"Is there something you want?"

"That printing press."

Annabet gave the man a second, closer look. He had ink-stained clothes and looked old enough to be a master. If so, he was one of the young ones.

"It belongs to my brother," Annabet said. "I'm not allowed to sell it."

"Are you allowed to talk about the Committees of Correspondence?"

Annabet considered the man a third time. From the age and amount of stains on his clothes, she thought he was married to a lazy wife-if he was married at all. She started toying with her crochet hook.

"Who is your master?"

"Herr Groenenbach."

"Friend to the mayor and uncle to Gottfried?"

The journeyman printer sneered, but nodded. "My name is Paul Klaussen. Herr

Groenenbach is too lazy to want to train a new apprentice and too cheap to let me do it for him." His sneer turned into a snarl. "But he's more than willing to buy his friends on the council round after round of beer." He bit off the rest of what he was going to say.

Annabet stared at the crumpled, nearly illegible pattern in her basket while she twirled the hook in her fingers. Then she considered Klaussen one last time. She read his sullen expression easily. Her dead fiance wore that same look often before he ran off to be a mercenary.

"My brother, Johann, left for Grantville four days ago. I don't know how long it will take him to walk there, buy patterns, and walk back. I don't even know that I trust the Americans when they say they want equality for all.

"I do know this. The Committee of Correspondence has given me work when no one else would."

"Then we will speak of work." He sat down next to her and shoved the pry bar under the bench. "Show me the pattern your brother messed up."

Five days later, Karl entered the shop. He trailed Bertha and carried a short bench over his shoulder with one hand and held a tall, narrow table with the other. Two youngish maids took them with a glad cry. The small cluster of women rearranged themselves and reapportioned the lamps, each one trying for the best light.