was barbaric, but I don’t think there was any other way.”
“Sounds like a cruel way to live, but I understand,” Will sympathized.
“It is,” Madison confirmed.
“Which is why I must find Vivie,” Franklin sighed. “She’s all I have.”
The bartender placed the tab between the men. Hamilton flipped it open and puzzled for a moment. “How should we settle this? I have a card.”
“As we are elected representatives, we can claim it as a public debt, and set up a national bank to borrow money from itself through the taxation of our fellow diners to service the bill,” Madison chided humorously.
“Oh no,” Franklin complained. “Here we go.”
“Naturally, sir, as a luxury spirit, if the appropriate tax were in place, then the public would benefit from its collection,” Hamilton suggested.
“Or we could send in the army to enforce payment,” Madison mocked.
“If payment is required, then the means are authorized. That’s necessary and proper, wouldn’t you say?” Hamilton jabbed. “At least it’s less dubious than reconciling a vote just to have the capital moved a little closer to your front door.”
“Hey look over there,” Madison spit. “Is that Aaron Burr?”
“Oh you want a duel do you?” Hamilton snarled. “Then a duel you shall have.”
“Gentlemen!” Franklin interrupted loudly. “Split, please.”
Madison and Hamilton sneered with playful scorn. Both flipped out their wallets, and threw down their credit cards in the barman’s leather bill book. Franklin rolled his eyes and looked over at Will.
“Lawyers!” Franklin huffed sarcastically, and then implored Will. “Do you believe me yet?”
Facts Are Stubborn Things
In another elegant hotel lobby, just steps from the hallowed Hall, Will treaded awkwardly. Tailored guests walked intently past. Will was respectably dressed, but still stood out, or at least felt exposed. He strode past, nervous, hands in pockets, body closed. He submissively avoided everyone, afraid of what other monolithic historical figure he might encounter. Getting along with Franklin and the Generals was pleasant, but now the enormity of personality of his new comrades was causing prescription-worthy anxiety.
His only instructions were to rendezvous with Washington. As a young man, carrying a massive secret, dodging enemy combatants with invisible snares set all around, he could sympathize with the messengers that were in service during the Revolution. This was not going to be a chance encounter though. This was his moment of address to the Commander-in-Chief, his delivery of value to the cause. For once it was a good thing it was so hot, otherwise his sweating would have given away his panic.
There were many people lounging around in small groups. Most had taken to an embellished cocktail from the adjacent salon. Finding an open chair, Will sat and turned away from the curious gazes of everyone else in the room. Tucked privately in the next outcropping of chairs, a dignified elderly woman with white hair sipped from a massive coffee cup, under which she diligently held her saucer. She smiled kindly at Will as he settled into his seat.
The voices around him were hushed, with occasional chuckling disturbing the civility of the environment. Eyes darting and immediately retracting if anyone’s head turned his way, Will spied on the occupants of the room. Any more surprises and he might finally start to lose his cool. Whatever composure he’d tempered on the football field had been almost depleted in the last few days.
Will felt someone’s stare on him. The old woman sitting nearby had leaned over and looked curiously at him. The parallel chair suddenly wobbled. A head emerged from seclusion behind the seat and turned around to look at Will. It was Washington, who immediately stood. Will jumped to attention as the President marched over with an outstretched hand.
“Good afternoon, William,” said Washington.
“Hello, sir.”
“Please excuse me, I didn’t realize you had arrived. Come join us,” Washington invited.
Fortunately, Washington turned away before dread reappeared on Will’s face. He tucked the folds of his shirt back in and followed. As he approached the woman who had been drinking coffee, she carefully put down her cup and stood to receive him.
“This is my wife, Martha,” Washington introduced.
She held out her hand daintily, with her palm down and curled fingers.
“Hello, dearie,” Martha said in the most grandmotherly way.
Unsure of how to properly greet a First Lady, Will bowed slightly and took her hand. With a queenly acknowledgement she motioned for him to sit beside her. She retrieved her coffee and took a graceful sip. Her lips parted momentarily to aerate the brew. Her eyes fluttered as she swallowed.
“Would you like some coffee, darling?” She asked Will.
“The dark roast is excellent,” Washington suggested. “Naturally, because it must be one of Martha’s.”
She nodded politely. “You are too kind, love.”
Washington’s lips moved almost to smile as he spoke to Will. “My wife owns a network of coffee plantations and distribution. We have since prospered from her perfect foresight for consumption economics.”
“Well, I certainly don’t host any tea parties,” Martha winked.
Will couldn’t help but marvel at how all the little historical footnotes nestled together. They were perfect caricatures of themselves. They were exactly the way they should be: real, and yet flawlessly unreal. He felt at ease with them.
“So,” Martha addressed the mortal, “tell me all about this adventure of yours. It sounds like a harrowing affair for a young man with so many worldly concerns.”
“Not entirely unprecedented,” Washington reminded.
“You no longer qualify for secret service protection, Mr. President, so don’t think for one moment that I’m going to let you charge off with Nathanael again,” Martha scolded.
Washington grinned and rubbed her knee. The suspicious squint she fired over her coffee reinforced her seriousness.
“Just doing my civic duty,” Will offered with approval from the President.
Madison appeared, accompanied by a tall, red-haired man. As they descended the lobby stairs, Washington signaled to them.
“Please forgive our late arrival,” Madison apologized. “There remain far too many pseudonymous opinions to promptly render on behalf of public interests.”
Martha sharply insulted the new company. “It is one thing to hide behind your pen, Mr. Jefferson, but quite another to hide behind someone else’s.”
Will stiffened up at the recognition of the name. His halted breath choked his cognizance, until everything around him faded from sight except for the stately man standing in front of him.
“Unity, Martha,” Washington urged under his breath.
After a moment of tension, the red-haired man vacantly allowed the sting to pass unavenged.
“A passion which I will endeavor to moderate over yet another century, Madame,” Jefferson quelled.
Madison cleared the air. “Excuse us, William. Administrative clashing can be a forgivably smutty hobby with respect to national interests. Certainly, concern for our young constituents is the predominating incentive.”
Washington nodded with Madison’s sentiments, as Martha cooled with Jefferson’s submissive avoidance. Finally she broke with an accepting smile and acknowledged his unspoken offering of harmony.
“Willian Mith, Thomas Jefferson.” Madison introduced.
“Mr. Mith, a pleasure,” said Jefferson, taking Will’s hand firmly and dominantly capping the embrace with his other. He shook tightly three times, perceiving Will’s amazement. Though with a solemn air, his sympathetic smile and slight nod was inviting.
“Nice to meet you as well,” Will stammered with awe.
Jefferson continued, “I do not believe, and certainly I can’t recall otherwise, a happenstance that could be so ineffectually described as a sordid matter. Yet despite this, your resilience in the midst of
a swirling debacle that may very well grow into a raging storm has given me confidence that your presence here is not only intended, but is essential to our action. Your commitment reminds me much of ourselves when confronted by the aggressive abolition of our society so many years ago.”
Flattered and overwhelmed by Jefferson’s niceties, Will reacted, “Thank…you.”
Jefferson tilted his head with venerable appreciation. “Now, it is not my custom to whisk past introductions with new acquaintances so summarily, but for the first time in more years than I care to count, time is suddenly limited. George, may I infer from your earlier comments that the Grail remains in its resting place?”
“It does,” Washington replied.
“In that case, I cannot decide what course to take. I’m assuming that Vivienne knows where it is kept,” Jefferson thought aloud.
“Most likely, but I hadn’t inquired after that specifically. Ben can confirm,” Washington stated.
“Alright,” Jefferson pondered for a second. “Your assertion as to the identities of the dissidents plaguing the entombment of the Grail worries me on that account. If they are capable of the level of espionage that they would assuredly strive towards, then I am hesitant to move the vessel. Any possibility of encroachment on our private lives should not be disregarded, since by impossible means we have already arrived at this point. Under whatever duress Vivienne is currently thwarting, since the enemy has made no obvious movements toward the Grail’s acquisition, we should assume that unless we find her immediately, they will extract the