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Interlocking her fingers she clasped them at her waist to keep the men from seeing her trembling. “Times are hard, sir. Our living at Merrick’s is earned from the sale of coffee, quills and scones these days.”
    Jack squared his shoulders. “We have cause to search. If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to fear.”
    â€œI fear for the loss of my common rights.” Anne took a step and blocked the aisle leading back to the print shop. “I will not allow a search. I recognize neither your cause nor authority.”
    â€œWe do not seek your permission, madam.” Sears came to stand before her. “We cull traitors from our midst by the authority of the people.”
    â€œThe people?” Anne scoffed. “This drunken mob?”
    â€œLiberty must be protected.”
    â€œAnd who’s to safeguard my liberty?” Anne gritted her teeth, anger displacing fear. “My rights are being trod upon here. Am I to be tarred and feathered for not flinging my door open quick enough?”
    â€œWidow Merrick,” Quakenbos interceded. “Be reasonable. We’ve no tar and feathers here . . . Allow the lads a quick look around and then we can all be on our way.”
    â€œBugger that!” Sears swiped the back of his forearm across his mouth. “We will search these premises at will. We’re not a mob. We’re militia, duly recognized by the Committee of One Hundred.”
    Anne’s ire sparked a fury. “Militia—mob—it is a pity that most of us citizens are hard-pressed to tell the difference these days.”
    Sears towered over her. “You are glib, madam.”
    â€œAnd you, sir, are a brute.”
    â€œSearch the shop,” Sears shouted.
    The militiamen pushed past Anne and fanned out to begin poking about. Sears sent half a dozen men up the stairs to search the living quarters. Titus followed after them, calling out, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Anne. I’ll mind they don’t steal anything.”
    Smug Isaac Sears made himself comfortable at one of the tables. Quakenbos joined him. Jack Hampton set his hat down and made a beeline for the press.
    Anne paid no mind to the militiamen rifling through drawers and cupboards. Her eye was locked on Jack Hampton. He strolled around her press, stopping to give the rounce several turns—moving the carriage in and out from under the brass platen. He swung open the tympan and pressed a palm to the marble imposing stone still damp from its recent cleaning. Jack wandered to the compositor’s table and poked through the disorganized pile of quoins, gutter sticks and leading—the miscellaneous parts and pieces from the form she had just dismantled. He found the pissbucket in the corner and hoisted it onto the compositor’s table. Using a gutter stick, he fished up one of the leather inkball covers, studying the urine-drenched sheepskin for quite some time before dropping it back to the bucket.
    Blast his eyes. In all the hubbub, she had not thought to clear the bucket away. She called to him, “Cleaning day, sir! Long overdue.” He nodded and continued to poke through the mess on the back table.
    Sally came up and whispered. “Tha’ one’s a nosy bastard, in’t he? Dinna fash, Annie, these rebels canna arrest ye fer keepin’ an untidy shop.”
    â€œI don’t know . . .” Anne grasped Sally by the hand. “Who’s to stop them from doing whatever they please?”
    Hampton looked out the back window and called two militiamen over. “Go search those outbuildings there,” he ordered, sending the men through the back door to search the privy and the kitchenhouse.
    â€œOch! My kitchen . . .” Sally snatched up her cloak and bustled after them.
    Jack turned his attention to the other items on the table. Picking through the type cases, he held the inferior bits of type up to daylight. He tugged Anne’s mobcap from