Hannah looked too long and too hard, and somehow the woman felt her gaze and returned it. And in an instant, Hannah knew. It was Miguel’s friend, the widow.

The woman glanced over, and her pretty gaze locked with Hannah’s, and recognition washed over the widow’s face.

And the widow recognized more than her face; she knew with an understanding beyond words that Hannah was on a secret errand-and Hannah, though she could not say how, understood that the widow was on a secret errand of her own.

The widow smiled at Hannah and then raised a finger to her red lips in a gesture of silence, absolute and unambiguous. Hannah would see it again in her dreams. She would see it whenever she closed her eyes. It was with her when she wandered, dazed as a soldier limping off the battlefield, back toward the secret church, where Annetje returned her clothes and tried to make idle chat as though they had only been teasing each other like little girls.

Hannah had no mind to make chatter, to forgive Annetje-or not to forgive her. She could only think of that finger to those lips. It would be some days before Hannah was to learn whether this gesture had been a command or a promise.

On Monday the Exchange opened once more, and Miguel approached the Dam with an excitement fueled partly by an eagerness to see how his affairs closed and partly by the three bowls of coffee he’d taken that morning. He deserved a reward for having freed himself of the brandy futures, and he’d been unable to resist any longer the seductive odor that had begun to permeate his chamber. That morning he’d slipped off to the kitchen for a mortar and pestle. Back in the cellar, he’d removed the bag, which seemed not so full as he recollected. No matter, he told himself, and ground the coffee into a coarse grain and mixed it with some sweet wine, stirring constantly, hoping to see the grains dissolve. He then recalled that this was not sugar or salt, so he let the grounds sink to the bottom and drank deep.

It was not as good as what he had taken with Geertruid, or even what he’d tasted at the Turkish tavern, but he nevertheless liked the way the bitterness and the sweetness played off each other. He took a sip and savored how the coffee washed into his mouth like a kiss. He sniffed at the bowl and looked at it in the light of the oil lamp. And before he finished, he knew he would make another helping.

As he poured the coffee, he nearly laughed aloud. He had made himself one bowl, only one bowl, and he had done it badly-this much he knew because he had tasted better-and he still could not resist the urge to drink another. Geertruid had been right. She had latched onto something that would bring them wealth, if only they could find a way to act quickly and decisively. But how? How, how, how? Miguel grew so agitated he kicked one of his shoes across the cellar and watched it fall to the floor with a satisfying thud.

“Coffee,” he muttered to himself. But drinking it would have to be enough for this moment. He still had too much to do.

Miguel stood before the Town Hall, that great palace of white stone built by merchant wealth. Not the smallest chunk of marble could be found in all the United Provinces, yet the interior was lined with marble, countless tons of the stuff-marble and gold and silver everywhere, the finest paintings upon the walls, the finest rugs upon the floor, exquisite woodwork and tiling. Miguel had once taken pleasure in strolling about the Town Hall, with its bank and courts and prisons, exploring the public spaces, dreaming of the opulence hidden in the private chambers of the burghers. Since he had learned firsthand what secrets lie in the private chambers of the Bankruptcy Office, the Town Hall had lost its charms.

Miguel looked up and saw a shadow directly in his path. A few quick blinks of the eyes and the figure came into focus: short, rounded, with long hair and a neat beard. He was dressed in a suit of bright blue, the color of the sky, and he had an enormous wide-brimmed hat to match, pulled to just above his heavy-lidded eyes: Alonzo Alferonda.

“Lienzo!” he shouted, as though they met only by happenstance. Wrapping one arm around Miguel’s shoulder, he continued to walk, dragging Miguel with him.

“By Christ, are you mad to approach me in this place? Anyone might see us together.”

“No, I am not mad, Miguel, I am your most ardent well-wisher. There was no time to risk with notes and errand boys. The business with Parido and whale oil: it is to happen today.”

“Today?” Now it was Miguel who led. He pulled Alferonda down the narrow path behind the Nieuwe Kerk. “Today?” he said again, when they stopped in the damp darkness of the alley. A rat stared at them defiantly. “What do you mean today? Why do you say today?”

Alferonda leaned forward and sniffed. “Have you been drinking coffee?”

“Never mind what I’ve been drinking.”

Alferonda sniffed again. “You’ve been mixing it with wine, haven’t you? You waste your berries that way. Mix it with sweet water.”

“What do you care if I mix it with the blood of Christ? Tell me about whale oil.”

The usurer let out a little laugh. “It’s certainly put the devil into you, hasn’t it? Don’t give me that look. I’ll tell you what I know. My contact in the East India Company, a ruddy little fellow who owes me forty guilders-he sent me a note this morning.”

“I don’t need every detail of your discovery. Just speak.”

“The thing is, the whale oil trade will happen today.”

Miguel felt a pain build inside his skull and burst like a musket’s report. “Today? I haven’t yet bought my whale oil futures. I was waiting for after reckoning day.” He spat on the ground. “The rottenness of it. All planned as it was, and now for nothing-for want of a single day. I would have bought those futures tomorrow morning.”

“Forget futures for a moment.” Alferonda shook his head. “You’ve been trading so long in airy pieces of paper that you neglect simple commerce. Go buy whale oil-not futures but the thing itself. You may recall that the rest of the world still transacts their business in that quaint manner. Then, before the close of the Exchange today, you may turn around and sell what you’ve bought at a handsome profit. It’s all very simple.”

Miguel let out a laugh and grabbed Alferonda’s shoulders. “You are right. It is simple, I suppose. Thank you for the warning.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m always happy to lend a hand to my friends.”

“I know you are,” Miguel said, shaking his hand, Dutch style. “You’re a good man, Alonzo. The Ma’amad knew nothing when it treated you so rottenly.” Miguel now wished for nothing so much as to break free and get to work on the Exchange. Geertruid was right: coffee is the drink of commerce, for the coffee he’d swallowed that morning, now combined with greed, proved too powerful a pull to be ignored.

“Before you scurry off,” Alferonda said, “I wish to ask you something. I heard that Parido helped you broker brandy futures that had been dangling around your neck like a noose.”

“Yes, that’s so. What of it?”

“What of it? What of it, you ask? Let me tell you, Miguel, that Solomon Parido does not forget a grudge. If he has helped you, it is because he has some other scheme in mind, and you would be wise to be on your guard.”

“Do you imagine that such thoughts never occurred to me? Parido is from Salonika and I am from Portugal. He grew up a Jew; I grew up pretending to be a Catholic. In a war of deception, he can never hope to defeat me.”

“He defeated me,” Alferonda said bitterly. “He may not be as sharp as we Secret Jews, but he has the power of the Ma’amad and that counts for a great deal. Before you dismiss him so lightly, you had better think of the bitterness of never being able to enter a synagogue on Yom Kippur, of never again attending a seder for Passover, of never again greeting the Sabbath bride. And what of your business dealings? Would you see them crushed, your colleagues fear to trade with you? If you plan to trade in coffee, my friend, you had better keep an eye on Parido and make sure he doesn’t sour your scheme.”