The snows had not yet hit the city, and as a result the ground was a cold slush under the wheels of the wagon as we drove in that evening. Shadows were long dark fingers against the wet ground, gleaming with mud and ice. Leaving the horse and wagon at a trusted stable, Connor and I made our way to the docks after asking the stable hand where we might find Sam Adams. I pulled my shawl over my head to block out the chill of the air.

We saw Adams at the same time; he was talking with three other men, each bundled up against the cold. We glanced at each other, and I whispered to Connor, "Should we interrupt?"

Connor shook his head and murmured back, "They might be talking about important matters."

Indeed, as we waited by the corner of a stinking fishery, one of Adams's accomplices, whom I recognised to be Paul Revere said: "Look: sanctions and demonstrations won't suffice, Sam. We need to act - and I'm talking about more than just a sternly-worded letter."

"I sympathise with your frustrations, gentlemen," Adams said when a few others grumbled in agreement, "but surely you can understand my reluctance to kick the hornet's nest."

"The Tories sting no matter what we do," Revere snapped. "Might as well make it count."

Adams visibly sighed, and he mouthed Lord, give me strength and raised his eyes to the heavens. As he looked around he caught sight of me and Connor, and his face filled with relief. "Ah, my friends," he said. "What brings you to Boston?"

I was glad to walk away from the fishery; though the winter did not bring a particularly plentiful catch, the stink of the fish had soaked through and permeated the rope nets and wooden tables. At my side, Connor said to Adams, "You."

A brief smile ghosted over Adams's mouth as he turned back to the men with whom he was speaking, splaying his hands helplessly. "Would you excuse us, fellows?"

We came no closer; Adams approached us and tucked his hands, pink with the cold, into his pockets. "Thank you," he said quietly. "That conversation was about to turn unpleasant. Now, what can I do for you?"

I said, "We were hoping you could help us to locate William Johnson."

"Of course." Adams stepped around a small crowd which had gathered at a corner to protest. "I'm heading to a meeting with some men who should be able to help. Why don't you come along?"

Riots and protests had become more common in the streets as of late as more people began to take a stand against taxes and slavery - two heavy issues. I'd seen slave auctions before, and lately the crowds that gathered by them were so violent and angry that the auctioneers were forced to leave. Abolitionist sentiment was growing rapidly, following the example of England: only in 1772 did England outlaw slave trade within her borders - the first country in the world to do such a thing, and slowly the Massachusetts courts were following suit.

"It's good to see people finally taking a stand against injustice," said Adams with a nod at the protesters.

"Says the man who owns a slave," Connor said rather sharply.

"Who, Surry?" Adams raised an eyebrow at the mention of her name. "I practice what I preach, my friend. She's not a slave but a free woman - at least on paper. Men's minds are not so easily turned. It's a tragedy that for all our progress, we still cling to such barbarism."

"Then speak out against it," I said and gestured to the people. "They do."

"We must focus first on defending our rights." He said it like it was a situation with natural superiority - like all people are equal but some people are more equal than others. It disgusted me. "When this is done," Adams continued, "we will have the luxury of addressing these other matters."

"You speak as though your condition is equal to that of the slaves. It is not." Connor's face revealed nothing, but had he been an animal he would have been lashing his tail and baring his teeth.

"Tell that to my neighbour, who is compelled to quarter British troops," huffed Adams. "Or to my friend, whose store was closed because he displeased the crown. The people here are no freer than Surry."

"You offer excuses instead of solutions," said Connor in a low voice. "All people should be equal, and not in turns."

"It's in turns, or not at all." Gesturing widely around at the people gathered in the slush and the ice, Adams went on: "We must compromise, however painful that may be. Try and solve all the world's problems at the same time and you'll wind up solving none at all."

I could tell Connor wasn't finished fighting his case - how could he be, when his people were some of the most oppressed in this this nation? I was sure he would have continued to argue had our attention not been drawn to a commotion between a group of redcoats and a rather angry French man.

"Hey," the French man snapped, leaning out of his first floor window to make obscene gestures at the soldiers below. "It's my home no matter what you thieves called taxmen say. If the gumps in parliament want to take my property, you tell them to sail across the pond and take it themselves."

"It's not open for discussion," the leading redcoat, the tax collector, fired back. "Now open this door, or these men will break it down."

Lip curled, the French man ducked away from his window for a few moments, much to the anger of the tax collector. He returned moments later with his chamber pot and, with a self-righteous grin, dumped its contents out into the street; the tax collector barely managed to dive out of the way as the contents splashed across the mud and ice.

"Bollocks," the tax collector cried in disgust. "We're coming in!" With his teeth bared fiercely, he slammed the butt of his musket into the window beside the French man's door. The glass cracked but did not shatter.

Within moments of the damage being done, the door swung open and the French man charged out, arms swinging, and tackled the tax collector off his porch and into the chamber pot puddle.

"I trust the mounting evidence is proof enough," muttered Adams.

"Continue on," said Connor. "We shall meet you at the Rolling Bear."

Already a crowd had formed a ring around the pair of fighting figures; the French man had the tax collector pinned down and was punching him repeatedly. No words passed between me and Connor before we pushed our way in to the circle. One of the redcoats tried to pry the French man from atop the leader, to no avail. Connor swiftly stepped in to pull the soldier off.

At this new display of conflict, two more redcoats whirled around to fend Connor off, thinking him a civilian. I carefully avoided stepping in the puddle of chamber pot goop and threw a punch at the nearest redcoat.

He staggered back, clutching his jaw, and the other redcoat whirled around, bayonet in hand. I ducked when he made to slice me with the blade and kicked his knees; as he collapsed I yanked the bayonet from his grip and swung it at him. I barely had time to register the impact of the heavy bayonet making contact with the man's head before I was grabbed from behind.

I sucked in a deep breath, widening my ribs as much as I could, and dug my elbows into the man's stomach behind me. He spluttered and his grip loosened; I used the opportunity swing around and shoot his foot.

At the sound of the gunshot the crowd scattered like ants, and as the smoke cleared I could see that the redcoats, too, were beginning to flee. I stepped back, showing my palms as the man I had been grappling with climbed to his feet and limped away. Connor watched them go, face unreadable.

The French man remained on his knees; his breaths turned to mist in the icy air. "Justice for once," he spat. "I dare the governor to send more."

Connor studied him for a moment: his red hair was damp and flat on his head, and pulled back from a lined face with a grubby kerchief. "You all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine." The man waved off Connor's guarded concern. "It's not my first dance," he continued. "For all their teeth and claws, these little foxes, they fight like puppies." He hauled himself to his feet and dusted off his clothes; he had mercifully managed to avoid the puddle. He held out a hand to us both. "Thank you, my friends. I'd buy you an ale but I'm expected somewhere else."

As he left us, casting furtive glances over his shoulder every so often, I turned to Connor and said, "So where are we meeting Adams?"

"Do you ever listen?" he huffed, reaching out to straighten my shawl, which had fallen askew in the scuffle.

I whacked his hand away. "You know where we're going?"

He made a face at me. "Obviously. I should hate for you to think me a halfwit."

"I think so anyway," I muttered.

He pretended to ignore me; I noted that his navigation skills had improved significantly as he led me easily through the winding streets to the Rolling Bear. He gave me a smug, self-righteous grin as he held the door open for me. The tavern was deliciously warm inside, and when I glanced around I saw a blazing hearth; I wished I could go to it, that I might warm my hands.

As Connor gently closed the door behind us, Adams called: "You two. I'd like you to meet some like-minded friends. The owner of this fine establishment, William Molineux–" he gestured to a grey-haired, aristocratic looking man sitting beside him at the bar, who waved at the mention of his name– "and the manager and chef of this fine establishment, Stephane Chapheau."

A few beats passed before the door to the back room opened and the French man poked his head out at the mention of his name. When I recognised him I raised my eyebrows, and he met my eyes with a wide grin.

"Ah!" he cried. "This fine pair and I just had a ball with some redcoats enforcing some taxmen outside my home."

"Glad to see you're already acquainted," Adams said as Chapheau shook our hands and learnt our names.

"The collectors grow bolder and more forceful," Molineux said. "Something we must address, Samuel."

"Then let us raise a banner." Adams raised a fist. "Something to let the people know that they are not alone. The docks are an angry place of late, protesters picketing the latest shipments of British tea. The eyes of the city are on that stage."

"A Bostonian without his tea is a dangerous beast!" joked Chapheau.

Molineux remained somber. "William Johnson is smuggling the tea off the ships," he said. "One of his men tried to sell me this." He pulled a small wooden box from his pocket and opened the lid to show a ration of tea. "A sample of what I refused, but it's from those ships - no mistaking the stamp. He's charging a king's ransom. Must be he's making a mint off those who buy it."

"Where is he now?" said Connor, lacing his fingers together.

"I've never met the man," Molineux said.

"May I ask why you two seek him?" asked Adams.

"He intends to purchase the land upon which my village stands," Connor said, "without the consent of my people."

"No doubt the revenue from his little smuggling endeavour is financing the acquisition," Adams grumbled. "A tax enforced on tea grants a boon to smugglers. I'll wager the same men who levy the taxes are selling the tea. A stage requires a spectacle - and I may know the play." He thought for a few moments, then his eyes brightened and he addressed us:  "Head to the docks and see to the destruction of the tea. That should send a message."

I met Connor's eyes for a heartbeat as he held the door open for me, and I slipped outside once more. The cold wasn't quite as much of a shock, given that I had not grown used to the warmth of the tavern.

"Why can't those old piss-pots destroy the tea themselves?" I grumbled to Connor. "We've only just arrived here."

"Hush," he said, his dark eyes lifting to something just behind me. "I might see an opportunity."

I had scarcely turned when a man, carrying a wooden crate, turned a corner and began to walk in our direction. When faced with a woman and an Indian, he assumed he was the superior being here and expected us, as lesser people, to move aside.

Whatever idea Connor had had, I trusted it. He lay a light hand on my upper back to spur me into a walk; neither of us glanced in the direction of the approaching man nor did we acknowledge that he was there.

When Connor bumped shoulders with said man he did so rather roughly, causing the man to drop his crate. The wood cracked open and the goods it carried spilled into the mud. Connor didn't look back. "Pardon me," he said.

"Come on, mate," the man groaned behind us.

Stopping dead in his tracks, I hardly had time to look up at Connor before my friend turned and stalked back towards the man, who, realising that he was in Connor's line of fire, took a few steps back. The tip of Connor's shoe brushed one of the spilled goods and he deliberately looked down, which gave the man a chance to flee. When I got to Connor's side I, too, looked down at what had spilled: piles and piles of tea.

Connor bent down and picked some up, offering it to me half-jokingly. "Want some?"

I wasn't joking. "Well, if it's free," I said, stuffing it in to my pocket. "You are a genius, my friend."

"I know," he said with a rather angelic smile.

Destroying the tea was easy; Connor produced a spill from his pocket ("I didn't know you smoked," I'd said, to which he'd replied, "I don't.") and lit the end of it with one of the hanging lanterns by the pier and we set about lighting the barrels of gunpowder which had been stacked by the dock after the last shipment a few hours ago.

After that was finished we left the dock, stinking of smoke and gunpowder, though warmer now as the need to run for cover bested the winter cold. I had half a mind to buy both of us a hot chocolate (after all, we did deserve it) when something made me pause.

At the corner of a building, shivering violently in the cold, were two children. Their grimy hands were outstretched before them; their lips were blue and trembling. The younger one, hardly older than five, huddled closer to the side of his older brother, who lay a thin arm around his shoulders. Someone had given them a grubby blanket to shelter under.

A man passed by, using his hat as a wind blocker, and even where I stood I could hear his pocket jingling with coins. Keeping one arm tightly around his shivering brother, the elder child reached out his hand a little higher, and I could see his lips move as he asked for money.

"Get away from me, fucking rat," the man snapped, slapping the child's hand away.

As the man left, I tapped Connor's arm once and approached the pair of children, unwinding my shawl from around my shoulders. I knelt before them and wrapped the wool around the youngest, who was suffering the worst with the cold, and against all better judgement I kissed his little forehead. The pair only looked up at me with wide, tired eyes.

When I got back to Connor, the cold quite severe against my now-bare neck, I said quietly, "Before we return I'd like to do something."

He didn't say anything but I knew he knew as I led him to the market street to see what I could find. This late in winter there were no fresh fruits or vegetables for sale, only a variety of salted meats and dried fruits, but further up the street I saw fresh fish on ice.

I emptied my pockets of money and gave half to Connor. "Buy some of these," I said. "I'll get fish."

I left him there at the market stalls and made my own way to the fish stalls, counting through the money in my hand. Unsure whether a pair of young children would be able to successfully light a fire and cook a fish, I bought only one, but it was from a fresh batch and its scales were still gleaming.

By the time I returned to Connor I was shivering, for though there was no snow the air seemed twice as sharp, or perhaps it was just me mourning the loss of my shawl. But when I saw those children again, wrapped in that wool (in our absence the younger had shared with his brother), my heart ached.

They both recognised me, but only the elder child was brave enough to speak. "Thank you," he said.

I smiled as tenderly as I could and approached the pair again, this time with Connor by my side. "I have no money for you–"

(This was true, as I had spent most of it on food)

"I don't want to take your money, miss," the boy said. "You've done enough for us."

"–but we have this instead." I held out the fish to them, which was wrapped in soggy paper, and Connor offered his own bag of food.

The boy leaned forward, keeping his arm around his brother, and peered at what we offered. "Are we allowed to pick one?" he asked timidly.

"They're all for you," I said, and in that moment I would have endured any pain, any hardship, if it meant that these children would smile like they did.

"Holy donkey," the younger murmured, his words broken up by shivers.

"Holy donkey," I repeated quietly and placed the bags down before them. "Now, eat these up, all right? Don't let any bullies take them from you."

"Thank you," the elder boy said again, and I saw how close he was to tears. Having nothing to give, he held out a dirty hand to us both. "Thank you," he said again as we gently shook his hand. "Thank you."

When we left the children we were in a subdued silence for a few moments. As evening began to close in the shadows grew longer and colder, and as the ground slowly got darker it became more and more difficult to see the safe patches to walk on.

Eventually I shivered. "Can't wait to get back to the Rolling Bear," I muttered. "It's bloody cold."

"That was a really beautiful thing you did back there," Connor said quietly.

I smiled at the ground. "Just doing my moral duty as a citizen of America."

"It is more than that," Connor said. "I have never seen anyone treat people like those children with such. . . tenderness."

My smile faltered. "They don't deserve it," I said sadly. "None of it. Surry doesn't deserve it. You don't deserve it."

His own smile hid a sadness I couldn't bear to look at. "It is funny, is it not?" he murmured. "Those who deserve the worst receive the best, and those who deserve the best receive all of the world's damnation."

We faded into silence again, permeated only by the soft buzz of the city as she prepared for the night, and the sound of our own footsteps on the frozen ground. A scrawny cat tried to slink by but I insisted on stopping to pet it.

Eventually I began to shiver so much that my shaking hand scared the cat away. "What's a girl got to do to get a warm hug around here?" I muttered.

When I stood up Connor was already opening his coat with a resigned look on his face. I took his invitation and nestled against his side; he pulled the coat around me so we both shared it, and his hand came to rest on my shoulder.

"In the name of body heat," he said.

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled and left it at that. I could feel his heart beating by my head and it soothed me: to know that he, too, had a heart; that he, too, was human. He was my friend, and sometimes it was easy to forget that, underneath it all, he was a person, too. Sometimes it is easy for one to forget that the world is filled with other people living their own lives; listening to his heart beating, then, reminded me that while I was living my life, he was right by my side living his. Very humbling thoughts: to know that one is not the centre of the universe no matter how hard one may try.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye. His eyes were fixed on his feet as though he were counting his steps. Grey light danced across his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the slope of his nose. Winter had dulled the rich golden tones from his hair, which the summer sun had bleached; winter had dulled the light from his eyes, too - though perhaps that was only due to recent events.

"You look quite pretty," I told him.

He looked back to me then. "What am I, a woman?"

I grinned, and when he smiled back my stomach swooped; like fireworks had gone off inside me for just a moment, but then it was gone and I was walking through the frost-bitten street with Connor. . . like I had felt nothing.

"Pity I've no money left, now," I said to break the silence. "I wanted to buy us some hot chocolate. We deserve it."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "Milk or water?"

"Milk, I think," I said, but Connor winced. "You don't drink milk?"

He shook his head and dug a hand into his pocket before handing me a few notes. "No. Buy yourself one. Take it as a gift from me."

I needed no telling twice and steered us towards a shop where I might buy some. Chocolate was an expensive commodity (it was shipped specially all the way from Mexico!), and I had only had it once before in my childhood, but the memory had stuck with me ever since.

I ordered two drinks but only one with milk, and when I had paid I gave one of the steaming cups to Connor. "So what's the beef between you and milk, anyway?" I said.

He sipped his drink. "I will be sick all over your dress and I will have no regrets about it. None."

"Is this just spite talking?" I teased.

"No," he said. "No one in my village drinks it, as we do not keep cattle. As a result, we physically cannot drink it. No tolerance."

"Poor darling." I tried to pat his head, but in my awkward position I only reached his cheek. "I can tell you're really mourning not having the opportunity to drink milk."

"Oh, absolutely. I cry myself to sleep about it."

"Really?" I scrunched up my face at him.

The look he gave me was utterly blank. "Do I look like the sort of person who cries himself to sleep?"

I considered this for a moment. "No," I said. "You look like the type who makes other people cry themselves to sleep."

He grinned again, and a flash of sunlight illuminated the bone necklace at the base of his throat. "Good," he said. "I should hate to be disappointing."

"You'll have to work on it," I said. "I'll be really disappointed now if that fire is out at the Rolling Bear. I think I might even cry."

"Then hurry up," he said. "We should get there before that happens, and avoid a public spectacle. You will only embarrass me."

"Fine," I huffed. "Walk faster, then. I want to get there this side of Christmas."

"I hope the fire is out," he muttered.

"What?" I demanded. He didn't reply but he did grin, which, I suppose, was an answer in itself. But I would skin him if the fire was out after all.