“A lot of single rich men live here—ones who are too good to stay in a boardinghouse but haven’t yet settled down enough to buy a home,” Grant explained. “Miller’s place is at that end, on the top floor.”

   “And him?” I asked, pointing at the man with the pipe.

   “Watchman. Lots of these houses have them. He’s too lazy to go around back, but he’ll keep an eye on the front doors, which is—unfortunately—where we need to go.”

   “How do we get past him?”

   “That’s where you come in. Assuming you haven’t used up all your charm for the night.” The way he said “charm” made it sound like he questioned if I ever had any at all.

   “Is that what Silas would do if he was helping you?”

   “He’d distract in a different way. Maybe flash some credentials and claim he was chasing a criminal.”

   “That sounds a lot more dignified than what I have to do.”

   “We all work with the gifts we have,” said Grant. “Mine is picking locks. Go talk to him. Keep him facing away from the doors. Once I’m in, finish up and go around to the back of the building. I’ll meet you there.”

   Mystified as to how that part would work, I doggedly set out on my task and headed toward the watchman. He straightened up, startled at my approach, but relaxed when he got a better look in one of the streetlamps. Probably because he thought I was some meek, unthreatening woman.

   “Excuse me, sir,” I said. I used a lower-class accent, similar to Tamsin’s natural one. “Do you know where Benjamin Pierce lives?”

   The man, middle aged with a crooked nose, scratched his forehead. Behind him, I saw Grant creep toward the door at the end of the building, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. “Never heard of him.”

   That was because I’d made Benjamin Pierce up. “They said this was the place. Corner of Pine and West. White house.”

   “You must’ve got it wrong.” He eyed me suspiciously. “And what business does a girl like you have visiting a man this late at night?”

   I put on an affronted look. “Honest work. His housekeeper’s out of town and hired me to come tidy up his place.”

   Grant was still working on the lock. So much for gifts.

   “This late?”

   “He doesn’t like to be around when it’s cleaned and had me come while he’s at some fancy party,” I replied bitterly. “You think I want to be out this late for one stupid copper? But a girl’s got to survive.”

   “We all do,” the watchman said sympathetically. “But you shouldn’t be out on your own. Never know who’s lurking in the dark.”

   I knew Grant was in the dark, still unable to open the door.

   “My pa’s out helping down at the wharf. He would’ve taken me if he could.”

   “Well, I’ll take you over to East and Pine,” said the man. “You probably mixed them up.”

   Panic hit me. I needed to stay around here, not head off to some other part of town. “Couldn’t let you, sir. What if one of your masters came by and you weren’t here? You’d lose your job.”

   His hesitation told me that was true. And at that moment, I saw Grant open the door and slip inside.

   “I’ll be careful,” I told the watchman. “I know how to stay out of sight—a girl’s got to do that too. You’re probably right, and I just mixed up the streets. Thanks for your help.”

   I hurried away and walked down Pine until I couldn’t see him. Circling around, I made my way to the back of Miller’s town house, which faced another building and created a narrow alley in between. The windows at street level were barred, but the upper ones weren’t.

   “Took you long enough,” a voice said from above. Looking up, I saw Grant watching me from a second-story window, arms crossed on the sill as though he’d been lounging there all night.

   “I’m the one who took a long time? You should’ve let me pick the lock while you asked for directions.”

   Grant’s response was to toss down a rope. I’d climbed plenty of times on my family’s farm and easily made my way up. Two small candles were lit inside, and he handed me one. “Only light we can use without being seen. Search everything, no matter how unlikely. If he’s got something here, it’s not going to be anywhere obvious.”

   We still examined the expected places: desk and bookshelves. There were papers and ledgers, but all were clearly marked accounts of army transactions. From there, it was odder locations, like drawers and bureaus. Finally, under Miller’s mattress, I found a single piece of paper.

   “Got something,” I called. “More accounting. But no clear explanation.”

   Grant came up behind me and peered over my shoulder. “That first column is ship names. Those dates go back to last summer, probably when they came into port. I’m sure customs records will confirm Miller was the agent who did the inspections.”

   “Five yards oilcloth, ten pounds tin . . .” I tapped the column next to the dates. “Cargo?”

   “Stolen cargo. Small amounts, siphoned off the top, probably not significant enough for their owners to notice or protest. It’d be easy for Miller to make that happen, especially with any shipments that sat in the customs houses for a while.” Grant’s eyes narrowed. “I bet someone noticed, though. Probably figured their goods were stolen by sailors, not a customs inspector. We’ll have to go through the official records for any filed complaints.”

   “Look at the names next to those. Craft is listed five times.”

   Grant nodded along. “Because he’s one of the couriers who carries off the contraband. Those were his assignments.”