Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive by T. Davis Bunn

with the nightmare for company, as the curate had suggested. Perhaps it was only now that he was strong enough to understand it for what it was. So Falconer began his morning as he did all dawns when the nightmare’s aftertaste still lingered. He prayed for strength to shoulder his burdens once more and to do the will of the One he sought desperately to serve.
    The dawn was free of humidity and heat. Falconer shivered as he dressed, not so much from being cold as simply from the contrast. He walked into the kitchen and lit the fire, set a kettle on to boil, then stepped into the courtyard behind the emporium. He breathed deeply of the remarkably cool air. He stayed where he was until the kettle began to sing. He made himself a pot of sailor’s tea, which required a heaping fistful of leaves. The brew he poured through the sieve and into his mug was as black as tar. To this he added a double spoonful of molasses from a clay jar set beside the stove. He walked to the doorway and stood on the top step, looking out over the courtyard.
    As the light strengthened, he noted a pair of perfect magnolias against the building’s shadows. Mockingbirds trilled such a variety of melodies it was hard to follow the pattern. The jays were awake now, and the crows. Falconer could see that the coffee shop, through which he had passed the previous day, had a carefully tended garden surrounding its two bowed windows. A tall hedge of some flowering shrub blocked the patrons’ view of the outbuildings set in the remainder of the courtyard. There was an open-sided shed for packing freight and building crates. Another with slits for windows served as a miniature drying barn. Falconer could smell the old scent of roasted coffee in the still air. It was an altogetheragreeable space, filled with the fragrances of fresh-sawn wood and hard work.
    A voice from behind startled Falconer from his reverie. “I would imagine the view must be rather confining after your sea-bound vistas.”
    Falconer shook his head at this family’s ability to approach him unawares. “I have been landlocked for several years now, though rarely this far from the sea.”
    Gareth Powers eased himself into a seat by the stove. “Doing what, might I ask?”
    “Running a ship chandlery.”
    “Ah.” He shifted closer to the flames, clearly finding the dawn’s chill not to his liking. “Was this work part of your mission?”
    “In a sense. A merchant hears all manner of news, often earlier than others.” Falconer drained his mug. “I am in your debt, sir, for granting me berth here.”
    “You will repay your debt if you would serve me a draught of whatever you are drinking.”
    “It is but sailor’s tea.”
    “It smells like an elixir, this time of day.”
    “That would be the sulfur in the molasses. Sailors search out whatever sweet they can find for the day’s first mug.”
    “Well do I know it.”
    Falconer bent to his task of preparing another mug. “You were navy?”
    “Infantry.”
    “American?”
    “British.” Gareth nodded his thanks when the mug was handed over, took a great sip, and sighed contentedly. “My daughter is very taken with you, I must say.”
    “And I with her.” Falconer settled into a chair across the table from Gareth. “She has the most remarkable . . .” He stopped, unable to select from the list that sprang to his mind. Smile, heart, gaze, intelligence, spirit.
    “Indeed.” Gareth started to say something, then turnedto look out the open door. He finally settled on, “Do you ever feel as though God is not guiding the vessel of life with a sincere hand?”
    For Falconer, the words distilled the moment down to some hidden essence. “Were I not afraid of blasphemy, sir, I would wonder it very much.”
    “I set off on a journey from England that was meant to last just nine weeks. Reginald Langston, the master of both this house and the emporium, is also owner of four ships. The one at anchor is especially swift. We had