Nicholas Rey jumped up from the hard floor of the cell. “You can’t do this! Innocent people are in danger, for God’s sake!”

The detective shrugged. “You really do believe everything you dream up, don’t you, moke?”

“Keep me in here if you like. But put those patrolmen back at those houses, please. I beg you. There is someone out there who will kill again. You know Burndy didn’t murder Healey and the others! The murderer’s still out there, and he’s waiting to do it again! You can stop him!”

The detective looked interested in letting Rey try to persuade him. He tipped his head in thought. “I know Willard Burndy’s a thief and a liar, that’s what I know.”

“Listen to me, please.”

The detective gripped two bars and glared at Rey. “Peaslee warned us to keep an eye on you, that you wouldn’t mind your business, that you wouldn’t stay out of the way. I bet you hate being locked up with no way to do anything, nobody to help.”

The detective took out his ring of keys and waved it with a smile. “Well, this day’ll be a lesson to you. Won’t it, moke?”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow emitted a series of short, barely audible sighs as he stood at his writing desk in his study.

Annie Allegra had suggested any number of games they could play. But the only thing he could do was to stand at his desk with some Dante cantos and translate and translate, to lay down his burden and cross through that cathedral door. In there, the noises of the world retreated and became an indistinguishable roar and the words lived in eternal vitality. There, in the long aisles, the translator saw his Poet in the stretch of gloom and he strove to keep pace. The Poet’s step is quiet and solemn. He is clothed in a long, flowing garment, and upon his head he wears a cap; on his feet are sandals. Through congregations of the dead, through hovering echoes flying from tomb to tomb, through lamentations below, Longfellow could hear the voice of the one who drove the Poet onward. She stood before them both, in the unapproachable, coaxing distance, an image, a projection with snow-white veil, garments as scarlet as any fire, and Longfellow felt the ice on the Poet’s heart melt as the snow does on mountain heights: the Poet, who seeks the perfect pardon of perfect peace.

Annie Allegra looked all about the study for a lost paper box she needed to properly celebrate the birthday of one of her dolls. She came upon a newly opened letter from Mary Frere, of Auburn, New York. She asked whom it was from.

“Oh, Miss Frere,” Annie said. “That’s lovely! Will she be summering near us in Nahant this year? It is always so lovely to have her near, Father.”

“I don’t believe she will.” Longfellow tried to offer a smile.

Annie was disappointed. “Perhaps the box is in the parlor closet,” she said abruptly, and left to recruit her governess for help.

A knock struck the front door with an urgency that froze Longfellow. Then it came even harder, with demand. “Holmes.” He heard himself exhale.

Annie Allegra, bored Annie Allegra, left her governess and cried out her claim to the door. She ran to the door and pulled it open. The chill from outside was enormous and embracing.

Annie started to say something, but Longfellow could sense from the study that she was frightened. He heard a mumbling voice that did not belong to any friend. He stepped into the hall and turned to face a soldier’s full regalia.

“Send her away, Mr. Longfellow,” Teal requested quietly.

Longfellow pulled Annie into the hall and knelt down. “Panzie, why not finish that part of your piece we talked about for The Secret.”

“Papa, the part? The interview—?”

“Yes, why not finish that part right away, Panzie, while I am engaged with this gentleman.”

He tried to make her understand, his widened expression signaling “Go!” into her eyes, same as her mother’s. She nodded slowly and hurried to the back of the house.

“You are needed, Mr. Longfellow. You are needed now.” Teal chewed furiously, loudly spat out two scraps of paper onto Longfellow’s rug, and then chewed some more. The supply of bits of paper in his mouth seemed inexhaustible.

Longfellow clumsily turned to look at him, and he understood at once the power that came from inhabiting violence.

Teal spoke again: “Mr. Lowell and Mr. Fields—they have betrayed you, they have betrayed Dante. You were there, too. You were there when Manning was to die, and you did nothing to help me. You are to punish them.”

Teal put an army revolver into Longfellow’s hands and the cold steel stung the soft hand of the poet, whose palms still had traces of a wound from years earlier. Longfellow had not held a gun since he was a child and had come home with tears in his eyes after his brother taught him how to shoot a robin.

Fanny had despised guns and war, and Longfellow thanked God that at least she did not see their son Charley run away to battle and return with a bullet having passed through his shoulder blade. For men, all that makes a soldier is the gay dress, she used to say, forgetting the weapons of murder that the dress conceals.

“Yes sir, you’re going finally to learn to sit quiet and act like you’re meant to, contraband.” The detective had a laughing glimmer in his eyes.

“Why are you still here then?” Rey had his back facing the bars now.

The detective was embarrassed by the question. “To make sure you learn my lesson good, or I’ll knock your teeth out, you hear?”

Rey turned slowly. “Remind me of that lesson.”

The detective’s face was red, and he leaned against the bars with a scowl. “To sit quietly for once in your life, moke, and let life to those who know best!”

Rey’s gold-flecked eyes were sadly downcast. Then without allowing the rest of his body to betray his intentions, he shot out his arm and clamped his fingers around the detective’s neck, smashing the man’s forehead into the bars. With his other hand, he pried open the detective’s hand for the ring of keys. Then he released the man, who now grasped at his throat to restore his breath. Rey opened the cell door, then searched the detective’s coat and drew out a gun. Prisoners in surrounding cells cheered.

Rey ran up the stairs into the lobby.

“Rey, you’re here?” Sergeant Stoneweather said. “Now, what’s happening? I was stationed, just as you like and the detectives came around and told me you were ordering everyone off their posts! Where you been?”

“They locked me in the Tombs, Stoneweather! I need to get to Cambridge at once!” Rey said. Then he saw a little girl with her governess on the other side of the lobby. He rushed over and opened the iron gate separating the entrance area from the police offices.

“Please,” Annie Allegra Longfellow was repeating as her governess tried to explain something to a confused policeman. “Please.”

“Miss Longfellow,” Rey said, crouching down next to her. “What is it?”

“Father needs your help, Officer Rey!” she cried.

A herd of detectives tore through the lobby. “There!” one shouted. He took Rey by the arm and threw him against a wall.

“Hold, you son of a bloody bitch!” Sergeant Stoneweather said, and cracked his billy club against the detective’s back.

Stoneweather called out and several other uniformed officers ran in, but three detectives overpowered Nicholas Rey and caught both his arms, pulling him away as he struggled.

“No! Father needs you, Officer Rey!” Annie cried.

“Rey!” Stoneweather called out, but a chair came flying at him and a fist landed in his side.

Chief John Kurtz stormed in, his usual mustard coloring flushed purple. A porter carried three of his valises. “Worst damned train ride…” he began. “What in God’s name!” he screamed to the whole lobby of policemen and detectives after he had assessed the situation. “Stoneweather?”