Chapter Text
November 1770 - Boston Harbor- the docks
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Boston smelled like salt and smoke.
Jeremiah Baker noticed it before anything else—the sharp brine of the harbor and the sweeter bite of burning coal, as if the city itself had been struck like flint and kept smoldering out of stubbornness. The air clung to his clothes and hair, worked into the seams of his coat, and no amount of dignified posture could keep it out.
He stood at the edge of the wharf with his gloved hands folded behind his back, watching men haul barrels and crates like ants. A ship creaked against its ropes, restless. In the distance, the masts were a forest of dark lines against a bruised sky.
England had never felt so loud. Not in sound—Jeremiah had lived among carriages and voices and ballroom laughter.
Boston’s noise was different. Raw. Practical. Men shouting to be heard over wind and water. Hammers striking wood. The bark of orders that didn’t come from officers but from the work itself.
A gull shrieked overhead.
Jeremiah flinched anyway.
He told himself it was the cold.
The packet of papers tucked beneath his arm felt heavier than it should. Deeds. Letters of introduction. A list of names he didn’t recognize yet but was supposed to trust: a steward, a carpenter, a clerk. Useful people. Necessary people.
No one on that list knew the truth about him.
Jeremiah adjusted his cravat, as if tightening it could hold his insides together.
A man bumped his shoulder passing by, muttering an apology that sounded like an insult. Jeremiah stepped back, giving space. He could already feel himself doing what he always did—shrinking his real thoughts until they fit inside polite silence.
The wharf was no place to be delicate. He knew that.
And yet he had come anyway, like an insect crawling toward flame.
“Mr. Baker, I presume?”
Jeremiah turned. “I am.” he replied
The colonial official stood there, ruddy-cheeked and impatient, his coat struggling to look important in a city that did not care about coats.
Beside him stood a man Jeremiah did not recognize at first—not because he blended in, but because Jeremiah’s mind didn’t know where to place him.
He was not dressed like the other men on the docks.
Buckskin leggings, worn soft with use. A long-sleeved trade shirt, plain, belted at the waist. A wool cloak slung over one shoulder, the kind of garment that looked like it belonged to the weather rather than fashion.
His hair was long and dark, drawn back with leather cord, but loose strands framed his face. His features were sharp in a way that suggested patience and steel had made a bargain.
His gaze went right through Jeremiah’s coat and found the man inside.
Jeremiah felt suddenly, absurdly, exposed.
the official spoke again. “This is—” the official began, then paused, as if he’d forgotten the name, as if names were not important here.
“Your guide. He’ll show you your property and the surrounding area. You’ll need it, if you want to keep from getting lost.”
The guide didn’t smile. He simply inclined his head once, polite as a blade.
Jeremiah swallowed, looking at both of the strangers “Thank you.”
The guide spoke, and his voice was lower than Jeremiah expected—steady, with the clipped precision of someone who chose words carefully.
“You do not know the land,” he said. “So you do not know danger.”
Jeremiah’s throat tightened. “I understand.”
The guide’s eyes flicked briefly over the papers under Jeremiah’s arm, then back to his face. “No,” he said. “You do not.”
The official cleared his throat loudly. “That’ll be all. He’s been paid. You…”
he pointed at Jeremiah. “best listen to him. People disappear in these woods.”
Then the official was gone, swallowed by dockworkers and barrels and urgency, leaving Jeremiah alone with a stranger who looked like the land itself had decided to speak. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Jeremiah realized with a jolt that he was waiting—waiting to be told what to do, where to stand, how to behave properly.
The guide watched him do it.
Jeremiah forced himself to straighten, shoulders back.
“My name is Jeremiah Baker,” he said finally, as if introductions could build the bridge between them.
The guide paused, then answered with a name Jeremiah didn’t recognize, spoken in a language that flowed like water over stone. “Kitchi Nashoba.”
Jeremiah blinked. “Kit-chee Naashowbah..” he tried sounding out the strange name, the words sounding difficult to him. “I’m sorry…I..”
The guide’s mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. More like amusement at a predictable thing. “You may call me what they call me here,” he said.
“And what is that?”
The guide hesitated. The briefest flicker of something private passed behind his eyes, gone too quickly to name, and a hint of disgust in his tone.
“Elias,” he said at last. It didn’t sound like it belonged in his mouth.
But Jeremiah nodded obediently. “Elias.”
The name settled between them like a compromise.
Kitchi turned without waiting and began walking away from the wharf.
Jeremiah followed.
They passed through narrow streets where houses leaned close like gossiping neighbors. Children ran barefoot despite the cold. A woman in a doorway watched Jeremiah’s coat and rings with the cool appraisal of someone deciding whether he was worth hating yet.
Men in taverns stared too long.
Jeremiah kept his gaze forward, pretending not to notice the way the city looked at him—an Englishman, a landowner, a soft thing wrapped in expensive fabric.
He had learned long ago that attention could be dangerous, and not only for reasons his family would name.
Kitchi walked at a pace that forced Jeremiah to either hurry or fall behind.
Jeremiah hurried.
The city thinned. Buildings gave way to scrub and trees.
The air changed again, less smoke and more damp earth, the smell of leaves pressed into mud. Jeremiah’s boots were already dirty.
He didn’t know why that felt like a betrayal.
After a while, Kitchi slowed and gestured with his chin toward a line of trees.
“Here,” he said.
Jeremiah looked. “This is my land?”
Kitchi’s eyes stayed on the trees. “The paper says it is,” he replied.
Jeremiah’s fingers tightened on the strap of his bag. “It was purchased—”
Kitchi glanced at him then, and the look stopped the words in Jeremiah’s mouth like a hand over a candle flame.
“From who?” Kitchi asked quietly.
Jeremiah swallowed hard.
He had answers for Parliament. For dinner tables. For men like his father.
He had no answer for this man.
“I… honestly don’t know,” Jeremiah admitted.
Kitchi’s expression didn’t change. But something in him went still, as if a door had closed softly. “That is the first true thing you’ve said,” he replied.
Jeremiah felt the sting of it, not like insult, but like honesty.
They walked deeper into the trees. The ground sloped. A small stream cut across their path. Elias stepped over it without breaking pace. Jeremiah hesitated, then followed, nearly slipping.
Elias caught his sleeve, steadying him with a grip that was firm but not rough.
Jeremiah’s breath hitched at the contact—at how simple it was, how unashamed.
Kitchi released him immediately, as if he’d felt the reaction, But his eyes lingered for half a second too long.
Jeremiah found himself staring back.
Something passed between them—quiet recognition, the kind you couldn’t explain, only feel.
Kitchi looked away first. “Your house is there,” he said, pointing through the trees.
A small cabin came into view, plain and sturdy, smoke curling faintly from the chimney. It wasn’t the grand estate Jeremiah had imagined when he’d left England, but It was a beginning.
Jeremiah stood at the edge of the clearing and felt something unexpected loosen in his chest.
Kitchi watched him with that same steady gaze. “You will learn,” Elias said. “If you want to live here.”
Jeremiah nodded, voice rough. “Will you come tomorrow?”
Kitchi hesitated. Jeremiah saw it—the calculation, the caution, the weight of saying yes to a man who held paper claims over the earth.
Then gave a small, almost reluctant nod. “Yes,” he said. “I will come.”
Jeremiah exhaled, relief sharper than it should have been.
Kitchi turned to leave.
On impulse—before he could think better—Jeremiah said, “Thank you.”
Kitchi stopped. He didn’t look back at Jeremiah. His voice carried through the trees, calm as ever. “Do not thank me yet,” he said. “You do not know what it costs.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by the forest with the ease of someone returning to himself.
Jeremiah stood alone in the clearing with his new land, his new cabin, and the first crack in the life he’d been pretending to want.
Kitchi Nashoba returned at dawn.
Jeremiah knew it was dawn only because the light in the cabin shifted from gray to something faintly gold, and because the wind off the trees changed its sound—less night-creak, more morning-breath.
The fire in the hearth had died hours ago, leaving the room cold enough that Jeremiah could see his own exhale.
He had slept badly.
Not for lack of comfort—there was a bed, small but clean, and he had blankets enough.
It was the silence that kept waking him. England was never truly silent. Even in the country there had been distant wheels, the murmur of servants, the constant presence of other people. Here, the quiet felt watchful.
Jeremiah dressed carefully anyway. Linen shirt, waistcoat, coat.
He tied his cravat the way he’d been taught and then loosened it, annoyed at himself for caring.
He had barely finished when there was a single knock—one firm rap, no hesitation, like Elias didn’t believe in knocking twice.
Jeremiah opened the door.
Kitchi stood on the threshold with damp hair and a bundle slung over one shoulder. Morning mist clung to his cloak.
He looked like he’d been awake for hours already, as if sleep were an unnecessary luxury. His eyes swept over Jeremiah’s clothes—coat, waistcoat, polished buckles—and the faintest flicker of something crossed his face.
Not mockery, but assessment.
“You will ruin those shoes,” Kitchi said.
Jeremiah blinked. “Good morning.”
Kitchi’s mouth twitched. “Good morning.” He held out a pair of boots.
They were plain. Worn but sturdy. The leather had been softened by use, not cracked by neglect.
Jeremiah stared. “I—these are yours.”
“For today,” Kitchi said. “If you keep your own boots, you will fall and break your ankle. Then you will die.”
Jeremiah’s throat tightened. “That’s a bit dramatic.”
Kitchi leaned in slightly, his expression calm as a river stone. “You do not know how to be alive here yet.”
Jeremiah took the boots and when his fingers brushed Kitchi’s he felt that quick shock of contact, the small jolt of being touched without ceremony.
Kitchi didn’t flinch. He simply released the boots and turned away.
“Come,” he said.
No more instruction, Just expectation. and Jeremiah followed.
They walked into the trees behind the cabin, away from the clearing, where the ground rose and fell like a body breathing.
The forest smelled of wet bark and leaf mold and something sharp—pine, perhaps.
Kitchi moved ahead at an easy pace, but Jeremiah could tell it was a test.
He wasn’t hurrying; he was seeing how Jeremiah managed.
Jeremiah managed poorly at first.
Twigs snapped under his feet. He stepped where he shouldn’t.
He tried to avoid puddles and ended up in deeper mud.
Twice he nearly slipped on slick roots.
Kitchi didn’t laugh. He didn’t offer a hand either.
He simply slowed enough to keep Jeremiah within sight, as if that was all the kindness he would allow himself.
After a while Jeremiah’s breathing became steadier. His steps grew quieter.
He began watching the ground the way Kitchi did, not just looking at it—reading it. Noticing the way leaves lay differently where someone had passed, how a patch of earth looked disturbed.
They stopped near a small stream. “Drink,” Kitchi said.
Jeremiah sat by the riverside, then remove his gloves.
“I am thirsty.” he said quietly. He drank deeply, cupping his hands in the cool water.
Though now he felt a different kind of thirst as he looked at the strange and beautiful man next to him.
Kitchi broke a slight smile, barely readable.
Jeremiah dabbled his mouth with his kerchief gently.
“Pardon me if I seem rude, but what was your name again? if we are to get to know each other, I think it is only right that I call you by your proper name if that is all right.”
The man tilted his head and looked at him. really looked.
“My people call me Kitchi Nashoba . It means strong wolf in your language.”
Jeremiah rolled the strange sounding name around in his mouth, trying to pronounce it. “I’m sorry. I am afraid that I shall have to get used to that.
May I call you Kit?”
Kitchi frowned. “If you must.”
Jeremiah flinched, noting the displeasure in his tone. “Very well. I shall call you Strong Wolf then, at least until I begin to learn your language.”
Kitchi nodded. “That is fair.”
Kitchi watched him for a moment longer, as though measuring something unseen. Then he turned back toward the stream, crouching easily and trailing his fingers through the water.
“You speak with care,” he said. “That is not common among your people.” He looked at Jeremiah sideways, studying him.
Jeremiah felt heat rise to his face. “I try,” he admitted. “But I fail often enough, I am sure.”
Kitchi huffed a quiet laugh. It surprised Jeremiah — it was soft, brief, and gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Failing means you are still learning,” Kitchi said. “Many men stop.”
They stood there a while, listening to the water run over stone.
Jeremiah found himself searching for something to say, then realizing he did not need to fill the silence. It was… comfortable. That in itself felt dangerous.
“Strong Wolf,” he tried, the words awkward but sincere.
Kitchi glanced at him, one brow lifting slightly.
Jeremiah cleared his throat. “It suits you,” he said. “You walk like nothing startles you.”
Kitchi’s gaze drifted to the trees. “Wolves watch before they move.”
“And you?” Jeremiah asked. “Do you watch me?”
Kitchi hesitated. “Yes.”
The honesty of it struck him harder than any pretty lie could have.
Jeremiah swallowed, suddenly aware of his own heartbeat, loud in his ears.
“Do I… disappoint?” he asked quietly.
Kitchi turned fully toward him now. “No,” he said. “You confuse me.”
Jeremiah laughed weakly. “I have that effect on people.”
Kitchi studied him again, not unkindly. “You carry many rules inside you.”
Jeremiah looked down at his gloved hands. “They were put there early.”
“You can remove them,” Kitchi said. “One by one.”
Jeremiah looked up. “And if I don’t know how?”
Kitchi stepped closer — not touching, but near enough that Jeremiah could feel his warmth. “Then I will show you.”
The words were simple. The meaning was not.
Jeremiah let out a breath as Kitchi moved closer. His chest tightened and he felt a rush of adrenaline as the native man studied him. “I will trust you to teach me the ways of this land.”
A smile crossed Kitchi’s bronze face. “Good.”
It was not a wide smile. Not the kind meant to charm. It was small and honest, the sort that came from somewhere deeper than politeness.
Jeremiah found himself holding onto it longer than he should, memorizing it like a secret.
“Then listen,” Kitchi said, straightening. “First lesson.”
He gestured toward the trees. “This land does not belong to you. Not to me either. We belong to it.”
Jeremiah nodded slowly. “I think… I am beginning to understand.”
Kitchi walked a few steps away, then stopped and looked back at him.
“Come. Walk beside me. Not ahead. Not behind, but Beside.”
Jeremiah stepped into place at his side, matching his pace.
Their shoulders brushed lightly—by accident, he told himself, though he did not move away. The contact sent a quiet thrill through him, the kind that made his pulse jump without reason.
“You are different from the others,” Kitchi said after a moment.
Jeremiah’s stomach twisted. “Different how?”
“You ask questions,” Kitchi replied. “You do not pretend you already know the answers.”
Jeremiah huffed a soft laugh. “I am very aware of how little I know.”
“That is wisdom,” Kitchi said simply.
They crossed a narrow patch of ground where the roots tangled like snakes.
Kitchi slowed, offering a hand without ceremony. Jeremiah hesitated only a heartbeat before taking it. The grip was firm, warm, steady.
Kitchi helped him over, then released him just as easily, as if touch was something to be given and returned, not held hostage.
Jeremiah felt the loss of it immediately. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Kitchi nodded. “You are learning already.”
Jeremiah smiled despite himself. “Do you… guide many settlers?” he asked carefully.
Kitchi’s gaze darkened, but his voice stayed calm. “Enough.”
“And do they listen?”
“Rarely.”
Jeremiah winced. “I will try not to be like them.”
Kitchi glanced at him sidelong. “Trying is not the same as choosing.”
Jeremiah thought about that. “I choose,” he said quietly.
Kitchi slowed, then stopped. He turned, studying Jeremiah with that same steady intensity. “Then walk like it,” he said.
Jeremiah straightened, lifted his chin, and stepped forward—less hesitant this time, more sure of his footing.
Kitchi watched him for a moment, then nodded once in approval.
They continued on together, two figures moving through the trees, the space between them growing smaller with every step.
And for the first time since he had left England, Jeremiah did not feel like he was following a path someone else had chosen for him.
He was choosing it himself.
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November 1770 -Boston Harbor - the lazy sailor inn
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The tavern was already loud when Jonas Balkaran pushed through the door.
Music scraped from a fiddle in the corner, tankards thudded against tables, and the air smelled like salt, sweat, and ambition.
Boston never truly slept anymore — not with the Redcoats pacing the streets and rebellion humming under every conversation.
Jonas grinned anyway.
He didn’t need to scan the room. The room always found him.
A sailor shouted his name from the back. “BALKARAN! You owe me a drink!”
Jonas lifted two fingers. “Already paid for, love. Check the bar.”
The sailor glanced behind the bar, blinked, then laughed. “Damn you.”
Jonas winked.
Three steps in and he was already clapped on the shoulder by the tavern keeper.
“ You back again?”
“Missed me?”
“You never pay.”
“But yet, you keep serving me.”
The man slid him a bottle of port without being asked.
Jonas sniffed it. “Still my favorite.”
“You’re a curse,” the keeper muttered.
“True,” Jonas said cheerfully. “But I’m your curse.”
Laughter followed him as he moved through the crowd, collecting greetings like trophies.
Someone tugged his sleeve. A woman kissed his cheek.
A dockhand pressed a folded note into his palm and ran off blushing.
Jonas didn’t even look at it yet. He knew better. Secrets waited until later.
Across the room, a group of sailors were arguing over dice. Jonas watched them for a moment, then wandered over like a predator who enjoyed company.
“Gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “Mind if I join?”
One squinted. “You cheat.”
Jonas gasped. “Only in church.”
They laughed.
He sat.
Five minutes later, Jonas had all their coins.
A red-haired sailor slammed his hand on the table.
“That’s impossible!”
Jonas gathered the winnings. “Nothing is impossible. Some things are just unlikely.”
“You’re cursed.”
Jonas smiled. “No, Blessed.”
He felt eyes on him. Not hostile, Not friendly, just curious.
Jonas turned.
At the edge of the tavern stood a young man in a coat too fine for this place. Red hair tied back neatly, posture stiff with the kind of upbringing that trained you not to take up space.
He was too well-dressed for this place. Standing stiff near the hearth like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. Blue coat, expensive boots. A gentleman.
Jonas’ smile sharpened. Oh, you’re going to be fun, he thought.
He slid onto the bench beside him without asking. “Evening, Your Lordship.”
The man startled. “I— how did you—”
Jonas gestured at the room. “You look like a lost library book.”
That earned a reluctant smile. “Jeremiah Baker,” the man said after a pause. “And I’m not…”
“An aristocrat?” Jonas finished. “Darling, your coat costs more than this entire tavern.”
Jeremiah flushed. “I only arrived this week.”
Jonas leaned closer. “Boston’s not gentle to newcomers. You need a guide.”
“I already have one thank you.” Jeremiah said softly.
As if summoned by fate, a shadow moved near the door.
Jonas’ smile softened.
The man who entered walked like the world belonged to him — not in arrogance, but in certainty.
Long dark hair tied back with leather cord. Buckskin leggings. Trade shirt. Calm eyes that measured everything.
Jonas raised his bottle. “Speaking of angels.”
The man ignored him.
Jeremiah turned, curious. Their eyes met. He smiled at Kitchi warmly
The room shifted. Not lightning. Not fireworks, but something quieter, like recognition.
Kitchi inclined his head slightly. “You were not at home,” he looked at Jeremiah softly, then turned toward Jonas. “ and I am not responsible for you.”
Jeremiah glanced between them. “You know each other?”
“Unfortunately,” Kitchi said.
“Lovingly,” Jonas corrected.
Kitchi sighed. “Come. Before he steals something.”
Jonas stood. “No promises.”
As they walked out into the cold Boston night, Jonas slung an arm around both of them.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “Welcome to the worst decision of your lives.”
Jeremiah laughed nervously.
Kitchi did not, But he didn’t move away.
Boston at night was a maze of shadows and whispers.
Kitchi Nashoba moved ahead of them, sure-footed, weaving through narrow streets like he’d walked them a thousand times—which, Jonas suspected, he probably had.
Lantern light caught the silver at the edges of his eyes, not age, just awareness. He noticed everything.
Jeremiah hurried to keep up, boots clicking too loud on cobblestone. “Is it always this… busy?” he asked.
“Only when people are afraid,” Jonas replied. “So, yes. Always.”
They turned down an alley where fish barrels rotted quietly.
Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. A woman laughed. Life went on, no matter how many red coats marched through it.
Kitchi stopped suddenly. Jeremiah nearly collided with him. “Listen,” He said.
Boots. Heavy. Rhythmic.
Jonas’ grin sharpened. “Ah.. The evening entertainment.”
British soldiers rounded the corner, muskets slung, faces bored and watchful.
Jeremiah stiffened. “I should speak to them.”
Both men said, “No,” at the same time.
Jonas leaned in. “You look guilty when you’re nervous, love.”
Kitchi grabbed Jeremiah’s arm and tugged him sideways, into a narrow gap between two buildings.
Jonas followed, smooth as shadow. They pressed against the wall as the patrol passed.
One soldier glanced their way.
Jonas lifted a hand in lazy greeting.
The soldier frowned.
Then another soldier barked something about ale, and they moved on.
Silence.
Jeremiah exhaled shakily. “That was—”
“Routine,” Jonas said.
Kitchi released his sleeve. “You wear your loyalties too openly.”
Jeremiah bristled. “I have nothing to hide.”
Jonas raised an eyebrow. “Yet... Though eventually, Everyone here does.”
They continued walking.
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two weeks later…
The tavern was quieter tonight.
Not silent—never silent—but the kind of hush that meant men were listening more than talking. A bad sign in Boston.
Samuel Adams stood behind the bar, arms folded, watching Jonas Balkaran with a long-suffering stare.
John Adams sat nearby, nursing a mug and pretending very hard not to smile.
Jonas lounged on a stool like he owned the place.
Samuel cleared his throat. “But you have to understand,” he began, patient but firm, “if I wish to remain in business, you have to pay.”
Jonas pressed a hand to his chest. “Samuel. My dear friend. You wound me.”
“You wound my ledger,” Samuel shot back. “Three bottles of port last week.”
“Gifts,” Jonas corrected. “From the heart.”
“From my cellar.” Samuel growled.
John coughed into his mug.
Samuel pointed at Jonas. “This is exactly what I mean. You come in here, smile, tell stories, suddenly everyone’s buying you drinks and I’m the villain for charging.”
Jonas leaned closer. “You should charge the Crown instead.”
Samuel snorted. “If only.”
John finally spoke. “He does have a point, cousin. You’re enabling him.”
Jonas turned to him, offended. “John Adams, I expected better from a man of justice.”
“I believe in justice,” John said evenly.
“I also believe in paying for ale.”
Jonas sighed. “The revolution has no romance left in it.”
Samuel slid a mug toward him. “Six pence.”
Jonas stared at it. “You would truly rob a poor privateer?”
You are neither poor nor private,” Samuel replied.
Jonas reached into his coat slowly, theatrically, like he might pull out a dagger or a love letter. Instead, he produced a coin and flicked it onto the bar.
“There. Happy?”
Samuel scooped it up. “Ecstatic.”
Jonas leaned back. “Now tell me why the room feels like someone’s about to hang.”
John’s expression darkened. “Troops arrived this morning,” he said. “More ships in the harbor.”
“Occupiers,” Jonas muttered.
Samuel lowered his voice. “They’re searching warehouses. Smugglers.”
Jonas raised his mug. “Rude.”
John studied him. “You should leave town.”
Jonas grinned. “Absolutely not.”
Samuel groaned. “Do you ever listen?”
“Only to charming men in taverns.”
John snorted. “So… never.”
Jonas laughed, then sobered. “You two keep poking the bear. I’ll keep stealing his honey.”
Samuel leaned closer. “One day it’ll cost you.”
Jonas met his eyes. “Everything costs something.”
A beat.
John lifted his mug. “To stubborn men,” he said quietly.
Jonas clinked his. “To free ones.”
Samuel hesitated… then joined. “Fine,” he muttered. “But you’re paying next round.”
Jonas smirked. “We’ll see.”
****************************************************************
Late November 1770
_____________________
Jeremiah Baker did not expect to be summoned to a tavern.
He especially did not expect it to be that tavern — the one everyone whispered about, where politics and ale mixed in equal measure and tempers flared as easily as pipes were lit.
John Adams spotted him the moment he stepped inside. “Well,” John said, loud enough to carry, “if it isn’t the Crown’s newest investment.”
Jeremiah froze.
Jonas, already halfway through a drink, winced. “Oof. Straight to the throat.”
Samuel Adams muttered, “John, behave.”
“I am behaving,” John replied. “This is me polite.”
Jeremiah approached cautiously. “Mr. Adams?”
John gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. Before you are forced to run back to your estate.”
Jeremiah sat.
Jonas leaned over. “Godspeed, lad.”
John folded his hands. “So,” he began, “how much land do you own?”
Jeremiah blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t,” John snapped, looking at Jonas. “Answer.”
“A few hundred acres—” Jeremiah answered.
“Stolen.” Jonas barked.
Jeremiah stiffened. “Purchased.”
“Same thing with better paperwork.” Jonas countered.
Samuel sighed. “John—”
“No,” John cut in. “Let him hear it.”
Jeremiah’s voice sharpened. “My family followed the law.”
“The law favors those who write it,” John shot back. “And you know who doesn’t write it?”
Jonas murmured, “Anyone fun.”
John ignored him. “Tell me,” John continued, “how many families lived on that land before your deed?”
Jeremiah hesitated.
John smiled grimly. “I thought so.”
Jeremiah swallowed. “I’m trying to learn.”
Jonas perked up. “He really is.”
John raised an eyebrow. “You trust him?”
“Not yet,” Jonas said. “But I like him.”
John looked back to Jeremiah. “Liking you isn’t the same as respecting you.”
Jeremiah met his gaze. “Then tell me what to do.”
The tavern quieted.
John leaned forward. “Listen.”
A pause. “Give land back. Pay fair wages. Speak when your friends lie.
Stop pretending neutrality makes you innocent.”
Jeremiah whispered, “That could ruin me.”
John smiled thinly. “Good. Now you’re getting it.”
Jonas let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to cross you.”
“You cross me daily,” John replied. “You just smile through it.”
Jonas grinned. “Defense mechanism.”
John turned back to Jeremiah. “You don’t get to be comfortable anymore. Not if you want to be decent.”
Jeremiah nodded slowly. “I don’t want to be decent.” He paused. “I want to be better.”
For the first time, John didn’t have a snarky reply.
Samuel cleared his throat. “Well. That’s a start.”
Jonas clapped Jeremiah on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ve survived your first moral execution.”
Jeremiah huffed a laugh.
John stood. “Don’t waste it.”
Outside, the cold hit Jeremiah like a slap.
Jonas walked beside him.“You alright, love?”
Jeremiah nodded. “I think I needed that.”
Jonas smiled. “Careful. You’ll start changing.”
Jeremiah glanced toward the dark street where his guide usually waited. “I already am.”
********************************************************************************************************************
The crates were stamped with the King’s seal.
That was how Jonas knew they were worth stealing.
They sat on the docks like obedient little soldiers — neat rows of wood, iron bands glinting in torchlight. Muskets. Powder. Uniforms.
Supplies meant to tighten the Crown’s fist around Boston’s throat.
Jonas watched from the shadows with a satisfied hum. “A Shame,” he murmured, “if something happened to them.”
Kitchi crouched beside him, eyes sharp.
“There are guards.” Jonas peeked around a barrel. “Bad ones.”
Jeremiah hovered behind them, clearly regretting every life choice he’d ever made.
“This is illegal,” he whispered.
Jonas turned slowly. “Welcome to the revolution.”
Phase One: Distraction
Jonas strolled straight into the light.
A soldier barked, “Hey!”
Jonas lifted his hands. “Evening, gentlemen! Terrible night for a watch, eh?”
The guards frowned.
Jonas leaned in conspiratorially.
“Between you and me… your sergeant’s been looking for you. Something about a missing bottle of rum?”
The soldier stiffened. “He what?”
“Red-faced. Loud. Very dramatic.”
The guards exchanged looks, panicked.
“Cover me,” one muttered.
They jogged off.
Jonas whistled.
Phase Two: Theft
Kitchi was already moving. Silent. Efficient.
He slipped between crates, cutting seals, swapping tags. Jonas joined him, hands quick, pockets filling with maps and letters.
Jeremiah stood lookout, pale but determined.
A shadow passed. Jeremiah hissed, “Jonas.”
Jonas ducked just as a lantern swung past.
He flashed a grin. “See? Thrilling.”
Phase Three: Sabotage
Jonas popped open a crate. Gunpowder.
He poured salt from his pocket inside.
“Won’t fire,” he whispered. “Just sputter.”
Kitchi nodded approval.
They repeated it down the row.
Jonas paused at the last crate. “Bit of flair?”
Kitchi sighed. “You are impossible.”
Jonas wedged a small fuse into the powder, barely visible.
“Delayed. Fireworks at dawn.”
Jeremiah stared. “You’re going to burn the docks.”
“No,” Jonas corrected. “Just their pride.”
Boots. Voices. They froze.
A British officer rounded the corner.
Jonas didn’t even blink. He straightened and called, “Sir! Your men sent me for more rope!”
The officer squinted. “Who are you?”
Jonas bowed. “King of Thieves, at your service.”
The officer scoffed. “Move along.”
Jonas winked
They slipped away into the alleys.
Jeremiah finally laughed — shaky, wild. “We just committed treason.”
Jonas slung an arm around him. “Technically, yes.”
Kitchi looked at Jonas. “Why do you do this?”
Jonas thought for a moment. “Because someone has to be rude to kings.”
He sobered. “And because no one should own another man.”
Kitchi’s expression softened.
Jeremiah looked between them. “I don’t think I can go back.”
Jonas grinned. “Good.”
******************************************************************
The seal was unbroken. That was the first bad sign.
Jeremiah stared at the crest pressed into the wax — his family’s mark, heavy with expectation.
He’d been putting off opening it all morning, letting it sit on the desk like a loaded pistol.
Finally, he broke it. It read:
My dear Jeremiah,
We hope that you have settled into your estate. Your uncle reports the Crown is watching the colonies closely.
It would be wise to remember your position.
On happier matters - Lady Eleanor Whitcombe has agreed to travel to Boston in the spring. Her family is delighted at the prospect of renewing our connection.
She is young, well-bred, and eager to make your acquaintance.
We trust you will behave accordingly.
Jeremiah’s stomach dropped. Lady Eleanor.
Of course it was Eleanor. Pretty. Polite. Perfect. Someone his mother could show off at dinners. Someone he could never love.
He folded the letter slowly, hands shaking.
Jonas found him sitting on the cabin steps, staring at nothing.
“Judging by that face,” Jonas said, “Someone just tried to murder you with ink.”
Jeremiah handed him the letter.
Jonas skimmed it. “Oh. Absolutely not.”
Jeremiah laughed weakly. “They’re sending her here.”
Jonas crumpled the letter halfway, then thought better and smoothed it out. “You don’t have to marry her.”
“My family expects it.”
“So?”
Jeremiah looked at him. “So… they own me.”
Jonas’ eyes darkened. “No one owns you.”
Jeremiah whispered, “They will disown me.”
Jonas shrugged. “Join the club.”
Kitchi stood nearby, quiet as always. He had listened without interrupting.
“They want you to belong to them,” he said finally.
Jeremiah nodded. “Yes.”
Kitchi’s gaze was steady. “Do you not belong to yourself?”
Jeremiah didn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “ Believe me. I’m trying.”
Jonas bumped his shoulder.
“Good. Because I’m not sharing you with some lace-covered stranger.”
Jeremiah flushed. “You’re impossible.”
“Indeed.”
Kitchi frowned , “She shall not survive you.”
Jeremiah laughed for real this time.
***************************************************************
Jeremiah learned very quickly that lies worked best when they sounded boring.
He sat at his desk late into the night, drafting letters to England with meticulous care.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing emotional. Just… respectable nonsense.
Mother,
The estate keeps me endlessly occupied. I am overseeing repairs to the eastern fence, and the tenant farmers require constant attention. Colonial weather is unforgiving.
I hardly have time to eat, let alone entertain company.
Lady Eleanor’s visit may prove difficult to arrange. The roads are poor, and illness spreads quickly here. It would be terribly unsafe for her to travel this season.
Besides, I am not the sort of man suited to courtship. You know I prefer books and quiet evenings.
That one hurt to write.
He sealed the letter with practiced calm, even as his stomach twisted.
Jonas watched him from the doorway. “You write like someone who’s hiding a body.”
Jeremiah sighed.“I’m hiding myself.”
Jonas leaned against the frame. “Smartest thing you’ve ever done.”
Jeremiah gave him a tired smile. “They think I’m lonely.”
Jonas raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”
Jeremiah glanced toward the woods, where Kitchi had disappeared earlier.
“No.”
Kitchi returned later, dropping a bundle of herbs onto the table.
“More letters?” he asked.
Jeremiah nodded. “They want to know everything. Who I see. What I do.”
“And you tell them?”
Jeremiah hesitated. “Only what they expect.”
Kitchi studied him. “That is another kind of prison.”
Jeremiah swallowed. “I know.”
Later that night, another letter arrived.
This one sharper.
"Your uncle hears troubling rumors. Smugglers. Disorder. You are not involved, are you?
We raised you better than that."
Jeremiah closed his eyes.
Jonas read it over his shoulder. “Oh, they absolutely know something.”
“They can’t,” Jeremiah whispered. “Not this.”
Jonas squeezed his hand. “Relax. If they knew that, you’d already be disowned.”
Not comforting, But honest.
******************************************************************
They were sitting by the fire when it came up.
Kitchi was carving something absentmindedly from a scrap of wood,
Jeremiah was pretending to read, and Kitchi—quiet as always—was braiding a thin leather cord with beads the color of river stones.
Jeremiah watched his hands. They were strong. Careful.
Gentle in a way he’d never been taught men were allowed to be.
“You move differently,” Jeremiah said suddenly.
Kitchi didn’t look offended, Just curious. “Differently how?”
Jeremiah swallowed. “Like… you aren’t afraid of it.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of being seen.”
Silence stretched.
Kitchi paused his carving but didn’t interrupt. He set the cord aside. “My people have a word,”
He spoke it in his own language—low and musical.
Jeremiah leaned forward. “What does it mean?”
Kitchi considered carefully. “Closest in your tongue would be…one who walks between.”
“Between what?” Jeremiah asked quietly.
“Man and woman. Strength and softness. Different Worlds.”
Jeremiah’s chest tightened. “You mean… you’re—”
“Yes,” Kitchi said gently. “I love men,”
Jeremiah stared at him, unsure of what to say. nervously.
Kitchi continued. “But your people…They do not hate me,” Kitchi said.
“They never did. I hunt. I guide. I protect. I also sing, heal, comfort children.”
He shrugged. “All are needed.”
Jeremiah stared at the fire. “In England…” he whispered, “they would call it sin.”
Kitchi’s voice softened. “That is not my word for it.”
Jeremiah looked up. “What is?”
“Truth.”
Something in Jeremiah broke open. He swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’m broken either.”
Kitchi met his eyes. “I know.” He reached out and took Jeremiah’s hand. Just for a moment. Just enough.
“You do not have to choose silence forever,” he said. “But you may choose when.”
Jeremiah squeezed his fingers. “Thank you.”
**************************************************************************************
They were passing through the market when it happened.
A cluster of colonists stood near a cart of apples, arguing about prices.
Jeremiah lagged behind, listening to Jonas spin some ridiculous story about stealing a governor’s wig, while Kitchi walked ahead, calm as ever.
A man’s voice cut through the air. “Oi.”
They all turned.
The colonist was broad-shouldered, red-faced, smelling faintly of ale even in daylight. He looked Kitchi Nashoba up and down openly, with no shame.
“What are you supposed to be?” he asked.
The air shifted.
Jeremiah froze.
Jonas’ smile vanished.
Kitchi stopped, slowly, and turned to face him.
“I am a man,” he said evenly.
The colonist snorted. “Don’t walk like one. Don’t dress like one neither.”
A couple of men nearby laughed awkwardly.
Jonas took a step forward. “Careful, friend. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
The colonist ignored him.
“Your kind’s already strange enough,” he went on. “Now you want to play dress-up too?”
Jeremiah felt heat rise in his face. “Leave him alone,” he said quietly.
The colonist finally looked at him. “Oh? And who are you to speak for him?”
Before Jeremiah could answer, Kitchi spoke again.
“I walk how my spirit walks,” he said. “You may walk like a mule. That is your choice.”
A few people snickered.
Jonas grinned. “Oh, I like him.”
The colonist bristled. “You think this is funny?”
“No,” Jonas said. “I think you are.”
The man stepped closer. “You people come here and…”
Jonas leaned in, voice suddenly low. “You’ll finish that sentence very carefully.”
Kitchi placed a hand on Jonas’ arm. “Not worth blood,” he murmured.
Jonas exhaled, but didn’t move.
The colonist scoffed. “Figures. Hiding behind him.”
Kitchi met his eyes calmly. “I am not hiding,” he said.
“I am standing.”
Something in his steadiness unsettled the man. He shifted.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Just… don’t expect normal folk to understand.”
Kitchi inclined his head. “I do not.”
They walked on.
Jeremiah’s hands were shaking. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?” the guide asked.
“For the way he spoke.”
Kitchi gave a small smile. “Curiosity often wears the mask of cruelty.”
Jonas cracked his knuckles. “I was two words away from making him regret literacy.”
Kitchi bumped his shoulder gently. “I know.”
Jeremiah looked at him. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Stay so calm.”
Kitchi thought. “Because I know who I am,” he said. “And he does not.”
That settled into Jeremiah like a stone dropped into water.
They walked in silence for a while after the market.
Jonas broke it first. “So,” he said lightly, “if I bump into you again, is that an invitation or a threat?”
Kitchi didn’t look at him, But he leaned just slightly closer and bumped Jonas’ shoulder. “Affection,” he said. “Do not get ideas.”
Jonas grinned. “Too late.”
Jeremiah watched them, something warm settling in his chest.
“That’s… a sign, isn’t it?” he asked. “The shoulder thing.”
Kitchi nodded. “My people do not always touch hands. shoulders are honest.”
He shrugged. “They carry weight.”
Jonas bumped him again, softer this time. “Look at us. Carrying each other.”
Kitchi sighed. “You are ridiculous.”
“And you like me anyway.” Another small bump.
Jeremiah hesitated… then tried it too.
Awkward. Gentle. Careful.
Kitchi smiled. “There,” he said. “Now you speak the language.”
Jeremiah felt his heart stumble.
Not words. Not promises. Just presence.
**********************************************************************************
John Adams didn’t knock.
He appeared in Jeremiah’s doorway like bad news.
“You busy?”
Jeremiah blinked. “I was… reading.”
“Good. You’ll need your eyes.” John dropped a sealed packet on the table.
“Take this to Philadelphia.”
Jeremiah froze. “That’s eight days away.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“If you open it, I’ll know.” John met his gaze. “And I’ll never trust you again.”
Jeremiah swallowed. “Who is it for?”
“Someone who signs his letters ‘G.W.’”
Jonas, lounging in the corner, whistled. “Oh. Him.”
Jeremiah whispered, “You’re serious.”
John smiled thinly. “I never joke about treason.”
Jeremiah rode for two days straight.
No rest. No stops.
When he reached the farmhouse outside Philadelphia, a tall man waited on the porch.
George Washington.
Not in uniform. Not dramatic. Just… solid.
Jeremiah dismounted shakily. “I—I have a letter.”
Washington took it, eyes never leaving his. “You British?”
“Yes.”
Washington nodded. “Good. Means no one suspects you.”
Jeremiah felt sick.
“Do you know what’s in it?”
“No, sir.”
Washington smiled faintly. “Good answer.”
He opened it, Read. Then looked up. “Tell Adams he chose well.”
Jeremiah exhaled like he’d been drowning.
**************************************************************************************
Jonas was mid-swindle when Paul Revere grabbed his arm.
“British patrols on the docks tonight.”
Jonas didn’t even look surprised.
“Course they are.”
“They’re hunting a smuggler.
Salt hair. Smug grin. Known flirt.”
Jonas beamed. “I’m unforgettable.”
Paul leaned closer. “They’ve got your description.”
Jonas sobered. “Thanks, patriot.”
Paul smirked. “Don’t die. You owe me money.”
**************************************************************************************
That night. Boston docks. British crates.
Again.
Jonas dangled upside down from a rope, cutting seals.
Kitchi stood watch, silent.“They are learning,”
“Changing schedules.”
Jonas grinned. “Good. I was bored.” He dropped into a crate, pulled out uniforms. “Costume party?”
Kitchi rolled his eyes.
Jonas whispered, “Imagine their faces when the wrong men report for duty.”
Chaos. Beautiful chaos.
**************************************************************************************
Samuel Adams tapped a code on the bar.
Three slow. Two quick. One slow.
Franklin, seated nearby, never looked up.
“Shipment rerouted,” Franklin murmured.
“Accident at the docks.”
Samuel smirked. “Shame.”
John Adams leaned in. “You think Washington trusts him?”
Franklin smiled. “He trusts results.”
**************************************************************************************
Kitchi returned from the woods at dusk.
“They’re coming,” he said. “Soldiers. Tonight.”
Jonas stiffened. “Big patrol?”
“Too many.”
Jeremiah, newly returned, went pale. “They’re searching estates.”
Jonas swore.
John appeared in the doorway. “You’re compromised.”
Jeremiah whispered, “My family name—”
“Is the only reason you’re alive,” John snapped.
“But it won’t last.”
Silence.
Then Jonas grinned. “Well.”
Everyone looked at him.
“Guess it’s time to steal something important.”
**************************************************************************************
Washington Hears of Them
In Philadelphia:
Washington read a report. “Privateer. Colonial landowner. Native guide.” He raised an eyebrow.
Franklin smiled over his spectacles. “They’re inconvenient.”
Washington nodded slowly. “Good.”
*******************************************
That night, the three stood together.
Jonas grinning. Jeremiah terrified. Kitchi calm as dawn.
Jonas said softly, “You can still walk away.”
Jeremiah shook his head. “I already chose.”
Kitchi bumped his shoulder.
Affection.
Jonas bumped him too. “Welcome to the mess.”
Jeremiah laughed. “I’m in love with criminals.”
Jonas smirked. “Excellent taste.”
He can’t keep pretending anymore.