He turned a corner, into narrow Acorn Street. It was the same alley where Gareth Wilson and Dr. Sewall had met, in the home with the pelicans carved on the lintel. Norris chose a dark doorway in which to wait and huddled on the stoop, hidden in shadow. By now, Billy would have reached Grenville's home; by now, the note should be in Rose's hand, a note on which he'd written only one line:
Tonight, under the pelicans.
If it fell into the hands of the Night Watch, they'd have no idea what it meant. But Rose would know. Rose would come.
He settled down to wait.
The night deepened. One by one, lamps inside houses were extinguished and the windows on tiny Acorn Street fell dark. Occasionally, he heard the clip-clop of a horse and carriage passing by on much busier Cedar Street, but soon even that traffic faded to silence.
He hugged the cloak more tightly and watched his breath cloud in the darkness. He'd wait here all night, if he had to. If by dawn she had not come, then he'd return tomorrow night. He had enough faith in her to believe that once she knew he waited for her, nothing would keep her away.
His legs grew stiff, his fingers numb. The last of the windows on Acorn Street fell dark.
Then, emerging from around the corner, a figure appeared. A woman, framed from behind by lamplight. She paused in the middle of the alley, as though struggling to see into the darkness.
— Norrie? — she called softly.
At once he stepped from the doorway. — Rose, — he said, and she ran toward him. He swept her into his embrace and felt like laughing as he swung her around, so happy to finally see her again. She felt weightless in his arms, lighter than air, and in that moment he knew they were forever bound to each other. The plunge into the Charles River had been both a death and a rebirth, and this was his new life, with this girl who had no fortune to offer him, no family name, nothing except love.
— I knew you'd come, — he murmured. — I knew. —
— You must listen to me. —
— I can't stay in Boston. But I can't live without you. —
— This is important, Norris. Listen! —
He fell still. It was not her command that caused him to freeze; it was the silhouette of a burly figure moving toward them, from the other end of Acorn Street.
The clatter of hooves behind Norris made him swing around, just as a carriage and two horses pulled to a stop, blocking his other escape route. The door swung open.
— Norris, you have to trust them, — said Rose. — You have to trust me. —
From the alley behind him came a familiar voice. — It's the only way, Mr. Marshall. —
Startled, Norris turned to the broad-shouldered man who stood facing him. — Dr. Sewall? —
— I suggest you get into that carriage, — said Sewall. — If you want to live. —
— They're our friends, — said Rose. She reached for his hand and tugged him toward the carriage. — Please, let's get in before anyone sees you. —
He had no other choice. Whatever awaited him, Rose had willed it so, and he trusted her with his life. She led him to the carriage and tugged him in after her.
Dr. Sewall, who did not climb in, swung their door shut. — Godspeed, Mr. Marshall, — he said through the window. — I hope we'll meet again someday, under less trying circumstances. —
The driver slapped the reins, and the carriage rolled away.
Only as Norris settled back for the ride did he focus on the man sitting in the carriage across from him and Rose. The glow of a street lamp illuminated the man's face, and Norris could only stare in astonishment.
— No, this is not an arrest, — said Constable Lyons.
— Then what is it? — asked Norris.
— It is a favor, to an old friend. —
They rode out of the city, across the West Boston Bridge, and through the village of Cambridge. It was the same route by which Norris had been transported as a prisoner only a few nights earlier, but this was a far different journey, one he traveled not with a sense of doom, but with hope. The entire way, Rose's small hand stayed entwined with his, a silent reassurance that all was according to plan, that he need not fear betrayal. How could he ever have suspected the worst of her? This lone girl, he thought, has stood by me faithfully and unflinchingly, and I do not deserve her.
The town of Cambridge gave way to dark countryside and empty fields. They drove north, toward Somerville and Medford, past villages of dark houses huddled together beneath the winter moon. It was not until the outskirts of Medford that the carriage finally turned into a cobblestoned yard and slowed to a stop.
— You'll rest here for a day, — said Constable Lyons, swinging open the door and stepping out. — Tomorrow, you'll receive directions to the next safe house, in the north. —
Norris climbed from the carriage and stared up at a stone farmhouse. Candlelight glowed in the windows, a flickering welcome to furtive travelers. — What is this place? — he asked.
Constable Lyons did not answer. He led the way to the door and knocked twice, paused, then knocked once more.
After a moment the door opened and an elderly woman wearing a lace night bonnet peered out, holding up a lamp to see her visitors' faces.
— We have a traveler, — said Lyons.
The woman frowned at Norris and Rose. — These two are most unusual fugitives. —
— These are most unusual circumstances. I bring them at the personal request of Dr. Grenville. Both Mr. Garrison and Dr. Sewall have agreed to it, and Mr. Wilson has given his assent as well. —
The old woman finally nodded and moved aside to let the three visitors enter.
Norris stepped into an ancient kitchen, the ceiling blackened from the soot of countless cooking fires. Dominating one wall was an enormous stone hearth where the night's embers still glowed. Overhead hung sheaves of herbs, dried bunches of lavender and hyssop, wormwood and sage. Norris felt Rose tug his hand, and she pointed up at the carved emblem, mounted on the crossbeam. A pelican.
Constable Lyons saw what they were staring at, and he said: — That is an ancient symbol, Mr. Marshall, and one we revere. The pelican represents self-sacrifice for the greater good. It reminds us that as we give, so shall we receive. —
The old woman added, — It's the seal of our sisterhood. The order of the Roses of Sharon. —
Norris turned to look at her. — Who are you? What is this place? —
— We're members of the Rose Cross, Sir. And this is a way station for travelers. Travelers in need of sanctuary. —
Norris thought of the modest town house on Acorn Street, with the pelicans carved into the lintel. He remembered that William Lloyd Garrison had been one of the gentlemen in the house that night. And he remembered, too, the whisperings of nearby shopkeepers, of strangers moving about in the neighborhood after dark, a neighborhood that Constable Lyons had decreed off limits to Night Watch patrols.
— They're abolitionists, — said Rose. — This is a house of hiding. —
— A way station, — said Lyons. — One of many stops the Rosicrucians have established between the south and Canada. —
— You shelter slaves? —
— No man is a slave, — said the old woman. — No man has the right to own another. We're all free. —