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The address Christiaan Martens had recommended, the closest one on his list, was only a few streets away, directly across from City Hall. Among all those he had noted down, this one enjoyed the strongest reputation.
For François, who intended to keep a low profile and avoid any incident, it might be the best option.
The City Hall, the second the town had known, the previous one having been demolished in 1690, rose before him like a block shaped like the letter "H." Built of grey stone and standing two stories high, it consisted of two low wings framing a central section cut through with three large arches.
Above them, a narrow balcony overlooked a short flight of steps, and higher still, perched almost pointlessly, sat a small lantern.
This was where property deeds were recorded, where local justice was administered, where the police, roadworks, and taxation were managed, and where the town's archives were kept.
Sometimes, official announcements were proclaimed here, or public meetings linked to the Crown were held.
Today, nothing in particular seemed to be happening. François paid it no more attention. His gaze shifted instead to a nearby building at the corner of Wall Street, leaning almost against a large, dark-brick Presbyterian church.
Compared to the respectable mass of City Hall, it looked rather pitiful, with its white-painted wooden façade beginning to peel. It could have used a good coat of paint to give it a second youth.
Above the door, a sign swung and creaked gently. It read "John Simmons Tavern."
In front of one of the tall windows flanking the entrance, a heavyset man in his fifties was smoking peacefully, slumped on a plain chair. Behind him, through the window, an old grey cat was enjoying a perfectly placed ray of sunlight to finish its nap.
The man exhaled slowly, letting a bluish puff of smoke drift away in the breeze. Two plump pigs wandered close by, snuffling softly through the street in search of scraps. He didn't seem to notice them and continued smoking.
François stepped around the animals and moved toward the door, but just as he was about to enter, the man's deep voice made him stop.
"Can I help you?"
The young man raised an eyebrow. The big man—massive and squeezed into a yellow waistcoat begging for mercy—was eyeing him lazily. François's attention drifted, almost involuntarily, to the garment's buttons, wondering how they still held on.
"Um… do you work here?" he asked naively.
"Sometimes," the man replied with a sly smile, revealing his damaged teeth.
"Ah, right. I'm looking for a room. A private one, if possible. Do you have that?"
The man lowered his pipe, struggled to his feet with a final exhale, and examined the young newcomer for a moment. He seemed to be sizing him up.
Then, after a pause, he jerked his chin toward the door, inviting François inside.
As soon as he stepped through, a tumult of smells hit him. Despite the hour, the main room was already packed. People were laughing and exchanging crude jokes while enjoying a well-earned drink after a long day's work.
François quickly surveyed the clientele while walking toward the counter: tanned-faced sailors, craftsmen, dusty travelers, clerks, laborers. A bit of everything—though very few women.
The large man walked around the long, time-worn counter, opened a thin register—far less impressive than the Dutchman's—and flipped through a few pages with his short, thick fingers.
"I don't have a private room," he said, "but a bed just freed up. You're in luck."
François froze.
In luck? To share a room with a stranger?
As if reading his thoughts, John Simmons went on, frowning:
"You can tell you're fresh off the boat. Don't look like a sailor. Colonist, huh? I don't know what you were told, but things are complicated right now. Especially in New York. Inns, taverns, rooms for rent... everything's packed to the rafters. Then again, almost every day people arrive from Great Britain to try their luck here."
François nodded slowly.
"Hmm, yes, that's what I've noticed."
"If you think you'll escape taxes, forget it," the innkeeper continued, clicking his tongue. "We pay less than in London, but the gap's shrinking every year. Anyway… as I was saying, it's not unusual to share a room with an entire family. You might even have to share your bed. And I know some folks who rent by the half-night. That's where we're at. So yes, I say you're lucky."
He shut the register abruptly.
"You taking it or not?"
François grimaced. He sensed that if he hesitated too long, he might miss a good opportunity. He gave the room another quick look; the main hall wasn't all that dirty.
Not a palace, but not a dump either. He could live with it for a few months.
He had endured far worse lodging conditions, in both Europe and America during the last war. He firmly believed he could survive this establishment.
"How much?" he finally asked.
"Nine shillings a week. Payable in advance. No fighting, no alcohol in the room, no noise at night. If there's demand, you share your bed. No boots or shoes in the bed. If you break something, you pay for it."
He broke off when a plump woman with rosy cheeks passed behind him, carrying a large tray loaded with drinks. Then he added, lowering his voice a little:
"The gambling, so long as it's discreet, fine. The working girls too. But no scandals: I've got respectable customers, a reputation to keep, and I'm not losing my license over you. You break my rules, I throw you out, even in the middle of the night. Understood?"
"Understood," François replied in a neutral tone, though he was dying to argue about two or three points.
He had no desire to spend a night outside, especially with a killer still on the loose.
Nine shillings for a week. It's outrageously expensive, probably far too much for the room I'm getting. If I remember correctly, it's supposed to be around six shillings a week… Bastard.
François grimaced, as if the effort of pulling out his money physically pained him, then handed over two crowns. Simmons slid them into his broad palm, examined them carefully—one could never be too careful—then nodded, returned him his change and motioned for his new guest to follow.
The staircase leading up to the attic groaned so loudly under the innkeeper's weight that François feared it would collapse. The higher they climbed, the heavier the smell of dust and old wood became.
Fortunately, the structure held.
At the end of a narrow, slanted corridor, Simmons finally opened a door, revealing a cramped but clean, furnished room. There was only enough space for two beds, wide enough to fit two people if they squeezed together.
Opposite them, a tiny window overlooked Wall Street, so grimy it filtered the light like fog. There was also a plain table, a chair that looked as old as the building itself, two chests, and a coat rack.
François inspected his bed—mostly to make sure there were no bedbugs. He found none, though the sheets weren't particularly clean. He didn't dwell on it; long ago he'd accepted that eighteenth-century hygiene had nothing to do with the cleanliness of his former life.
"This will do. And for meals?"
"We serve between seven and eight in the morning, between one and two in the afternoon, and again between seven and eight in the evening. It's included in the price of the room. Drinks are extra."
François nodded, thoughtful.
Well, I don't intend to drink. If anyone asks, I'll just say alcohol goes straight to my head. Or that I get aggressive. That should do.
When Simmons closed the door behind him, François sat on his narrow bed and stayed there for a few moments. He could clearly hear everything happening in the hallway. The wooden stairs groaned like a condemned man.
François exhaled slowly.
Now that he was alone, it felt like he could finally take off a mask. Playing the role of James Woods wasn't difficult in itself, but staying alert every second was exhausting.
He was only just beginning to grasp the scale of his mission.
He wasn't a professional—assuming such people even existed yet in the way he imagined—but he suspected he'd already made dozens of mistakes without realizing it. The only one he could name was having his purse stolen.
Christ… fantastic start.
He couldn't imagine a real spy getting robbed in broad daylight the moment he arrived in enemy territory.
François removed his hat, ran a calloused hand over his face, and felt his anger rising again.
Never again. Never.
Between Mr. Martens' trading house and the tavern, he had walked on edge, watching every passerby, avoiding any contact as if they all carried some terrible disease. The walk had lasted only a few minutes, but his mind had been on high alert, like an animal sensing an invisible predator.
Everyone had seemed suspicious to him, regardless of age or sex. He'd even tried to memorize faces, just in case.
And what if there were spies among them?
The thought froze his blood.
He stood up, trying not to make a sound, and moved toward the tiny window to glance outside. The street looked calm, but that didn't mean he was safe. In New York, he never really would be.
That was something he could never forget.
A long rumble, like the low growl of a wild animal, suddenly echoed, dragging him out of his dark thoughts.
Now that he thought about it, it was getting late, and he'd barely eaten all day. There was still plenty of daylight outside, at this time of year, the sun didn't set until around half past eight.
He carefully stowed his belongings in the chest at the foot of his bed, keeping his purse on him, then headed downstairs.
In the large hall that took up nearly the entire ground floor, every table was already full. A warm, bustling atmosphere filled the room, almost stifling with the accumulated heat.
The Simmons' cat, tired of being bothered, had found a quiet spot atop a tall piece of furniture, watching the scene with lazy disinterest.
The innkeeper's wife crossed the room to take an order, while old John Simmons hauled up cured meats from the cellar, including a remarkably large smoked ham that looked as if it could feed an entire battalion by itself.
François weaved between tables without lowering his guard and found an open spot on a bench near a window. The men already seated barely glanced at him. Sharing a table with strangers was normal here.
He ordered his meal from the innkeeper's wife, Catherine Simmons, and a moment later he was served the same thing as his tablemates: leftovers from the midday meal. Beef stew with peas and cabbage, a small bowl of broth that smelled nice but tasted weak to François, some bread, and a piece of local cheese inspired by European cheddar.
While eating, he kept the hall under discreet watch.
Across from him, a man of average height was slowly drinking his beer. His close-set eyes, sharp cheekbones, and damaged lips—chewed, perhaps, for years—gave him a shady, nervous look.
When he felt François' gaze on him, he lifted his head briefly, frowned, and looked away. A minute later, he checked from the corner of his eye whether the young man was still watching.
At the next table, a group of laborers were laughing so loudly they could probably be heard from outside. One of them, built like a lumberjack, raised a massive arm to call for another bottle, demanding it as though he'd already paid for it.
A jovial bear, François thought.
But a bear could bite too.
Their eyes met for a second as the man poured a drink for his companion. It could have been nothing more than a reflex, an intuition. Maybe. But François still felt a prickle of electricity crawl down his neck.
He forced himself to keep eating as if nothing was wrong.
In a corner near the entrance, a young man with boyish features was playing a lively violin tune that carried a hint of Ireland, windswept moors and lonely hills. He paused whenever someone tossed him a coin, then picked up the melody again with renewed energy.
From where he sat, between the door and the counter, above which the tavern keeper had hung various trinkets and a print of a schooner on a stormy sea, the young musician had a view of nearly the entire room.
The door creaked open.
A surprisingly tall man entered, easily over two meters tall, well dressed, moving with the calculated slowness of someone used to being treated as important. His brown hair was slicked back, his nose straight, his chin cleft, and under his arm he carried a glossy black cane with an ivory pommel.
He swept the room with a gaze full of superiority before approaching the counter. Leaning toward Simmons, he murmured a few inaudible words beneath the loud chatter.
The innkeeper nodded, scratched his cheek, then let his eyes drift across the customers. For the briefest instant, so brief François wondered if he imagined it, his gaze seemed to linger on him. A fraction of a second too long. Or maybe a trick of the mind.
François lowered his eyes to his plate as though nothing had happened and cut a piece of cheese to place on a bit of bread. As he brought it to his mouth and started chewing slowly, he thought he felt the gentleman's eyes pass over him again.
But again, it might have been his imagination.
The man eventually sat in a corner and ordered before the kitchen closed. François swallowed the last bite of cheese and leaned back until his shoulders touched the wall behind him.
Hmm… Not bad, actually. Ah, I could really go for a glass of wine.
His eyes drifted toward the jug to his right, within arm's reach, though he hadn't paid for it. Of course he didn't order a drink. He might have been painfully inexperienced, but he wasn't stupid enough to make that mistake.
Well now… Why is she staring at me?
This time, there was no mistaking it. Someone was looking straight at him.
At the laborers' table, a woman with ash-blond hair, sitting sideways on the lap of a man with an utterly forgettable face, was staring at him insistently. The prostitute gave him a wink meant to be charming, then smiled, revealing two incisors that were a bit too long.
It gave her a faint beaver-like look. Cute, maybe, to some.
But not to him. François' expression remained unmoved.
She wasn't attractive to him in the slightest, and besides, his heart was full—Onatah and the children left no room for anyone else. He would have refused even if she'd promised him a million pounds.
He gave her a polite nod—enough to avoid hostility, not enough to invite her over—then looked away.
Onatah…
Just thinking of his wife stirred a painful warmth in his chest. Every mile between them was torture.
He let out a quiet, sorrowful sigh.
The sound caught the attention of his neighbor, the man with the close-set eyes. He raised an eyebrow, stared for a second, then turned away. The young fellow looked so miserable one might think the world itself had singled him out for punishment.
Even if that were true, he had no intention of finding out more. Men like him were everywhere. He grabbed the jug and filled his glass to the brim before setting it back on the crumb-covered table.
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When he finished eating and the noise around him became unbearable, François dragged himself back up to his room. The day had been long, intense, and full of emotion.
It had drained him, as though the tension accumulated since his arrival at the harbor was finally demanding to break loose.
The room lay in gentle dimness, the light fading quickly behind the rooftops outside. Despite the lack of insulation, it was pleasantly warm thanks to the heat rising from the ground floor.
François lit a candle on the small table, and the wavering flame cast twisted shadows across the long beams of the ceiling.
He took James Woods' journal from his chest.
On the last pages, he had scribbled a few minor notes, imitating the man's handwriting as best he could. Whenever he doubted the spelling of a word, he checked earlier entries. His spoken English had become fluent over the years, but writing was another matter entirely—a place where a mistake could betray his identity.
Fortunately, his level wasn't bad. And even if he occasionally made errors, it hardly mattered: at the time, everyone did. The language wasn't fully standardized yet, and even educated people often spelled the same word several different ways within a single document.
If things were slowly beginning to change, thanks in part to dictionaries being published and printing becoming more common, no one would judge him.
As he quickly jotted down the day's events, taking care to omit his visit to Martens, someone stepped into the room. His quill froze mid-stroke and he turned sharply to identify the intruder, and assess how dangerous they might be.
The newcomer stopped short, surprised to find someone else in the room. But a polite smile soon formed on his lips.
"Oh, you must be my new roommate," he said, gently closing the door behind him.
He walked over and extended a steady hand.
"Liam Kelly. Nice to meet you."
François studied the man's hand for a second before gripping it firmly.
"James Woods. Likewise."
"Let's get along, shall we? My previous roommate wasn't what you'd call pleasant company. I'll admit I'm relieved he's finally gone. Are you planning on staying long?"
François narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Until I have enough to pay for a proper place," he replied neutrally, glancing at the two beds pressed together. "I don't intend to spend my life in the attic of a tavern."
Liam Kelly burst out laughing.
"Hah! Welcome to the club! Ah, if someone had told me that after all those years at university I'd be living in a dump like this… 'Get an education,' they said. 'You'll have a bright future.'"
He exhaled, amused yet bitter.
***
The streets of New York were silent, drowned in a darkness the scattered lanterns struggled to push back. Their dim, yellowish glow spilled over the cobblestones without making the alleys look any less sordid.
At this late hour, Margaret Baker had crossed hardly anyone since she'd left the room of her last client. In her small purple purse, a few coins clinked softly, a meager reward for a night that had left her exhausted.
Her best years were behind her. Finding customers grew harder with every season, harder still to keep loyal ones. Those she still managed to hold onto, she knew, would eventually tire of her and turn toward others, younger and prettier.
But her last client might, perhaps, become a good source of steady income. A member of the city council, no less. With everything she had accepted to do and let him do, she felt entitled to hope he would want to see her again.
Her steps were slow, almost unsteady, as though she had been drinking. It was the result of one of the gentleman's more unusual requests.
She had seen many things in her life. London, Boston, and now New York. His request wasn't even close to the strangest. Still, she needed a few hours to regain full control of herself.
A metallic sound echoed in the alley to her right. She jumped, letting out a small yelp, then sighed in relief when she spotted a small black cat, fur bristling. It arched its back and stared at her with wide amber eyes, its crooked tail lifted awkwardly.
"Here kitty, kitty… Pssst. Come here."
The cat hissed, then bolted in the opposite direction until it vanished into the darkness.
Margaret pouted and shoved a long strand of copper-blond hair back under her woolen cap.
She straightened up with difficulty, and then noticed a man approaching. He walked with a calm, almost elegant stride. His polished shoes clicked softly on the stone, steady as the ticking of a clock.
The closer he came, the more his features revealed themselves in the lantern light.
Oh, what a handsome young man! Well dressed… he must earn good money.
A smile curled her crimson lips as they came within a few steps of each other. Her gaze lingered on his face.
Very handsome. Mmm… delicious. And those dark, brooding eyes… Ah, I think I'm in love! If only I were ten… no, fifteen years younger…
"Good evening, handsome," she purred, placing an expert hand on the young man's chest to stop him. "Looking for a little company tonight? It's still a bit chilly, isn't it? Wouldn't you rather have someone to warm you up…?"
Huh?
She heard a muffled sound. Then her breath vanished all at once, as though an invisible hand had seized her throat. The pain followed. Sharp. Instant. Impossible to understand.
W-why… why does it hurt?
She looked down. A long, shadowy blade slid slowly out of her abdomen, slick with her blood. Her eyes widened. She raised her head, stunned.
His black eyes stared into her—through her—empty of emotion, as though she wasn't even there.
"H-ha?"
Her legs gave way. She collapsed onto the cold cobblestones. From the ground, the man's silhouette seemed towering—mountainous.
Her vision wavered, then blurred. Margaret could hardly move a muscle anymore, much less call for help.
Her clothes grew heavier as they soaked up her blood.
A tear slid down her cheek.
"Why…?"
The fragile whisper still reached the man's ears. He crouched calmly, bringing his face close to hers. Then, slowly—almost gently—he traced the tip of his knife along her cheek.
"You'll be dead before I finish my explanation," he said coldly.
He lifted his gaze for a moment, scanning the empty street.
When he looked back down, she had stopped breathing.
"What was I saying…"
He paused, thoughtful, as he studied the face of his newest victim. He brushed aside a strand of hair that had slipped from beneath her cap and tilted his head, as if searching for the right words.
"Let's say… it was necessary. Just like the others. And the ones to come."
He wet his lips and, without blinking, began carving his mark—a cross in the center of the woman's forehead. The gesture was not especially precise, but it was meticulous.
Then he wiped the blade clean on her coat and slid it calmly back into place. Without another word, he stood and turned away, disappearing into the darkness.