I had gone from living in a park to sipping fine liquor in a mansion with a very wealthy man in the course of one short night. And at the same time that I longed to sprint back into the darkness – the loneliness that pervaded my very being begged me to linger. I had not spoken to anyone in two weeks, but here I was, invited into a veritable palace of human activity. I could sense at least a dozen servants and family members in the few rooms nearby, their heady scent indistinguishable to all but myself, and the two dogs I knew were in the kitchen.

My benefactor regarded me strangely, and I made myself pay attention.

‘Yes, sir. I found her in a clearing by the remains of the old Seneca Village.’

‘What were you doing in the park so late at night?’ he asked, fixing me with his eyes.

‘Walking,’ I said evenly.

I braced myself for what would come next, the uncomfortable series of questions that would assess my station in life, though my ripped clothes surely gave some indication. If I were him, I would have pressed a few dollars into my hand and sped me out the door. After all, New York was not short on predators, and though he couldn’t know it, probably could not even imagine it, I was the worst sort.

But his next words surprised me. ‘Down on your luck, son?’ he asked, his expression softening. ‘What was it – tossed out of your father’s house? A scandal? Duel? Caught on the wrong side of the war?’

My mouth gaped open. How did he know I wasn’t just some vagrant?

He seemed to guess my thought.

‘Your shoes, son, show that you are obviously a gentleman, regardless of your current, eh, circumstances,’ he said, eyeing them. I looked at them myself – scuffed and dirty, I hadn’t shined them since Louisiana. ‘The cut is Italian and the leather is fine. I know my leather.’ He tapped his own shoe, which looked to be made from crocodile. ‘It’s how I got my start. I’m Winfield T. Sutherland, owner of Sutherland’s Mercantile. Some of my neighbours made their money from oil or railroads, but I made my fortune honestly