Author's Note: When I wrote Day of Reckoning, I had not planned on a second part. This started out as two different stories and merged into one, and then morphed into the second part of DoR. I have a few more random ideas, but I don't know when or if I'll be able to sketch them out. For now, what you see is what you get. This chapter picks up where the first left off.

Pairing: Johnny x Cilla

~BD

Alliance

He has been home for four days; and yet, he feels out of place in a house built for a wealthy merchant. The halls are wide and grand, the rooms equally spacious, and the ceilings high. He can see the craftsmanship in the moldings, the hardwood floors, the staircase, and the thick, lead-glass panes in the windows throughout. He cannot help thinking that he is not good enough for this, and he remembers with slight sadness that once, he believed he was far better than this.

The tiles around the main parlor's fireplace are particularly beautiful. In hand-painted delft blue, crafted by a Dutch artist, they depict scenes from the Old Testament. Among them: Abraham offers up his son Isaac, Moses stands atop a mountain with the Ten Commandments, the Whale that swallowed Jonah surfaces the ocean, Lucifer falls from Heaven, Isaiah the Prophet preaches, Elijah rides in a fiery chariot, David meets Goliath, Daniel prays while surrounded by lions, and at the top center covering three tiles, the Garden of Eden shows the coming downfall of Man as Adam and Eve approach the Tree of Life.

He gazes at them as the fire crackles in the grate. Once, he would have detested the scenes. Old Mr. Lampham reading out of his Bible every morning was enough to create a bitter taste in Johnny Tremain's mouth regarding scripture and church. But now, he sees the craftsmanship for what it is; someone spent painstaking hours delicately painting these pristine tiles for the Merchant Lyte, and he sadly thinks that no one would have created them for Jonathon Lyte Tremain. They are beautifully done; they speak the word of God in a way that Mr. Lampham's dry, reedy, monotoned voice never could.

"Do we need another log on the fire?"

Cilla's voice floats across the room to him and he stirs.

"No. I'll tend it before everyone turns in for the night."

Her skirts rustle as she crosses the room and stops beside him.

"I could stare at these tiles for hours," she whispers. Her fingers trace lightly against the depiction of the dove with the olive branch, returning to Noah during the flood. "The time someone spent to paint them…! It takes my breath away."

"It is an art."

"It makes me think of those stories differently. Somehow, I've learned more from the tiles then Grandfather ever taught me, reading out of his Bible every morning."

He smiles wryly. "I was just thinking the same thing."

Her face lightens at his words. "Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid you might dislike them. I've grown quite fond of them. I was hoping you wouldn't have them ripped out and replaced with something less ornate."

He hesitates, and then drops his hand from the mantel. "No," he says slowly. "I don't dislike them – far from it. As you said, they have much to teach. And it would be a dishonor to the artist to destroy them. But..." he pauses, then murmurs, "It is actually not my choice whether they are ripped out or not."

She glances at him in surprise, her face pensive, but she says nothing further about the subject. Instead, she merely murmurs, "Supper will be ready in a few moments. You should go wash."

Before he can turn, she has left the room, leaving him alone with the tiles.

oOo

The storm howls outside and he can't sleep; he finds himself pacing downstairs in the eerie darkness, restless and tired. The roar of the wind, cracks of lightning, and the booming of thunder reminds him vaguely of the noise he heard in battle.

He finally forces himself to settle in a large chair in front of the fire with a mug of cold ale to calm his nerves. His great-uncle was of far greater width than he is, and the chair is comfortable and large. He stares into the flickering red-hot coals for what may be minutes… or perhaps an hour. He loses track of time completely as the rain lashes the thick windows, but when he hears soft footsteps behind him, he starts violently and nearly drops the mug.

It is only Cilla. Her candle shivers slightly as she clutches her dressing gown about her in a tense sort of way, and she whispers quickly, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

He sinks back onto the chair in a moody fashion. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"The storm woke me. Not you, John."

She slowly moves to the fire, places the candle on the end-table, and sits beside him in the wide chair. She is too close by conventional standards – close enough that their bodies brush together, and he feels unexplainably nervous. Is it because she is calling him by a different name now, one that represents their maturity? When she says John, the word seems to roll off of her tongue in a way that makes his body hum. Is it because she is dressed so informally? But why should he care about that? He grew up with her, after all. He has seen her dressed so before, when they were children.

Still, he has noticed that he is paying a lot more attention to her clothing since he's returned. And how she looks. How the boned bodice of her corset makes her gowns hug her frame. How the subtle curves of her breasts are push upwards, how her skirts hang on her hips in waves of fabric. How her dressing gown clings to her; how her long, pale-golden braid hangs over her shoulder from beneath her nightcap.

"Are you all right?" she asks softly, looking up at him.

He starts to gruffly tell her that he is fine, before his conscious gets the better of him and he mutters, "No, not particularly. Ever since the war, I dislike storms."

When she looks confused, he clarifies, "The noise. It reminds me of… things."

Her eyes widen. "Oh. I didn't realize…" She trails off, looking uncertain as to what she should or shouldn't say.

"It's not your fault."

They sit in silence for a few more moments, before she shifts and rests her head against his shoulder. His body immediately tenses, and his breath quickens. He has no idea what to do, and he thinks briefly of the Lornes – upstairs, asleep! What if Mr. Lorne or Aunt Jennifer were to wake and come downstairs? If they saw how comfortable the two of them are, sitting so close together…?

Cilla's hand gently touches the collar of his dressing jacket, the one she and Aunt Jennifer sewed for him only a couple of days earlier.

"Does this fit you well?" she murmurs.

He swallows and nods. She asked him the same question when he tried it on while they were piecing it together.

"The flannel was hard to come by, but Mr. Revere said he thought you would like it."

"Paul is a good man."

"True, but I think you are just as much so."

He starts to tell her that he isn't a good man at all, that he has many faults, including improper thoughts concerning her. But she speaks before he can and diverts him.

"Earlier today – you said something that I didn't understand."

"What was that?"

"It was about the tiles." Her gaze settles on the fireplace, the glowing embers barely lighting the beautifully painted porcelain. "You said it was not your choice whether they were removed or not."

"Because it isn't my choice."

"But that's what I don't understand." She sits up and turns her gaze to him. It is reproachful, and he can't help but notice the spark of annoyance in her eyes. "It is up to you what happens to this house. Mr. Lyte left it to you."

"Lavinia said he did," he answers slowly, his gaze settling again on the red glow of the coals. "But I don't know if he ever transferred the deed into my name or not. It's been eight years. What if he were to return to Boston and demand it back? I have no proof that he put it in my name, only Lavinia's word. And with no written proof, I would be in just as poor a position as I was when he took me to court over that cup."

"Do you think he would do such a thing?"

A strange weariness settles over him. "I don't know. Regardless, I must contact Lavinia and be certain. Has she ever contacted you, or your ma?"

Cilla shrugs. "She's written ma once or twice, to let her know Ishannah is doing well. But Ishannah has never written, and Miss Lyte has never once said anything about the house or sent papers here for you."

"That's not surprising. Those papers would be exceedingly important. Lavinia wouldn't trust them to just anyone, and especially not your mother."

There is a long pause, and he finally leans his head back on the chair and closes his eyes to the ceiling. "I'll go to the courts in a few days. Maybe someone can assist me there."

She rises beside him, and he glances at her. Her wrap slips open just a fraction, and the curve of her breast against her night dress distracts him. He wonders if she did it on purpose, but he doesn't move, and he hopes she will leave him before he does something inappropriate. She moves behind the chair towards the door; then, unexpectedly, her soft lips press against his hair, sending tingles down his arms and legs. She whispers, "Good night, John. Don't stay up too late. Get some sleep if you can."

oOo

It is still raining the next day, and so he stays indoors, helping Mr. Lorne set type. Such was once Rab's job, while Johnny's was to deliver the papers, but times have changed. He is oddly lonely helping Mr. Lorne without Rab - lonely in a way he hasn't been since Rab died.

Because he is thinking about Rab, he is also exceedingly careful not to get ink on the new clothes that Aunt Jennifer, Cilla, and Bessie have made for him, or on the leather apron that was once Rab's. He remembers how Rab could boil ink and not get a drop upon his person. He will make certain he does no less.

It is while setting type that he finally speaks to his employer.

"Mr. Lorne?"

The man is checking sheets of newspaper to make sure the ink is dry, and answers absent-mindedly. "Hm?"

"Has the Lyte family ever contacted you during the past few years about the house?"

Johnny doesn't look up when he asks this question but focuses instead on the metal letters before him. He doesn't want the Lorne family to think he is pushing them out, and it is a hard subject to approach.

"No." Mr. Lorne does not sound any different than when he spoke a moment earlier. "I haven't heard or seen anything. I thought Merchant Lyte gave the house to you at the start of the war, didn't he?"

"Lavinia said he did." Johnny frowns. "But I don't know whether the deed was ever transferred. It's something I'll have to look into. I'll need to check the taxes, as well. If Merchant Lyte hasn't paid them, there's no way I could, and we would eventually be forced from this place."

Mr. Lorne nods, his expression thoughtful, and returns to checking the papers. "Our old house and shop are both still standing. I check them weekly to make sure no one has broken in or is using them without permission. We only stayed here through the war since the militia and the British were both under orders not to disturb this property, and I needed to protect the press, but we can move back there, now. With the war is over, there should be no serious danger towards the newspaper."

"You could stay here as long as you like, if it were entirely up to me," Johnny replies. "I can't imagine Merchant Lyte wanting his property back, but I don't trust him. What if he deliberately didn't pay the taxes so I would have to default into bankruptcy? I can't take that chance."

"If he's still alive." Mr. Lorne frowns. "He was in bad health when he left for England, wasn't he?"

"He was. I wondered if he's still alive, too."

"Well. Probably best you check at the courthouse."

"I'll go there in the next day or so. I spoke to Cilla last night and said I would."

"Speaking of Cilla…" Mr. Lorne suddenly runs a hand behind his neck, seemingly embarrassed.

Johnny glances at him, decides he should have expected the conversation to turn this way, and he returns to setting the type so he won't have to look at Mr. Lorne.

The man plows on. "I should just come out and say it, I suppose. What I mean is, do you intend to marry her?"

"I'd like to marry her, yes. But I need a steady job to support a family, and if you'll forgive me, I don't think I can do such just delivering newspapers."

"No," Mr. Lorne agrees. "But I do need someone to set type. Cilla has been living with us the past eight years, and Mrs. Bessie. We're an odd family to be sure, but a family nonetheless. Besides, you know how to read better than anyone else I know. And Rab's apron looks good on you."

Johnny gives him a sad smile. "I appreciate your willingness to continue helping me. But I don't know if printing suits me the way it suited Rab, or if I'm suited for Rab's apron. Still, I need to decide soon. I won't marry her without a job."

"That brings me back to the point I wanted to make in the first place." Mr. Lorne looks uncomfortable again. "Now that you're here again, and we're all living in the house together… well, I mean, it's big enough for all of us, and with plenty of room to spare… but, what I mean is…"

"You're wondering if I would do anything improper?"

The man flushes and diverts his eyes to the press. "Despite the size of the house, it is still close quarters. I know you lived with her when you were children, in a much smaller house, but you're both adults now. Young adults, and all that. I remember what it was like to be young. And in love."

Johnny glances at the man and decides to say nothing about the four children Aunt Jennifer has born during the past eight years – Rabbit's siblings. Yes, he supposes Mr. Lorne does still know what it's like to be young and in love. His neck burns and he quickly looks back at the type, realizing he's misspelled a word in his distraction.

"I promise you," he murmurs, correcting the type, "I won't do anything improper."

"Gallant words, John. But sometimes love just shoves gallantry to the side and does as it chooses."

"You're waxing poetic, Mr. Lorne." Johnny stands back from the press, having finished his job for the day, and takes his apron off. "This one is ready to go. Would you mind if I take a break and get some air?"

Mr. Lorne takes the apron and looks at the press, his expression sad. "No, no. Go ahead. I can finish for the day. There isn't much left to do."

oOo

He borrows some of Rab's old clothes to go into town the next morning, feeling self-conscious about the fact that they are an older fashion and the shoulders are too big. The clothes were made for a printing apprentice, not a fine gentleman, and though Johnny doesn't particularly care about such things very much anymore, he also knows that he would be taken more seriously if he were dressed in finer clothes.

He is relieved to find that the records show the taxes have been paid timely these past eight years, by Merchant Lyte's extensive business empire. But there are no notes for him at the tax assessor's office from Merchant Lyte or Lavinia. He almost visits the Lyte counting house on the wharf but decides against it. He cannot go into such a place dressed as he is, for he would not be taken seriously – even if Lavinia informed the staff to watch for him. He will have to wait until Cilla finishes some new clothes for him.

oOo

To his surprise, he does not have the luxury of waiting for Cilla to finish a new set of clothes, for only two weeks later, late in the evening, there is a knock on the front door. The Lorne family, gathered around the fire in various activities, immediately look towards the hall. The children stop playing games, Mr. Lorne rises with his book still in his hands, Aunt Jennifer pauses in her knitting and Cilla from her stitching.

Mrs. Bessie reaches the door before Johnny. They hear her ask sharply if she can assist the visitor.

An islander voice issues from the threshold with a thick, smooth accent: "I've come to fetch Mr. Johnny Tremain to the wharves, ma'am."

The frown in Bessie's voice is evident. "You have, have you? And who are you?"

"I am only to speak to Mr. Tremain, ma'am." The response is polite, but final.

She glances sidelong into the spacious parlor. "Johnny?"

He crosses into the hall, ignoring the fact that everyone is staring at him. To his surprise, he finds a young black youth standing on the step, prim and straight, dressed in clothes finer than Johnny has ever owned: a dark suit embroidered with gold, and dark, short-cropped, tight curls. He reminds Johnny of Mr. Hancock's slave Jehu, from years ago – only this young man is much taller.

Johnny tries not to feel self-conscious and says in a haughty tone, "I am Jonathon Lyte Tremain. Who has sent you? I demand to know whom I am to see at such a late hour, and on such short notice."

The young man glances at him coolly but says politely, "My mistress, Lady Lavinia Greenville. Her ship docked but an hour ago, and though she knows the hour is late, she informed me to tell you that she will be most displeased if you refuse to accompany me. Sir."

oOo

There is no life upon the wharves, for it is late evening. The counting houses are closed and dark, and the tall, silent ships creak slightly in the wind. No life stirs upon their decks; the sailors are either at their cups or sleeping below. It is dark, for there is no moon out this night, and though gentle waves lap against the sterns and bows in ceaseless repetition, they do nothing to soothe Johnny's nerves.

The black youth walks before him. He holds a lantern high; it sways in the light breeze but does not illuminate far.

There are many ships in the harbor, but the lad takes him to one ship in particular – a large and fine ship with the stern brightly lit, casting an odd shine upon the dark surface of the water. He steps aside so Johnny can traverse the gangplank first, and then follows the rear.

At the top of the plank, the Captain greets him with a nod. "Ye must be Johnny Tremain," he says roughly.

"John." It is an automatic correction. He is a man now, and he won't have someone he doesn't know calling him "Johnny", as if he is a child.

"Beggin' yer pardon," the Captain apologizes. "Follow me, sir."

He is taken to the cabin at the stern, the best on the ship, and the Captain knocks on the door and waits for the command to enter. When he does enter, he announces, "Mr. John Tremaine, m'lady."

"Very well. Show him in and leave us."

The voice is still low, with that certain air of honeyed poison to it that Johnny remembers from his youth. As he steps into the cabin and removes his hat, he sees Lavinia sitting primly on a lush chair beside the mullioned windows, the firelight flickering in her eyes as she watches him closely. The door closes with a snap, but Lavinia waits a few moments, and they listen to the Captain's retreating footsteps.

Then, with her fan, she gestures to a seat opposite her, next to the window. "Sit," she commands. "I have come a long way to find you, Johnny."

His lip curls slightly, for he remembers her imperious attitude. Yet he keeps his temper and sits in the chair to face her.

Her face has a few lines, mostly around her eyes. She is aging, and age does not become Lavinia Lyte. Constant worry for her father does not help the process. But her eyes are still dark and broody, and her face is still pale – like polished white marble.

"I see you survived the war." It is a statement, just as disdainful as ever, and he stiffens.

"Yes. I survived. Was my Great-Uncle hoping I would die, so he could reclaim the house?" His own voice is laced with haughtiness to match hers. He is the son of Vinny Lyte, after all, and he will let Lavinia know it.

To his surprise, her mouth twitches, as though she would smile.

But she doesn't. Instead, she snaps, "I will not have you speak of father in such fashion. He has been exceedingly generous to you!"

"Ah. You mean the man who would have seen me hang?"

"Do not interrupt me! I come to find you, after all these years, and this is the treatment I am to receive?"

He hesitates at her glittering fury, and then sighs. "Forgive me. It has been a long eight years. I am no longer who I was."

She watches him closely, before replying in a slightly calmer tone, "The war has changed all of us, I warrant. Myself included. Is the house still standing?"

"It is. The British left it alone, as did the militia. It is in need of repair, however."

"Well. At least it is standing. Repairs can be easily made." She gazes out of the window, watching the black water. "Father was certain it would be burned to the ground."

"He would have liked that, I'm sure. Probably so he could blame it on me."

"Enough, Johnny! If you continue in this vein, particularly where father is concerned, I shall strike you and not regret it. And likely have you thrown into the harbor, afterwards. Cousin or not." She narrows her eyes dangerously.

"It's John, not Johnny."

"As your elder and your nearest living relation, I shall call you as I please. And I believe I instructed you, eight years ago, to call me Aunt."

"The term aunt does not suit you." He remembers when she first suggested he call her aunt, and how the weird hold she'd had on him for so long, suddenly snapped.

"Be that as it may, you will still refer to me thus."

His lip curls. "Very well, Aunt Livinia. What would you have me do with the house?"

She sits back and surveys him critically. "Father's health has been terrible these past eight years, and I am paying handsomely for a nurse to care for him at all times. He is in no state to travel anywhere and will never return to this country. I'm surprised he has lasted as long as he has. After those brutes attacked our country home, I was certain he would not survive for a week, but he has somehow kept on."

He decides not to remark that it is likely hate keeping the old man alive; Lavinia probably would have him tossed into the harbor.

She continues, "However, he has instructed me to write you into his will to ensure that there is money to pay yearly taxes, as we were certain you would be unable to cover expenses on such a fine house yourself. It may be necessary for us to set aside money for future repairs, as well. Perhaps a stipend or a fund, if I do not become too angry with you in the course of this conversation. You are, after all, a Lyte. And blood is thicker than water."

He sobers. "Such would be exceedingly generous of you. You are right – I cannot afford taxes on such a place."

"What is your intention at a profession? I assume you were in the military during the war. Or have you been in Boston all this time, working for that Whig newspaper?"

"No, I was in the army. I was honorably discharged and returned but two and a half weeks ago. Paul Revere has offered me a position in his business when he finalizes the particulars of his new trade, but I do not know what I will be doing as of yet. In the meantime, I will help the Lorne family with the newspaper and printing until something else comes along. Mr. Lorne would like me to work for him permanently, but I do not know that I am suited for printing. The war has made me tired – I do not know that I am good for anything, anymore."

She looks momentarily sympathetic. "What of silver?"

He laughs once, sarcastically. "Silver. It is a cruel jest that I should never be a silversmith. But the fact is, that is a past life. I am too old to apprentice and I would not want to start over, anyways. I intend to marry Cilla Lampham, so I will need a job, not an apprenticeship. I cannot open a shop as a master because I did not finish my original apprenticeship, either. And even if I could, what does the new republic need of silver right now? Few could afford it, even if I could remember how to cast it."

Lavinia rises and moves to the window to gaze out at the water. After a long moment, she murmurs, "I will help support you, Johnny, because I loved Vinny. But you must find a job – I will not have you idle. Your lineage is that of a gentleman, but Vinny's name was stricken from record years ago, and there are still some family members believe it should remain struck – not father anymore, mind, but others. Furthermore, you were not born into the life of a gentleman. I will pay the taxes and set up a trust for you, to be used explicitly for such purposes as taxes and repairs, but not for all of your daily living expenses. Unless, of course, you don't want the house…in which case it can be sold, and the proceeds could go to you. You could then invest the money as you wish."

He hesitates. She is right about one thing – he was not born into the life of a gentleman. Does he want the house? Does he want to live in such a huge mansion, as was designed for one of the wealthiest merchants of Boston? Or could he use the money for a business venture? Would that even be wise?

The thought of the Lorne family swims in his mind. He will need to care for them and see to it that they do not go hungry or cold or fall into poverty. The Lornes gave him a job when he literally had nothing. They clothed and fed him, gave him a bed and a horse. He owes that much to Rab, Mr. Lorne, and Aunt Jennifer. He owes it to Rabbit and the other children. If they wish to move back into their own home, he will not stop them, but he wants them to know he will help care for them, too.

And yet, though he wasn't born into the life of a gentleman, his mother made certain he could read. She gave him three names and brought him up with mannerisms that befit a gentleman, because she could not completely forget her past life, either.

Lavinia guesses his thoughts. "Vinny made certain you were raised a little differently than a mere apprentice. I would have expected nothing less of her. What of the counting houses? Father has some connections, still. We could arrange for one to hire you. Your hand is not as it once was, I see. Can you write again? Legibly?"

He follows her sharp gaze to his hand, and he moves the thumb. "Yes, I can write legibly, though perhaps not as beautifully as some. Doctor Warren cut the thumb free after the battle at Lexington so I could take Rab's place in the war. But I don't know if the counting houses would want me due to my age."

"Nonsense. You can read and write better than the majority of people in this town, and you would probably make a fine merchant in time." Her eyes suddenly have a strange light to them. "In fact, perhaps I could take you on under father's business. There are men enough to train you properly, and you would learn quickly. You could then manage the business assets in Boston. At least until father dies – at which point, you and I would become business associates. Perhaps partners, if my Lord agrees."

"But I was not raised an apprentice in a counting house. The other merchants would not favor me. They would believe I was overstepping my boundaries, not having apprenticed properly for the course of seven years as a lad. It would be exceedingly difficult for me to accomplish anything."

"Actually, the reality is that you have many connections as a result of your Whig activities," she says with slight disdain. "And father has many connections as a result of his extensive worldwide business and his Tory sympathies. You would be well connected on both sides, in London and Boston. Few people would be openly hostile towards you, for fear of losing a business alliance with the Lyte family. You could help father, and he you. Or rather, I would help you, as father does nothing these days. My Lord and I manage father's assets and ventures. Father trained me as well as any of his employees, if not more so." She begins pacing, plotting. "I did not consider it before, and it is something I will have to discuss with them both. It is a capital idea."

"Unless your father dies before you get back to England."

"Do not say things like that," she snaps.

"I did not mean it to be rude," he says quickly. "I only meant – you mentioned his health is still quite fragile…"

Her face relaxes from the harsh lines as her anger fades. Worry replaces the irritation. "It is. But despite that, he asks for weekly reports, even though I insist his heart is not strong enough to handle business." She pauses and gazes out of the stern windows, across the water. "Will you think on it, at the least?"

He hesitates, but finally nods. "Very well. And in the meantime, I can assist Mr. Lorne. He cannot pay me much, but I owe his family a great deal."

"I will stay for a few days longer and speak with our associates here in Boston. I will introduce you to several key men, but we must have better clothes for you than these." She glances at him with her lip wrinkled back. "You cannot do the work of a gentleman in homespun yank clothing."

"I do not own anything else," he reminds her, his temper fraying slightly and his tone belying his annoyance. "I only just got back from the Army. I have no money with which to buy clothes – they couldn't even pay us most of the time! I'm still owed back-wages! Cilla and Mrs. Lorne and Mrs. Bessie sewed me these to ensure I wasn't dressed in rags!"

"Oh, very well." She huffs. "I suppose I'll have to see to that, too. We must have you fitted and new clothes made up at once. Then I will take you to a trusted advisor at one of our firms who can train you without resenting you for usurping any positions. Someone I know personally, who has no heir to take his business. Within a few months, you can start managing some of the other firms. I'll see to details tomorrow. Be back here at ten o'clock sharp in the morning, and we will start our errands. Do you understand?"

He sighs. Lavinia will have her way, and he can't seem to argue with her. A merchant, or even working as a clerk in a counting house, would be infinitely better than nothing. Certainly better than riding Goblet through town with newspapers, as though he were nothing more than a fourteen-year-old child again…or even setting type with Mr. Lorne, when he was never a printing apprentice in the first place and only knows of the trade from what little he learned watching Rab all those years ago.

"Very well," he agrees.

She smiles for the first time since he walked into the cabin and extends her hand to take his. "I have a feeling," she says, as she grasps his hand as a man would, "that you and I will be the most excellent of business partners, John."