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“I’m Briggs,” said the only other occupant of the table. He was a tall man with a mop of shockingly red hair and a friendly disposition. He stood to shake my hand and offered a genuine smile. I nodded to him.“So, then,” I said to the group at large. “You’re Patrick’s browbeaters, are you?”

They each stilled completely in the act of lounging or drinking and stared at me, speechless. Then Donny broke, snorting into his glass. Scottie followed, then Briggs, and finally Patrick.

“What tales have you been tellin’ her?” Donny asked Patrick. “Ain’t you s’posed to be convertin’ her toourside?”

Patrick’s eyes met mine. I hoped he couldn’t see me swallow reflexively. “She’ll come round,” he said simply, assuredly.

“So, what are you then, Nina Harrow?” Donny continued. He had Patrick’s devilish charm, his confidence, but he was boyishly limp-limbed and languid, unburdened by the same duty his brother was.

I looked furtively to those patrons closest, lowered my voice, and said, “A Charmer.” I did not elaborate as to the medium.

“Blimey. Another one, Pat?”

Patrick merely took a deep drag, but my attention darted between them, perplexed. “Another one?”

“Pardon,” Donny continued, ignoring me. “But I don’t give a figgy for your station. I meant whatareyou? Are you beautiful? Married? Someone tell me if I should be romancin’ her—”

“Not unless you want to spend the night in a canal, Donny,” Patrick said evenly.

“Ha!” Scottie barked. “He couldn’t charm a fish if he were a worm.”

Donny scowled. “Just so you know,” he said to me, finding my hand on the table, “I’ve got much more than a worm. It’s more the size of a—”

“Shut the fuck up, Donny,” Patrick groaned, stubbing out his cigarette. “You said you were goin’ after the lads from now on.”

“That’s not true. I’m happy to tip my cap at anythin’—”

“God almighty. Let’s get this debacle over with,” Patrick said, standing abruptly.

“But it’s not half seven, Patty,” Briggs said, leaning back to view an old grandfather clock by the wall, its glass cracked.

Patrick looked out over the packed pub. I followed his sights, to where a woman was beginning to climb to a tabletop and two men were tussling, though the lack of space made them unable to do more than grab each other’s ears. The piano playing had ceased so that it could be pushed to the wall and allow more room.

“Close enough,” he said. Then he walked to the bar. I watched him talk briefly with the woman pouring pints from a tapped keg. I saw her shoulders rise and fall on a sigh, and then she dragged a large brass bell from beneath the counter.

As soon as the bell began to clang, the noise died.

The fighting men froze mid-headlock. The woman on the table awkwardly crouched down, unsure what to do next.

Patrick took a swig of liquor straight from a bottle, closed his eyes briefly, where few could see him galvanize himself, and then climbed atop the bar.

No one clapped. No one called to him. There was only the quiet clinking of glasses and taut anticipation.

“Couple of messages,” Patrick said, apparently with no other prelude on offer. “First—a shipment of goods and produce arrived this afternoon. Our market tables will be full tomorrow.” A cheer. Fists pounded the air. “But”—Patrick called, and the crowd silenced like a school of admonished children—“if we see the same chaos that ensued last month, some will go without. Do you hear me, Randerson?” Patrick looked over at a man sliding halfway down his stool in an attempt to melt into the floor. “If you start breakin’ the queue, Scottie will haul you out. Wait your fuckin’ turn!”

The man nodded into his drink. “Aye. Sorry, Pat,” he muttered.

“There was a hawker intercepted at the market earlier today. His wares were thrown into the canals. Anyone with information about the origins of the…bluffhe was carrying will be handsomely thanked. And if need be…” And here Patrick paused. “We will conduct another search, home to home, to find all those in possession and the people responsible for producing it.”

A collective titter rippled across the crowd. A few women raised their eyebrows at one another.

Patrick ignored the rousing.

“These are desperate times,” he said, walking across the bar top. “Our miners—many of your loved ones—are still belowground each day in places we can’t reach, doing what is necessary for the Union. But despite the pressure, we won’t fold to the strain on our backs!” He held up his pint, matched by every other patron in the pub.

“They haven’t figured us out yet, have they?” Patrick shouted, the cords of his neck straining.

“NO!” the crowd roared, and I jumped in my chair as it was jostled from behind.