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the protection of the Crown,” he said.
    John Senior turned his tumbler in his hands and took a generous mouthful of rum and held the slow burn of the liquor there for a moment before swallowing. He reached for thebottle to refill his glass and without asking topped up Buchan’s glass as well.
    “You and your men have been a law unto yourselves for many years, out of necessity perhaps. It is not my place at this time to judge. But I have become familiar with many of the depredations carried out by both sides in these conflicts and as a magistrate I am duty bound to bring them to Governor Duckworth’s attention.”
    John Senior pushed slowly away from the table and crossed the room to stand with his backside towards the fire, as if he had suddenly caught a draught.
    “The governor,” Buchan continued, “would look quite favourably upon those who are willing to assist in our endeavour, Mr. Peyton.” He removed Duckworth’s proclamation from his coat and shook it open on the table. “I know you have no interest in financial reward. But you may wish to know that, as well as the money, the governor has promised that any man who exerts himself towards the successful outcome of our project ‘shall be honourably mentioned to His Majesty and shall find such countenance from the governor and such further encouragement as it may be in his power to give.’” He looked up from the parchment and folded it carefully before returning it to his pocket. “May we count on you in this regard, Mr. Peyton?”
    John Senior took the silver pocket watch from his waistcoat and opened it. He stared a while at the face without paying any attention to the time. He said, “I have my doubts about what good it’ll do us to trek into that lake in the middle of hard weather.”
    “Leave the good or bad to me, Mr. Peyton. All I am asking is that you help me try.”
    John Senior looked at his boots and nodded his head distractedly. He said, “I expect a word to the good with the governor.”
    Buchan nearly smiled but thought better of it. “If a good word is ever necessary,” he said, “you shall have it.”
    The two men carried on drinking through the evening. John Senior threw back shots of rum with the heartsick determination of a man trying to drown an animal he can no longer afford to feed. Buchan worked to keep up with him, as if everything he had accomplished that evening was tenuous and dependent on his ability to match the older man’s enormous capacity for alcohol.
    He managed to make his way to bed without assistance and removed enough clothes to satisfy himself he wasn’t hopelessly drunk, but he fell into a stupor as soon as he lay on top of the sheets in the cold and didn’t stir until the gathering squall of nausea woke him. He stuttered downstairs as quietly as he could manage and pushed out the door into a gale of wind, running around the side of the building to vomit into the snow. He held his stomach and stamped his feet as the convulsions passed through him.
    Cassie was kneeling beside the fireplace when he came back into the kitchen. She was stoking the small pyramid of coals that had been covered in ash and preserved beneath an overturned pot to start a new fire. The timid light moved across her features as she stared into it. She held a woollen shawl about her shoulders.
    “I was hoping not to disturb anyone,” he said.
    “I was lying awake anyway,” she lied. “You set yourself there —” she nodded towards the daybed with her chin. “I’ll get you a cup of something that’ll settle your guts.”
    Buchan shook his head, the motion exaggerated and vehement. “I won’t have Mr. Peyton awake as well.”
    “Naught but the Old Hag can shake John Senior out of the state he gets into when he’s sleeping. And we’d hear him over any racket we might be making, I can tell you. Sit,” she said. “It’ll only be a few minutes to boil the kettle.”
    He sat on the narrow bed, holding a forearm across his