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François was not the only one at the table being studied.
Behind an appearance of ease, he carefully observed the four men he and Liam had just joined.
The one with the square jaw seemed about the same age as him, early thirties. His gaze was sharp, almost cutting, framed by thick, dark eyebrows. He wore a brown outfit, simple but clean, with a slightly darker coat. Nothing remarkable at first glance.
The kind of man one could encounter anywhere. To François, in everyday life, he could just as easily be a businessman as a skilled laborer.
Broad, calloused hands… a man used to hard work.
If they were to shake hands, François thought, he would probably try to test his grip.
The man sitting across from him was very different. Narrow face, drawn features, and small, close-set eyes. His body looked fragile, yet François had the unsettling feeling that he was hiding something, perhaps a kind of restrained aggression.
It was in his features, his gaze, the way he carried himself.
It was difficult to imagine him in any respectable profession. He looked more like a man who survived by any means necessary, or a prisoner who had escaped and robbed the first man he came across for his clothes.
The third was younger. No more than twenty-five. A handsome fellow with an intense gaze, he wore a light blue-gray coat over a pale yellow jacket. His pleasant face was framed by strands of chestnut hair that shone like polished copper under the soft glow of the lanterns.
A student, François thought. He doesn't look like he's ever truly worked a day in his life, judging by his hands. And there's no sign of fatigue on his face. Hmm… but he does seem determined.
The last, finally, was the oldest of the group. He appeared wise, calm, focused, solid as a rock. His graying hair was neatly styled and tied back into a long ponytail that fell down his back to his shoulder blades.
His face bore the marks of a life of work, thought, and hardships endured in silence. Fine lines surrounded his eyes and narrow mouth, but they were far deeper across his forehead. His gaze seemed to analyze everything with mathematical precision.
He could just as easily have been a tutor, a clergyman, or perhaps a man of law.
Like the narrow-faced man, he had a view of what was happening behind François, and thus of the table where Alexander McDougall and Isaac Sears were seated.
"So," he said in a calm voice, "if I understood correctly what Liam told us, you arrived in New York not long ago, is that right?"
It was not really a question.
François accepted the tankard that had just been placed before him before answering.
"That's correct. Nearly three months now."
"And you come from Plymouth?"
"Portsmouth," he corrected simply.
He paused briefly, then allowed himself a faint, crooked smile.
"It's strange. I feel as though I've been here much longer. A lot has happened."
The square-jawed man with the cleft chin narrowed his eyes.
"Really? In that case, you must already have formed an opinion of this province."
Liam cast a discreet glance toward François.
"For example… what do you think of the taxes imposed on us by Parliament?"
It sounded like an ordinary question, but the tone and the weight of their gazes made the intent behind it perfectly clear.
François took a moment to consider the best possible answer. He could almost visualize the different choices before him, and the consequences each would bring. But he also had to remain believable in his role.
These men would not necessarily believe him if he openly vented his hatred for Parliament. They might even find him more suspicious.
"Would you like an honest answer, sir?"
A slight nod answered him.
"Before coming here, I didn't care. No, rather, I had never really thought about how things worked. At best, I assumed it was normal. That's what the newspapers say in England. The Crown had supposedly ruined itself defending the colonies, so the colonies must contribute more to repaying the debt."
Brows furrowed, expressions closed like doors. François continued without changing his tone.
"But since my arrival… I've seen the consequences of this policy. And it seems to me that the colonies are not just paying their share."
He looked up at the group.
"They are being treated as though they had done something wrong, as if they were being punished for a crime they did not commit."
Their expressions softened slightly, though they did not become friendly.
The narrow-faced man crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward a little.
"So… you think there are too many taxes?"
François shrugged.
"Too many, I don't know. The debt is real. But it now seems obvious to me that Parliament is handling the problem very poorly. The colonies should not be in such a state… no more than the towns and countryside of Great Britain. Tensions are high there as well."
"So we've heard," the student replied, nodding slowly. "News doesn't travel well, but… it all points in that direction. Ordinary people feel as though they exist only to pay these taxes—old and new, direct and indirect. There are said to be frequent riots, and no region is spared."
Several stern looks were cast in his direction, urging him to be quiet.
François nodded.
"That's true. And in Ireland, it's even worse. It's close to what happened in Carolina. The army was deployed to crush an insurrectionist movement. Those who are meant to protect us have a rather strange way of doing their job."
A heavy silence settled around the table. No one wanted to respond first.
Everyone here had supported the cause of those colonists in Carolina who had taken up arms against the corruption that plagued the province at every level. Unfortunately, it had ended in bloodshed, with ruthless repression. One of the leaders of the movement had disappeared into the Indian territories separating British lands from Louisiana.
The warning had been very clear.
Without turning around, François could feel the weight of McDougall's and Sears's gazes upon him. Calmly, he raised his tankard to his lips, took a small sip, then continued in an even tone:
"Honestly… Parliament has plenty of other ways to reduce the debt without strangling the people. Everyone is close to the breaking point. Only they are doing well… and their friends. They shouldn't be surprised if, one day, their poor decisions come back to hit them full in the face."
A few discreet nods answered him.
The young man in the blue-gray coat clasped his hands in front of him, almost as if in prayer, and looked intently at François with his light-colored eyes.
"Tell me, sir… what do you think of the new lieutenant governor who has just arrived from London?"
François set down his tankard without any grand gesture, but did not answer immediately. He stared at it for a moment, as if truly weighing his words and their consequences.
At the Queen's Head Tavern, even among supposed allies, one never spoke without thinking. There were many implications, and very few excessive words.
To please the two men behind him, François could go somewhat far, but certainly not as far as speaking of independence. That was too extreme, even for them.
"Not much, to be honest. I know nothing about him."
A slight pause followed. It was not an evasion, but it was not a satisfying answer either. He continued calmly:
"I'm wary of hasty judgments… and of rumors. One never knows where they come from, whether they are reliable, or whether they serve someone's interests. I suppose the same can be said of certain newspapers. I don't believe in neutrality."
The man with the long gray hair inclined his head.
"And what do you believe in, then?"
François finally looked up at him.
"That men change very little when things are going well—but circumstances can transform them. Eventually, they reveal their true nature."
The man narrowed his eyes but did not argue.
The narrow-faced man took over, arms crossed on the table:
"So you have no opinion about him? About what he will do?"
François shrugged lightly.
"As I said, I don't know him. But the circumstances… are not good. They will certainly limit his room for maneuver. Above all, I don't think he came here with much freedom of action. In fact, I'm not even sure any governor truly has."
He paused, then added more quietly:
"The important decisions aren't made here, but in London. And I have the impression that the local assembly is being listened to less and less."
Glances were exchanged around the table. They seemed to agree with him.
He went on, still measured:
"That said… I'm sure he can choose how to apply those decisions. He can try to ease tensions… or show zeal to please certain people. I couldn't say which way he will lean. In the end, what do we really know about him?"
"Almost nothing," the youngest admitted.
"We'll probably have to wait a few weeks to see how he intends to make us forget our anger," the cleft-chinned man muttered, tapping his tankard lightly with his index finger. "What's certain is that the consequences of their poor decisions over the past decades aren't going away anytime soon."
François did not forget the men listening to the conversation at his table. With a sigh, he added:
"That's true. Still, I'd be surprised if he didn't make mistakes. He must know nothing about the colonies or their people. If he fails to understand that things work differently here, if he is too harsh, he will only fuel the anger. The opposite seems less likely."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"Even if he is too conciliatory, sooner or later he'll harden his position. And we're back to the first case. In either scenario, I don't see how the situation could truly calm down. Those who are already angry will become even more so… and those who still hesitate may end up joining them."
As if only now realizing he had said too much, François let out a small nasal sound and straightened up.
"Of course, that's just my opinion and my interpretation."
The cleft-chinned man paused, his index finger hovering above his tankard, and exchanged a brief glance with his neighbor, then with the two men across from him. Liam, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, let out a quiet sigh of relief.
His friend had handled himself very well. But that was only his own perspective—nothing was guaranteed.
Each of them seemed to have formed an opinion about François, yet the discussion was not over. The cleft-chinned man resumed the conversation.
"You speak like someone who has thought things through. You don't seem like you've only been here a short time."
The tone was not accusatory.
François showed no excessive reaction.
"I've simply had time to observe the city and reflect. I came to New York to settle here. It would have been foolish not to try to understand the city... and what isn't working."
"A wise decision," the narrow-faced man commented, a smirk at the corner of his lips. "But it would have been wiser still to ask yourself those questions before crossing the ocean. Now I have to wonder… You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, so how is it that you didn't know the colonies were in crisis?"
All eyes turned to François. This time, the expectation was sharper. Still, he showed no sign of unease.
"I knew… to some extent," he replied, taking his tankard in both hands. "The newspapers never tell the whole story."
He swirled the amber liquid, stopping only when it nearly spilled over.
"What I did know, however, was that I had no future staying in Great Britain. If you're wondering whether I regret my choice… the answer is no. I still see this land as a land of opportunity."
The narrow-faced man cast a brief glance past François's shoulder. At the neighboring table, Isaac Sears gave a slight nod.
He looked back at François, who acted as though he had noticed nothing, maintaining a serious expression.
"A land of opportunity… perhaps. But in its current state, it's more of a quagmire where nearly everyone struggles to live with dignity. Some things will have to change."
The gray-haired man continued.
"Change never comes on its own. Sometimes it has to be forced. If… some here were to decide not only to talk… but to act…"
He leaned forward slightly and locked eyes with François.
"Where would you stand?"
This time, the question was direct and unambiguous.
François did not rush. He took another sip of beer.
He let three breaths pass.
Enough to show he understood the weight of what had been said, and to give weight to his answer. He set his tankard down.
"Passivity is not an option. Too many people remain silent and let things happen. They don't realize that it means letting others decide in their place… men who do not necessarily have their best interests at heart."
He drew a deep breath and spoke slowly:
"I am not one of them. I will stand with those who are willing to roll up their sleeves and do what must be done."
Behind François, Alexander McDougall and Isaac Sears exchanged a few quiet words, then stood up almost at the same time. Sears made a discreet gesture, barely noticeable.
At François's table, the oldest man gave a slight nod.
"Good. We'll have the opportunity to discuss this again."
Then, without taking his eyes off François:
"Leave us for a moment. Liam, you stay."
It was not an invitation, but an order. Liam nodded without protest and told François, as he stood up, that he could return to the John Simmons Tavern—he would join him later.
François picked up his tricorne with one hand, placed it on his head, nodded politely to the gentlemen, and left the establishment without looking back.
The cool night air hit him immediately.
The contrast with the tavern's interior was striking. Everything was so quiet once the door closed. The murmur of voices still reached him, but it sounded muffled, as if he had plunged his head underwater.
Without hurrying, as though afraid of drawing attention, he began to walk. His steps were steady, echoing softly on the uneven cobblestones.
During their conversation, the city had changed its face.
Groups were dispersing, and the lanterns, poorly maintained and widely spaced, cast a faint, fragile yellow light. They did little to illuminate the streets.
To his left, in front of a closed cobbler's shop, three women were still talking beneath a creaking lantern whose soot-darkened glass partially dimmed the flame. They appeared to be between twenty and forty. Neither pretty nor ugly.
They looked up as he approached and fell silent, but François showed no intention of speaking to them. He did not even look at them.
One stepped forward with a smile meant to be enticing, offering him her company for a few coins. François shook his head sharply without slowing.
The other two tried in turn—more direct, almost insistent—but received the same response.
François sidestepped to go around them and only noticed too late a man approaching from the opposite direction. Their shoulders collided.
In the darkness, the man was barely noticeable in his black attire. He might as well have been a shadow.
"Oh… my apologies, sir."
The man in black barely turned. He did not answer. He did not even grunt.
He only cast him a dark look, cold, emotionless, empty.
Then his gaze briefly slid toward the three prostitutes. He showed no more emotion and resumed walking as if nothing had happened.
François stood still for a moment in the middle of the street, completely ignoring the three women around him. Their irritating voices barely reached him.
He was staring at the man in black's back as he slowly disappeared into the night.
For some strange reason, he had tensed. He had seen him several times at Trinity Church, but the aura he gave off now was subtly different, though he could not determine why.
At last, he resumed walking.
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A few streets farther on, the city seemed quieter. There was almost no one left outside.
François was not far from the John Simmons Tavern anymore.
But just as he was imagining himself slipping beneath his sheets, his attention fixed on a woman about his age, with dark skin and black hair, who emerged from a side street leading onto Broad Street.
Their eyes met. They froze like statues.
An Indian woman? Hmm… She looks… Iroquois?
He frowned. Something clicked in his mind.
I feel like I've seen her somewhere before…
The woman, dressed partly in European fashion, felt the same. She searched her memory, took a step toward him to better see his face.
François searched his own memory. He was certain he knew her—or at least had seen that face before, those large, slightly downturned dark eyes.
She was rather beautiful, far more so than the three prostitutes from earlier, and carried herself with dignity. She must come from an important family.
What was certain was that this woman did not come from Chief Akwiratheka's village.
But where does she come from? And what is an Iroquois woman doing in New York?
In truth, it was not that surprising. Just because they had grown closer to the French during and after the Six Years' War did not mean they had stopped communicating or trading with the English.
But it was a fact, they were no longer old friends.
Suddenly, the woman's eyes widened. Her body began to tremble. She raised a hand to her slightly open mouth.
"The Frenchman…"
She had spoken in her own language, but François understood her perfectly. He felt his heart tighten suddenly, his blood turning cold.
Only then did he recognize her.
He did not know her name, but he had indeed seen her before. Hatred quickly filled her gaze, the same hatred as back then, what felt like an eternity ago.
She was there when he was judged by the Iroquois for entering their territory without permission while trying to intercept British settlers.
Molly Brant. The sister of Joseph Brant and the wife of the former British Superintendent of Indian Affairs, William Johnson.
She drew in breath to scream, and panic seized François. He reacted before even thinking.
If she screamed now, people would come running. He would be reported, described, hunted like an animal. Everything would collapse—and most likely, he would never leave the city.
He lunged like a beast.
His hand clamped over the woman's mouth before the cry could fully escape. With the other, he seized her and shoved her back into the street she had come from.
They both staggered, slamming against a wall.
She struggled with surprising strength, trying to free her mouth while striking him. But the muscles of her attacker were so tense they felt like stone.
Molly Brant tried to bite his hand, but failed. Her arms and legs flailed more violently. François tightened his grip.
"Shut up, damn it! Shut up!" he hissed through clenched teeth.
"MMMMPH!"
Her eyes burned with rage. If they could kill, François would already be nothing but ashes.
Each time she managed to pull away from the brick wall, François forced her back again. But at any moment, she could cry out.
He gritted his teeth.
The French spy knew speaking to her was useless. She would refuse to listen, no matter what he said to convince her.
Perhaps because she was Iroquois, though the two were nothing alike, he thought of Onatah. Tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them.
Very quickly, he freed his right hand and plunged it into his coat pocket. With the sound of tearing fabric, he pulled out a small knife, the one left to him by the former pirate. It trembled for a brief instant in his hand… and then he struck.
The blade sank into the woman's abdomen, and blood burst forth at once.
Her eyes widened, understanding without seeing what had just happened.
The blow had been poorly placed. She would not die immediately from the wound. But she would suffer.
Behind his hand, still pressed over Molly Brant's mouth, he felt a hot, strangled breath.
"Fuck… I… I'm sorry."
François pulled the blade free and stabbed the Iroquois woman again—higher, harder. Twice. Three times.
He felt her body weaken against him. She stopped struggling.
François released her.
As she collapsed onto the uneven pavement, a wet rattle escaped her.
François looked down at her at his feet, clutching her stomach as if trying to hold the blood inside. She tried to crawl away, but her legs refused to obey. She slipped and fell onto her side.
Breath short, thoughts chaotic, he watched the woman fight for every breath. The air suddenly felt suffocating. Breathing itself became painful.
His gaze fell to the bloodied blade trapped in his trembling fingers. He stepped back several paces, unsteady.
His heart pounded wildly in his chest, preventing him from thinking clearly. Everything had happened so fast. Nothing had been planned, nothing thought through.
Suddenly, time seemed to accelerate.
"D-damn…"
He swallowed hard and looked around.
No one was there... for now. But nothing guaranteed they hadn't been seen or heard.
François had to leave. Be as far away as possible when the body was discovered. And return to the tavern without arousing suspicion.
Broad Street seemed too risky. He considered taking a detour.
But as he was about to do so, he thought of something as he looked at the face of the woman he had just killed. He hesitated.
Then François crouched beside the lifeless body of the Iroquois woman and, with the tip of his knife, began to carve a cross into her forehead—a method everyone would recognize.
And since the real killer had begun terrorizing New York long before his arrival, he should not be suspected.
He quickly wiped his hands and the blade of his knife on the woman's dress, stood up, listened to the sounds of the street, and disappeared without wasting another second.
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The next day, the great colonial city was once again in turmoil.
This time, the killer had struck twice.