New York City — July 1764
July arrived with noise.
Not celebration—there was none of that—but the steady clatter of a city pressed too tightly into summer. Windows stayed open late. Voices carried farther than intended. Tempers rose with the heat, and words that had been held carefully in June now began to slip free of their handlers.
Thomas Hawthorne treated July as a month for testing lines.
Not the lines he drew, but the ones others believed existed.
The shop shifted its rhythm again, subtly. Work began earlier still, before the heat took hold, and slowed by afternoon when tempers frayed. Deliveries were spread thinner and moved more often. Nothing large enough to attract notice sat idle long enough to be counted twice.
Crowell adapted without being told. His wagons moved at hours when inspectors preferred breakfast or supper. He never avoided them outright—only arrived when their attention was elsewhere. Crowell did not boast about this. He did not need to. His men were paid. That was enough.
Margaret adjusted the ledgers to reflect the new pace. She marked not only dates and quantities, but intervals—how long a crate sat, how quickly a wagon returned, how often a clerk asked the same question twice. The book had become a map of patience.
Samuel Pike's leg troubled him more in the heat. Thomas moved him to oversight entirely, where his eye for measure mattered more than his strength. Pike accepted the change without protest. Men who had survived loss learned to recognize preservation when they saw it.
Jonah Mercer began training Henry Collins's apprentice in fitting iron bands, keeping the work slow and precise. No one rushed the boy. Rushing made mistakes. Mistakes made attention.
Pieter spoke English more fluidly now, though Dutch still crept in when he thought. Thomas did not correct it. Meaning carried through. That was sufficient.
The first open argument of the summer arrived at midday, when heat made discretion difficult.
A group of dockworkers gathered near the shop, voices raised, arms cutting the air. Thomas heard fragments as he stepped outside.
"—they tax sugar—"
"—they watch everything—"
"—what was the war for—"
Thomas did not intervene.
Crowell watched from across the street, eyes narrowed. "They'll draw notice," he said quietly.
"Yes," Thomas replied. "And learn where it comes from."
The argument dissolved on its own within minutes. Men who lived by their hands knew when to retreat. No officers arrived. No papers were taken. The city absorbed the noise and moved on.
But the line had been crossed.
Two days later, James DeLancey sent another letter.
This one was shorter.
There is concern.
Thomas read it once and set it aside.
Concern was not a request. It was a warning delivered politely.
He attended Mass the following Sunday with that word sitting heavy in his thoughts.
Father Keane preached on obedience—carefully chosen passages, delivered without emphasis. Obedience to conscience. Obedience to responsibility. Not obedience to arbitrary demand.
Afterward, as the congregation thinned, Keane spoke quietly.
"They are listening for agitation," the priest said. "They hear it everywhere now."
"They will," Thomas replied. "Because they are afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of not being needed," Thomas said.
Keane studied him. "You speak of men, not institutions."
"Institutions are made of men," Thomas replied. "They forget that at their peril."
Mid-July brought the first request Thomas refused outright.
Edmund Shaw arrived with a folded paper and an expression that suggested he already regretted carrying it.
"They want declarations," Shaw said. "Not invoices. Declarations of intent. Where goods are expected to go before they go."
Thomas shook his head. "No."
Shaw winced. "I told them you might say that."
"I will say it again," Thomas replied. "I do not declare intentions I cannot control."
"They say it's necessary for order."
"It's necessary for prediction," Thomas corrected. "Order follows behavior, not promises."
Shaw hesitated. "They may insist."
"Then they may insist elsewhere," Thomas said.
Shaw left looking lighter and heavier at the same time.
Pressure rose in the streets as the month wore on.
Pamphlets appeared—some angry, some clever, most poorly reasoned. Thomas read none of them. Pamphlets were for men who wanted to be heard. He wanted to remain useful.
Merchants argued more openly. Clerks spoke less freely. Soldiers lingered longer at corners.
Through it all, work continued.
Thomas sold raw boards to three more shops that would otherwise have closed. He refused to sell finished goods to anyone who asked. He expanded transport coordination, quietly assigning Crowell's wagons to routes that reduced congestion rather than avoided scrutiny. He did not hoard. Hoarding created enemies. He did not flood. Flooding created resentment.
At the parish, Father Keane adjusted schedules again to avoid crowds at any single hour. Thomas provided additional benches without carving or ornament. Plain wood was harder to criticize.
Patrick Doyle copied contracts now, not to draft them, but to learn their weaknesses. He asked fewer questions. That worried Thomas more than the questions ever had.
"Speak when something troubles you," Thomas told him one evening.
Patrick nodded. "Yes, sir."
"And when something excites you," Thomas added. "That's when men make mistakes."
Patrick thought about that for a long moment. Then nodded again, slower.
Late in the month, a man Thomas had not met before came to the shop after closing.
He did not give a name at first. He did not need to.
"I represent several interests," the man said, voice calm, accent careful. "They wish to know whether you would support… continuity."
"Define continuity," Thomas said.
The man smiled faintly. "Calm streets. Full markets. Predictable behavior."
"And at what cost?" Thomas asked.
The man hesitated. "Some compromises."
Thomas waited.
"Declarations," the man said finally. "Prior notice. Cooperation."
Thomas shook his head. "I cooperate with reality," he said. "Not with assumptions."
The man studied him for a long moment. "That will be remembered."
"So will everything else," Thomas replied.
The man left without anger. That was more troubling than if he had shouted.
July ended with heat that refused to break.
The city felt stretched, like a rope pulled too tightly for too long. Something would give eventually. The question was not whether, but where.
Thomas stood in the shop late one night, listening to the forge tick as it cooled.
The lines he had drawn—of supply, of labor, of quiet cooperation—still held.
Others were testing them now.
That was inevitable.
He closed the door and went to rest, knowing August would demand not patience, but choice.
And choice, once made, could not be taken back.