New York City — March 1764
March did not end winter. It argued with it.
Ice loosened its hold on the river in long, dark seams that opened and closed again with the night's cold. Streets that had carried sled runners one week demanded wheels the next. Men cursed the uncertainty, because uncertainty punished habit and rewarded attention.
Thomas Hawthorne watched the thaw the way he watched accounts: not as a promise, but as a transition that could break the inattentive.
The shop adapted before complaints arrived.
Crowell's wagons shifted back to wheels as soon as stone showed through the ice. Runners were stacked and cleaned, not discarded. Thomas did not allow improvisation to become waste. What worked once would work again.
Oak moved faster now, but not cheaper. The yards reopened unevenly, some with stock, others with excuses. Iron merchants resumed selling—at prices set to recover losses from winter all at once.
Thomas bought raw iron anyway.
Not in spectacle quantities. In steady ones.
Pieter watched the deliveries arrive and frowned slightly. "Too much?" he asked, uncertain English stretched over Dutch thought.
"Enough," Thomas replied. "And only enough."
Margaret recorded every purchase, then recorded it again, cross-checking figures until she trusted them. The second ledger had grown heavy now. Names filled it, some crossed out with dates and notes—men gone north, men returned, men not returned.
Samuel Pike limped more badly now that the ice had softened. He took charge of measuring shipments instead, standing at the door with a tally stick and a careful eye. Jonah Mercer supervised iron fittings, his stiff wrist forcing him to plan rather than rush. Ephraim Ward, scarred and quiet, worked steady hours and spoke to no one unless spoken to first.
The shop had stopped being a place where work happened.
It had become a place where work was coordinated.
The first visitor of the month was not a merchant, but a clerk.
Edmund Shaw, thin, pale, with ink-stained fingers and a habit of looking over his shoulder even when alone, stood in the doorway as if unsure whether he belonged there.
"I was told you sell raw boards," Shaw said.
"I sell wood," Thomas replied.
"For crates," Shaw added quickly. "Government crates. Supplies. The north stores are… being reorganized."
Thomas did not correct him. Reorganization was a word men used when they did not want to say "mistake."
"Who sent you?" Thomas asked.
Shaw hesitated. "Mr. Alderton. At the customs house."
That was new.
Thomas nodded once. "How many crates?"
"Enough that my superior will want a receipt," Shaw said, nervous humor creeping in. "And enough that he will not want to explain why they are late."
Thomas considered. Government work came with two dangers: delay and memory. But it also came with paper, and paper made commitments visible.
"I will sell raw boards," Thomas said. "I will not assemble crates. That remains your responsibility."
Shaw looked relieved. "Of course. Of course."
"And," Thomas continued, "you will pay on delivery."
Shaw blinked. "That's not—"
"Negotiable," Thomas finished. "Yes, it is."
Shaw swallowed, then nodded. "I'll… speak to Mr. Alderton."
Thomas let him go without pressing. Men like Shaw returned when their superiors discovered how inconvenient alternatives were.
That same week, Elias Brouwer came with better news than he had brought all winter.
"The fish runs will be strong," Brouwer said, breathless with relief. "If the barrels hold."
"They will," Thomas replied.
"And Boston wants in," Brouwer added. "They're short too. Asking questions."
Thomas did not look surprised. "About wood?"
"About supply," Brouwer corrected.
Thomas nodded. "Tell them I sell raw material. Nothing more."
Brouwer hesitated. "You could charge more."
"I could," Thomas agreed. "And then they would remember me differently."
Brouwer frowned. "Differently how?"
"As a man who squeezes," Thomas replied. "That's not how I intend to be known."
Brouwer studied him, then nodded slowly. "I'll tell them."
Another channel widened.
Mid-March brought the first visible consequence of peace mismanaged.
Two redcoats appeared at the docks one morning with a sergeant who spoke crisply and wrote slowly. They did not seize anything. They measured. They asked for names. They nodded and moved on.
People watched them the way men watched weather they could not yet name.
At Mass that Sunday, Father Keane addressed it without naming it.
"Order," he said, voice carrying through the nave, "is not proven by how loudly it announces itself, but by whether it feeds the hungry and keeps the peace without fear."
Some heads bowed. Some did not.
Afterward, Father Keane spoke to Thomas by the side door.
"They're asking about materials," the priest said quietly. "Who sells. Who builds."
Thomas nodded. "Then we continue building slowly."
"The walls will be visible soon."
"Let them be," Thomas said. "Visibility is not danger. Speed is."
They stood together a moment, watching parishioners disperse.
"You're preparing for something," Father Keane said at last.
"I'm preparing not to be surprised," Thomas replied.
By late March, the thaw had won.
Ships moved again with confidence. Carts rolled without complaint. The city exhaled as if it had been holding its breath since November.
With movement came appetite.
Crowell doubled his runs. Merchants returned with orders that assumed Thomas would say yes. Thomas said yes only when it made sense and no without apology when it did not. Edmund Shaw returned, pale but smiling, with approval for payment on delivery and a sheaf of papers that made everything official.
"Mr. Alderton appreciates your… clarity," Shaw said.
"Then he'll appreciate my invoices," Thomas replied.
Shaw laughed, relieved, and left.
That night, Thomas spread his rough map again.
He added Boston this time. Not as a destination, but as a pressure point. He marked the north stores more carefully. He marked the parish walls, now high enough to cast a shadow in the late afternoon.
This was no longer merely New York.
Movement pulled outward whether he intended it to or not.
At the end of the month, Patrick Doyle came to the shop with ink on his fingers and pride in his posture.
"I copied the ledger page without mistakes," he said.
Thomas checked. The hand was cleaner. The figures correct.
"You'll begin learning contracts next," Thomas said. "Not to write them. To understand when they're lying."
Patrick's eyes widened. "Contracts lie?"
"Always," Thomas replied. "They just do it politely."
Patrick nodded, solemn as if receiving doctrine.
Pieter watched and said something quiet in Dutch that Thomas did not understand, but the tone carried respect.
March ended with rain.
Not the gentle kind, but the kind that pulled winter's last filth into the gutters and carried it away. The river ran dark and full. Ships passed one another without waiting. The city moved.
Thomas stood in the shop doorway that evening and watched it.
The war had ended months ago. Peace had been signed far away. But only now, with thawed roads and moving water, did the consequences begin to flow where they could not be easily stopped.
Channels once cut did not close easily.
Thomas turned back inside and closed the door.
April would bring new pressures. New demands. New expectations.
He intended to meet them all the same way he had met winter:
Measured.
Prepared.
And unafraid of being early.