, men.”
    They did. They crashed and clattered, upturning boxes, grabbing handfuls of paper, turfing books onto the floor with a disrespect that should have made him rage. George voiced protest at one point, as a soldier kicked his way into a locked chest, and was grabbed and sent stumbling to the floor with a rip of cloth. At the front of the shop, a windowpane shattered.
    Silas stood, and watched, and felt the Tory watch him. Saw the Tory’s caped shoulders rise and fall and felt his own harsh breathing come into line with them, as though their hearts beat in time.
    “Nothing, sir,” a man muttered at last.
    “Take the papers,” Skelton ordered. His face was rigid with the effort not to show disappointment. “We’ll check them all. You don’t get away so easily, Mason.”
    “I’ll want those back,” Silas said, showing defiance by rote.
    “Oh, we’ll