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The night Philip Hamilton was to die was a cold one.
It was late November and the air was thin and sharp. The day had been much darker than it should have been for the time of year, the clouds thick and dense with rain. The wind was in turns harsh and fast, then still and cautious, ripping leaves from the trees and then playing with them gingerly.
Aaron Burr waited, leaning against the cold stone of the gates to the Hamilton house. He was still like a hunting cat was still, a barely concealed tension keeping his back ram-rod straight and his eyes fixed to the front door. Burr had lived many Novembers, many more than he had any right to. The November of 1801 was perhaps the cruellest of all of them. It stretched far too long. Each day seemed to take something from him.
Burr was very used to waiting. He had waited for this November his entire life. From choosing to study medicine in Pennsylvania rather than law at Princeton, to learning to treat heavy trauma and bullet wounds should his plan fail, he had been preparing.
The door moved, opening a crack. Cautiously, a young man—a boy, really—stepped out, but stopped in the doorway, one foot still inside the house. He hung there, debating with himself for a moment, before bracing himself and stepping out completely.
Philip closed the door carefully. He didn’t want to alert his mother.
The grass around his house was grey and dark. Philip spared it a glance before walking hurriedly down the garden path. His breath came in little wisps, and he drew his coat tighter around himself. He pushed the gate open and stepped outside, coming face-to-face with Burr.
Philip stared at him. There was a split-second where Philip struggled to place him, then shock, followed quickly by confusion.
In another life, there was never a pause when Philip looked at him. In another life, Burr had been the one to raise him, he had watched the boy take his first steps. He had taught him to fence. He remembered, distantly, holding the baby boy in his arms, barely a few months old, his big brown eyes too new to focus on his father’s face. That Philip was long dead.
“Aaron Burr—?” Philip’s eyebrows knitted together fleetingly, before he remembered his place and flushed, “Sir.”
Burr straightened.
“Why are you—you’re the seer,” Philip frowned again, “What’s going to happen?”
Burr was used to inspiring dread with his every visit, like a black cat. His presence was a bad omen.
“Do I kill him?” Philip asked, hesitantly. “Are you here to stop me?”
“You don’t kill him,” He said, gently, “You never kill him. And I’m not here to stop you—I don’t think I can, actually.”
Philip relaxed, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re probably here to see my father, aren’t you?” He said, sheepishly, “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Philip made to push past him, but Burr grabbed his elbow, holding him fast. Philip watched the older man, eyes wide.
“Fire your doctor,” Burr ordered.
Philip stiffened. “But, Sir, I need a doctor in case—”
“I’ll serve as your doctor,” Burr said.
Philip hesitated. He tensed and relaxed as objections formed and were discarded. An order from Seer was like one from God Himself, people had a natural urge to obey. It was a power Burr used to hate, but now he couldn’t help but be thankful for it.
“I served as a field doctor for many years during the war,” Burr said, “I’ve treated hundreds of gunshot wounds. I’ll be better than any doctor you’ve hired.”
Philip swallowed thickly, “Okay.”
Burr’s heart was too heavy for him to smile. But he squeezed Philip’s elbow and tried to look a little less grim.
*
When Eacker saw Burr in the boat with Philip, he paled. It looked like he saw a ghost. In a way, he did.
“You can’t be here,” Eacker said, when the boat docked. He didn’t even wait for Burr to disembark, leaning over the bank and glaring down at him, “It’s not—you need to leave.”
Burr looked up at him. Eacker had been about to say: it’s not fair. In another life, Burr might have hated him. But it was hard to when Eacker was so obviously afraid of him.
“What, and leave us without a doctor?” Philip said, climbing out of the boat, “He’s staying. Unless you’re saying you want to back out?”
Eacker nearly recoiled, stalking away.
Philip leaned down and helped Burr out of the boat. The water was dark and foamy. The ground was cold. Richard Price scrambled gracelessly out of the boat after Burr, mud sticking to his knees.
Eacker paced between two trees, tossing his gun from one hand to the other. He reminded Burr of a horse pawing the earth and snorting. The earth was wet enough to leave tracks. The muzzle of his pistol flashed in the low light.
Price and Eacker’s Second met in the centre of the clearing and talked lowly. Strain was clear in both men’s voices. Price used his hands, gesturing quickly, but Eacker’s second stood with his arms crossed, eyebrows knitted together. Eventually, they parted, turning their backs on each other.
Price met Philip’s eye and shook his head solemnly. Philip looked at the ground.
Philip and Eacker stood, guns loaded and ready. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and then, moving in sync, turned around.
The night was cold. The air was still. Burr remembered sitting with his children, lifetimes ago, and teaching them the constellations.
The two young men took a step away from each other.
His Philip always looked young, Burr thought. His cheeks always had puppy fat, his eyes always wet-looking and far too emotional. Perhaps Philip was always young. He never got to grow up.
Price began to count.
Philip’s gun raised in the air.
The two men began to turn.
Burr leaped, tackling Philip.
The bullet tore through Burr’s shoulder. It was like being hit by a train. When he struck the earth, he jolted what was left of his arm and it was like he was shot again. Pain lanced through his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His whole body seized with shock.
Philip scrambled from under him, shouting something Burr’s brain was too fried to understand. That set Eacker off, who started complaining loudly and angrily. Someone—Price, probably—lifted Burr from the ground, slotting his arms under Burr’s. Price jostled Burr’s shoulder and the Seer hissed, gritting his teeth.
“Sorry, sorry,” Price chanted softly, heaving Burr into his lap. He tried hard to tie a tourniquet around Burr’s shoulder, but the flesh was so bloodied and scrappy that it was hard to tell where the wound ended.
Burr ignored him.
“We’re got to get him to a doctor,” Eacker said, and rounded on Philip, “You’ll let an old man die in your place, Hamilton? That’s low.”
“What?” Philip glared, “You think I knew he was going to—I never—”
“Help me lift him!” Price snapped.
Philip startled and stooped to take Burr’s other side, heaving him up. Burr groaned at being shaken about, and Philip shifted his grip, trying to steady him. Blood coated the inside of his fingers.
“Get in the boat,” Price said, fixing Eacker with a glare.
Eacker darted ahead of the three of them, standing in the boat.
“I’m going to lower him on to you,” Price said, sinking one foot into the mud of the bank and bracing himself. He changed his grip on the doctor, as Eacker stretched out to hold him. The three men manoeuvred carefully, shifting the war hero around until they could lie him on the boat floor.
Burr stared up at the sky. There were no stars.
“Hamilton ought to go with him,” Price said, “The boat will travel faster with just two people.”
Eacker fixed Philip with a sour look, “This isn’t over, Hamilton.”
Philip barely looked at him, wading into the water to push the boat off and scrambling on board. He pulled an oar from under the seat and started to row, keeping one hand at Burr’s side when he could, to stop him from rolling.
Aaron Burr leaned back on the boat’s floor. It was hard to think past the ferocious pain in his shoulder. He had already lost a lot of blood and his whole body felt incredibly heavy.
Philip Hamilton eclipsed the moon. His coarse, curly hair glowed softly white in the moonlight. Stress tightening his jaw. He gripped the oar with white knuckles, the boat rocked as he rowed.
The blood on Hamilton’s coat was not his own.
Eacker was wrong. It was over.
*
Aaron Burr woke up vomiting.
Someone shoved him to one side and he felt most of his lunch leave him into a bucket, which luckily wasn’t much. Thick, acrid saliva coated mouth. Acid burned at the back of his throat.
After he had finished dry heaving, a wave of fatigue that hit him like a tide. If someone hadn’t caught him, Burr would have face-planted the remains of his lunch. They lifted Burr back into the bed, pulling the covers back over his legs.
Burr struggled to keep his eyes open.
“Try to relax, my good sir,” Dr. David Hosack said, rubbing circles in his chest, “You just had a big operation.”
Burr looked at him blearily. He was long used to déjà vu, but it was still strange to see the good doctor again.
“The nausea is from ether, I presume?” Burr asked. His voice sounded weak to his own ears.
Hosack nodded, “You’re very lucky. Just a bit further in and down, and you’d have risked a lung.”
Burr reached a hand around to feel the stump where his arm used to be. As soon as he touched it, it woke up. Stabbing pains, like needles being shoved into his joints, sparked up along his whole side. He groaned.
“Just leave it be,” Hosack pulled his hand off the stump.
“How bad is it?” Burr asked.
Hosack paused.
“I’m a doctor,” Burr reminded him tiredly.
“Usually with these surgeries, I cut an envelope of skin around the limb that is to be amputated, so when I cut the muscle and bone, I can fold it around the stump so it seals cleanly,” Hosack said, “but the skin was too damaged to do this with. You have a few open wounds. I treated them, but they’re liable to get infected.”
Burr waited for a moment and then frowned, “The Hamilton boy and Eacker, are they okay?”
Hosack blinked, confused. “As far as I know. I doubt they’ll be quarrelling again any time soon. Eacker’s already getting quite a lot of criticism from the papers for organising the duel, although that’s mainly because you sided against him. You’ve had a lot of visitors of course… people seem to feel very protective over you. I suppose that’s only natural.”
Burr breathed very deeply. He could feel his missing arm like a phantom.
“It could have been a lot worse,” Hosack said, “although, I suppose you knew that already.”
Burr closed his eyes. Very slowly, he nodded.
*
Eliza Hamilton was the first to visit him.
She walked quickly, keeping hands on her dress to keep it from hitting the piles of bottles and tools that littered the doctor’s room. Her expression was a mixture between worry and relief, dark eyebrows knitted together.
Thin strands of dark hair had shaken loose from her neat hat, brushing the ruffles of her dress. When he was tired, Burr’s memories ran together like rivers into the sea. He remembered pulling pins from her long hair and watching it tumble over her shoulders. He remembered kissing her, laughing with her. He remembered her vibrancy, her life.
Eliza sat at his bedside, sorting out her skirts carefully. Philip had his father’s eyes, but he had his mother’s face. They had the same smooth soft cheeks, the same expressive eyebrows.
“You knew what was going to happen, didn’t you?” Eliza said, quietly. “You knew what you were going to do.”
Burr opened his mouth, but closed it again.
Eliza tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ears, eyes flitting around the room, “I… you’re hurt because of my son. I suppose there was no other way, but…”
Burr startled when Eliza reached for his good hand. Her hands were warm and her grip tight. There was so much emotion in her eyes that Burr felt something in him pick up in response.
“Thank you,” Eliza whispered, “Thank you so much, Mr. Burr.”
Burr felt tears prick at his eyes. He only nodded, mute.
*
Alexander visited him next.
Burr hadn’t spent a whole lot of time with the man in this lifetime, but he knew so much about him. He knew more about Alexander than he knew about himself. Just the man’s presence was enough to calm him. He was a rock, a constant.
Alexander sat in the same chair Eliza had, but he looked a lot more guilty than she had been. His shoulders were squared and he wrung his hands in his lap.
“It was my choice,” Burr said.
“And it was my choice to tell him not to shoot,” Alexander said.
“It’s good advice,” Burr said.
Alexander fell silent. His eyes were dark. The lamplight cast strange shadows across his face, in flickers he looked older, colder, a different man entirely. Burr could see the night-sky in the window behind Alexander’s head. It was a dark night, the rain banished but the sky still starless. The hangnail moon glowed a sick, pale yellow.
“I need you to do me a favour, Hamilton,” Burr breathed softly.
“Anything,” Alexander said, immediately.
“This wound...” Burr shifted, wincing as his stump prickled, “...it’s bad. It’s likely to get infected. If it does, I need you to kill me.”
Alexander didn’t look at his stump. He stared straight into Burr’s face, dark eyes hard with the sort of intensity that characterised him like a fingerprint. He stilled.
“I can’t let it spread to my brain. Anything I babble in my delirium will be taken as gospel. I can’t afford to go mad,” Burr said, “This country can’t afford me going mad.”
The other man sighed. He scrubbed his face with his hands, breathing thinly through his nose. Alexander was something like his wife, vibrant and full in a way Burr had always failed to be. Perhaps when you had died as many times as Burr had, it was hard to feel alive.
“Please,” Burr said.
“Alright,” Alexander said.
“Promise,” Burr insisted.
“I promise,” Alexander said, taking Burr’s remaining hand, “If it comes to that… I’ll do what needs to be done.”
*
Slowly, Hosack allowed his fans to visit him.
Some part of Burr wasn’t that enthusiastic about it, but mostly he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to think about Dr. Hosack being forced to field so many requests. Although, he figured later, allowing a certain few visitors only added fuel to the fire.
Most were reporters, all of whom wanted his take on the events. Burr took great care not to put too much blame on Eacker. He was young, and didn’t deserve this incident hounding him for his whole career. They all wanted to spin it into something bigger, a tale of retribution or perhaps an omen. Was Philip Hamilton a great future president? A war hero to be? Did he save America from destruction?
Nobody wanted to believe he was just a boy who didn’t deserve to die.
Philip himself came a few times, bringing expensive pastries and sweet pies. Philip always got halfway through apologising, then switched to thanking him, then cut himself off before he finished, settling for piling more sugary goods onto Burr’s plate. Burr didn’t have the heart to tell him he didn’t have much of a sweet tooth and ate them while Philip fidgeted in the visitor’s seat, tugging on his curls like he did when he was a little boy.
Eacker visited once, brandishing an official statement of the events of the duel. The young man had brought two lawyers with him to seem intimidating, but both of them had served in the war and Burr remembered sewing the larger one’s ear back on. Both lawyers looked oddly sheepish and apologetic. Burr signed the paper anyway, and managed to unload some of the larger pastries onto them.
Philip’s siblings visited him with their mother once, a little crowd of bright, familiar faces. They also brought him food, apparently taking cues from Philip and bringing a huge, deathly-sweet chocolate cake and a selection of iced cookies that were more icing than cookie. Eliza had the sense to at least bring some savoury things too, a few meat pies and some good bread, which he was very grateful for. Most of the children were quiet and well behaved, some awkward, some ignored him completely.
Young Angelica Hamilton sat with her oldest brother’s hand in hers and watched him with an expression both warm and cold at the same time. The young woman’s eyes said: I am glad it was you and not him.
Burr couldn’t agree more.
*
When he was well enough, Burr left the doctor’s house and headed back to his own.
In this life, he had no-one to welcome him back. He had focussed on his medical training and on his writing. This time around, he had written enough texts and essays to rival Hamilton, which had sparked a rivalry that was almost friendly. It was easier to be alone. There was much less confusion about who knew what when.
The streets of New York were as formidable as ever. He kept his scarf up to his nose, breathing through the soft fabric and smelling wool. It was another cold night, which pushed people off the streets and into their homes, but the few pedestrians tried to bait him into conversation. Burr remembered when people had the decency to be afraid of him. Nowadays, people had heard so much about him from his pamphlets during the war and the portraits that circulated to nearly every household in the country, that they felt like they knew him. The American Jeanne d'Arc, they called him. Our Jeanne d'Arc.
His house was small and unassuming, which he liked. The roof leaked, which he didn’t. It had drafts and rats and the odd stray cat that took to urinating in the attic. The paint on the door was chapped and broken where said stray cat sharpened his claws.
Eliza Hamilton waited on the doorstep for him.
Burr stared at her in shock.
Eliza smiled at him, rushing down the garden path towards him, “Mr. Burr!”
Burr bridled, “Can I help you?”
“Help me?” Eliza laughed, “My good sir, you’ve done enough!”
Burr blinked down at her.
“I was wondering if you’d like to join us in the Hamilton house,” Eliza said, “I’d hate to think of you on your own while you’re recovering.”
“I’ll be fine,” Burr assured her, “I don’t wish to trouble you.”
“It would be no trouble at all! In fact...” Eliza trailed off as she noticed a man on the other side of the street urinating on a garden wall, “… well… I don’t think this place is best for someone injured.”
“But my work—” Burr started.
“I’ll have it brought to the house,” Eliza assured him, wrapping an arm around his waist.
Burr quickly saw that there would be no objecting.
“You’ll like it there,” Eliza said, “you can have the big guest room and you can use my husband’s study while he’s away—I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
Burr nodded vaguely, allowing Eliza to guide him back into the street and led him away.
*
The Hamilton house was beautiful.
As he opened the front door, he was treated to the sight of a sweeping, dark mahogany staircase and expensive, thick rugs that nearly gleamed with colour. A painting hung over the staircase, showing a brilliant orange landscape he didn’t recognise.
“You can have the big guest room. It’s opposite the study, on the second floor,” Eliza said. She carried the contents of his desk in her arms, all of the half-finished manuscripts.
Burr nodded, starting up the huge staircase. Usually, wealth didn’t impress him. In his incredible longevity, he had spent evenings eating sixteen course meals in ornate palaces and dancing in embellished ballrooms. But there was something about the Hamilton house that spoke to him, some kind of careful arrangement of ornaments and paintings that felt careful and effective.
“The study is just through here,” Eliza said, stepping around him to push open a heavy wooden door. The study was very clean, but also very empty. Shelves of books bordered every wall, except the farthest one, which had a writing desk and a window that looked out onto the street below.
Eliza set his work down on the writing desk. She sorted it out carefully, setting the pens next to the ink bottles and straightening the thick stack of papers. She stood back, and offered Burr a warm smile. “Is this alright?”
Burr was silent for a long moment. “It’s perfect.”
*
Burr woke up just after midnight with a blinding pain in his shoulder.
It was dark. His covers were unusually heavy and clean-smelling. His shoulder felt like someone had jammed a knife into his shoulder joint and was now trying to yank and twist it back out again.
He didn’t cry out. Instead, Burr let out a string of hoarse whimpers, curling on himself. He was too wary to touch it, so instead his hand hovered over the stump while he breathed heavily into the pillow.
Whoever had stuck the knife in his stump didn’t leave it be but couldn’t get it out either. For hours and hours they just twisted and twisted, twisted and twisted.
*
In the morning, after a breakfast surrounded by his one-time political enemies’ children, in which he could barely eat small chunks of bread, let alone join in the conversation. Nobody seemed to mind, or worry too much, which he was grateful for.
He took some rolls up to the study with him. It was awkward to do everything with just one hand, and he dropped a few rolls before settling on only taking two with him. Philip rushed after him, bringing a tray with cutlery and crockery and laden high with far too many sweet jams and tarts.
Burr allowed Philip to fuss over him for a moment or two before ushering him out of the office and shutting the door firmly behind him.
It was quiet.
Pale yellow light streamed into the study. The edge of the desk was warm in the sunlight, like it was alive. Burr sat down at the desk and pushed his arm into the sunlight. It filtered around his fingers, casting long shadows. The skin between his fingers glowed pink.
He dropped his hand.
The papers scattered across his desk were a mixture of anatomical sketches, structures for proposed medical courses, as well as a couple essays on law he decided against publishing because he technically didn’t have any sort of degree in this lifetime.
In the months leading up to November, he had finished off the important ones and sent them off and made his peace with the ones he hadn’t got to finish. His publisher had been excited by the sudden rush of productivity, and tried to cajole him into writing something more lucrative. Several agricultural giants had been trying to sweet-talk him into writing a list of future droughts and dearths so they could have advance knowledge. Burr had brushed them all off.
In truth, Burr hadn’t expected to survive the November of 1801. A life for a life, that’s what he’d figured the universe demanded.
It looked like fate was finally throwing him a bone.
*
One of Dr. Hosack’s nurses visited him in the Hamilton house to redress his wound. She was a tall woman with slim shoulders and a peculiar quirk to her brow that made Burr feel like he was always doing something amusing.
She peeled the outer bandages off very carefully and checked how the wound was healing. She spent a lot of time looking at it, before simply writing down her observations and leaving. It was so unusual that Burr didn’t even realise she had left until Eliza came in to ask after her.
Eliza then rushed after the nurse to ask, and the nurse, embarrassed, said she assumed Burr would already know how his wound was turning out because he could see the future.
The wound was healing, but slowly.
*
In the night, Burr’s stump woke him again. Instead of staying in his bed, he lit a candle and crossed to the study, where he eventually fell asleep again, face pressed to the still-wet ink of his drawings.
The pain in his shoulder didn’t go away. It haunted him. He felt tired and old, like he had aged a few decades. Waves of dizziness rocked him at random moments, causing him to pause and frown until it dissipated.
He spent his days attempting to write, or more often, reading some of the books Hamilton had been collecting. Working with only one hand was hard, and he often dropped the books or plates and it took him forever to cut up any meal he was given. Slowly, slowly, he learned.
One morning, he woke up in the study to the sound of a piano playing. He had left the window open, and his legs were cold and if it weren’t for the fire in his wound, he might have felt more wax figure than man. He lay, slumped over the desk with one eye open, listening to the soft music while his shoulder burned and howled.
Hesitantly, Burr rose from the desk, pushing the chair back. He opened the door to the study and stood in the doorway, listening.
Sometimes, memories came thick and fast into Burr’s mind, unbidden and powerful like a punch in the mouth. He remembered, vividly, little Philip on his lap as the boy held Burr’s big hands, directing them around the keys, trying to teach his father the melody the boy had perfected only that morning. Burr remembered making deliberately clumsy mistakes and Philip giving his father’s weathered hands stern slaps and redirecting them. There was something infinitely amusing about seeing the little eight-year old boy with the same fiery anger of a harried war general. It was just far too tempting to provoke him.
Burr basked in the memory for a long moment, before setting off slowly down the staircase, following the music.
He walked down the staircase and across the hall into the drawing room. The room was huge and warm. Space had been cleared, presumably to practice ballroom dancing, and the freshly-oiled wood gleamed.
The pianist stopped when Burr entered, and it took him a moment to locate the piano in the large room.
Young Angelica Hamilton turned back to look at him, dark eyes curious. Although she didn’t look exactly like Eliza, she had her mother’s eyes, and her mother’s hair. There wasn’t anything he could directly trace back to Alexander in her looks. Rather, she betrayed her heritage in the way she held herself, shoulders drawn back and eyes sharp, a kind of pride in herself that was infectious and impressive.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Burr said, quietly, “please, keep playing.”
Angelica watched him for a moment longer before turning back to the piano. Her fingers were small and thin and glided over the piano at surprising speed.
Burr pulled a seat up and sat near her and just listening. Watching her play was mesmerising.
Angelica finished up, striking the last key and letting hang, the note fading away slowly. “Any requests?”
“Could you play Amazing Grace?” Burr asked.
Angelica seemed to approve of the suggestion, and began immediately. She kept glancing back at him, and he smiled encouragingly.
“Can I ask a question?” Angelica asked, when the song had hit full swing.
“Of course,” Burr said.
The melody slipped slightly, and Angelica returned her attention to the keys, restarting from the beginning. “Why did you save my brother?”
“He was worth saving,” Burr said.
Angelica nodded.
Her fingers lifted and skimmed the top of the piano. She dropped her hands down and the collection of notes sounded slightly out-of-key and chaotic. Immediately she began to play something new, something bouncy and strange. If it reminded Burr of anything, then it reminded him of his first attempts at making new music. There was no chord progression or development, only a random jump of notes.
“What’s this?” Burr asked.
Angelica stopped. Nervously, she lifted her hands from the piano. “It’s nothing,” Angelica said, “just something me and Philip do when we’re tired of playing sheet music. It’s not very good but it’s fun.”
“I like it,” Burr said.
Angelica flushed and started playing again. Her strange tune was a little more constrained this time, the bounces a little less wild. Still, Burr enjoyed it. She bit her lip, “Can I ask something else?”
“Go ahead.”
“Tell me the future,” Angelica requested.
Burr blinked, “What about it?”
“Oh, you know...,” Angelica trailed off and tilted her head slightly. It was a very Alexander-esque gesture. “What’s going to happen?”
Burr laughed, “How much time do you have? I can’t tell you all of it in one afternoon.”
“Just the bits about me,” Angelica asked, smiling cheekily. Her tune gained some bounce, gravitating towards the high end of the piano. “I want to know what sort of woman I’ll become.”
A light feeling expanding in Burr’s chest. In every version he’d lived, Philip had died. And little Angelica had been broken. She didn’t smile, didn’t talk, spent her days in solitude. She became a living ghost, like a part of her had died with her beloved brother.
Burr had no idea what would happen to this Angelica.
He smiled fondly at her, “I’m not sure I’m allowed to tell you. Giving personal predictions is against Seer code.”
“I won’t tell,” Angelica promised, flipping between two of the highest notes like a trilling bird.
“I’m not sure how much use it would be to you,” Burr said, “After all, once you know what you’ll do, won’t you try to do something else anyway? I don’t really want to do the stuff I see myself doing—it’s too boring. I always wanted to do unexpected things.”
Angelica hummed, and tilted her head to consider that. She seemed to accept it, and started to play in the middle of piano again. “What sort of things can you tell me, then?”
“Something not directly related to you,” Burr said, evenly, “and not something that’s too hard to explain.”
Angelica thought carefully, tune slowing down. “I got something.”
“Well, feel free to ask,” Burr said.
“Tell me which horse wins at the races this Saturday,” Angelica asked.
Burr let out a surprised bark of a laugh, sharp enough to hurt his ribs. Angelica smirked at him.
“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Angelica said, barely containing a giggle herself, “it was a serious question.”
Burr shook his head, still grinning, “I don’t think I can use my powers as a Seer—”
“Oh, blah blah blah...” Angelica interrupted, shaking her head, “You’re a politician not a monk. Come on, don’t you want to buy a big house and eat fine meat and drink classic wine every night?”
“Stop joking, Angelica,” Burr said, “I have everything I need, I make good money from my books. It would just be greedy if I took more than I needed.”
In the political world, this kind of statement would have won Burr great prestige. Humbleness and a grounded nature never failed to win the hearts of voters. But, clearly, during an audience with the young Hamilton, it won him only derision.
“It’s not immoral,” Angelica said.
“It’s cheating,” Burr objected.
“Says who!” Angelica tossed her head, hair shaking in waves, “Think about the horses that win the races—it’s got natural talent. Maybe it’s got longer legs, a bigger chest, a smaller head, stronger lungs—that’s all something they were born with, just like you were born a Seer. Is their win unfair? Are you saying a naturally talent horse shouldn’t be allowed to compete?”
“No,” Burr said, “I’m saying with me there is no competition.”
Angelica shook her head disapprovingly, turning back to the piano.
Her chaotic melody dropped into something more organised, which as he listened, he recognised as Handel’s Tornami a vagheggiar. The music was as lively and bouncy as Angelica’s, but with more care and restraint. It sounded more like the a songbird than things falling on piano.
Memories had a strange way with Burr. Most came upon him gently, some barged right in, slapping him in the face. The rhythm was as delicate and crisp as light rain on a tin bucket. The sharp, quick rises tugged at something inside Burr.
A night, so many lifetimes ago, in a large opera house where the air was too hot and the crowd too loud. A deep, chocolate darkness. Irritation burning in the back of Burr’s throat like whiskey. A woman beside him, her perfume filling Burr’s nose. Not just any woman—the woman—the one he chose back when he was making choices just for himself. The woman curled a hand around his, warm and soft and real, her nails scratching the scar on Burr’s thumb.
Theodosia had leaned over to him, resting her head on his shoulder, and just let out a relaxed sigh, like there was nowhere else she’d rather be. And the heat, the noise, the irritation from a distressing day at work… none of it mattered to Burr any more.
The music stopped.
“Mister Burr, sir?” Angelica asked, “Why are you crying?”
*
At dinner, Eliza had to leave to go to the front door, and Angelica used the opening to pounce on Burr again.
“All I’m saying,” Angelica said, scooting her chair towards Burr, “if you tried to bet on the races yourself—”
“Which I would never do,” Burr said.
“That’s the point I’m making!” Angelica said, impatiently, “They wouldn’t let you because they’re afraid of losing. But if Philip or I entered for you, they wouldn’t know what hit them. For a cut of the profits, of course.”
Burr chewed his beef for a moment, “How big a cut?”
“70-30,” Angelica said, “to us.”
Philip choked on his potatoes, “Angelica! That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”
“There’s more of us, and we’re the ones doing all the work,” Angelica said, “I’ll bump him up to a bigger percentage when he’s proved reliable.”
“I’m America’s prestigious Seer,” Burr said, “you’re going to have to make a more tempting offer for me to potentially give up my good name.”
Angelica rubbed her chin. Eventually, she relented, “50-50.”
Burr smiled.
“Then tell, good sir,” Angelica demanded, “Who wins?”
“George William Frederick,” Burr said, “That’s the horse’s name.”
Angelica nearly bounced out of her seat. “I can’t believe it,” She yelped, “You won’t regret this, Mister—”
“Or,” Burr interrupted, a mock-quizzical look on his face, “was it Jamestown? Perhaps Spot? I’m so old, my memory is getting cloudy.”
Angelica glanced at him, confusion slipping quickly into anger. “You—!” She scowled, “you’re just playing games. The first horse you mentioned is going to win, you’re just regretting telling me.”
“Doubt it,” James Hamilton said from the other end of the table, “George William Fredrick’s the King’s name. Nobody’s going to name a horse that.” Little John started to laugh.
Anger sparked in Angelica and she turned on him, slamming her fists on the table, “You, Mister Burr, you are—!”
“Angelica!” Eliza shouted, opening the dining room door, “How many times do I have to tell you not to raise your voice at people! And at a guest too!”
Like a switch flipped, Angelica changed from angry to embarrassed. She dropped back into her seat, hands clasped demurely in her lap.
Alexander followed his wife into the dining room, “Sorry about that, Mister Burr.”
“It was my fault,” Burr said, “I was teasing her.”
Angelica cut her beef up savagely, taking every opportunity to glare at him.
*
The next morning, Burr didn’t come down for breakfast.
This wasn’t unusual. Burr had an erratic sleeping pattern, and often accidentally overslept.
When he didn’t come down for lunch, that was when Eliza started to worry. She left her children eating and climbed up the broad stairs and crossed to the big guest bedroom. She knocked on the door. When she heard no response, she pushed inside.
It was dark. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
“Mister Burr?” Eliza asked.
A whimper came from the bed.
Eliza dashed to the man’s bedside.
The Seer lay tangled in the sheets, face nearly glowing with heat. Sweat gleamed across his forehead. He was shivering uncontrollably, chest seizing up after every gasp. Eliza pressed a hand to the man’s forehead. It was shockingly hot.
“Mother?” Philip asked from the doorway, “How is he?”
Eliza straightened up, “Get the doctor. Now!”
*
Doctor Hosack dried his hands carefully in the Hamilton kitchen sink, his expression grim.
“Well, doctor?” Eliza asked.
“I’m afraid it’s as I expected,” the doctor said, “there’s an infection in his wound. I tried to remove as much as I could, but the wound hadn’t closed properly. I was forced to cauterise it, but I couldn’t completely clear it and it’s likely to get infected again.”
Eliza paled. Philip, who had been listening from the doorway, turned on his heel and stalked away. “Is there anything we can do?” Eliza asked.
“Wait,” Doctor Hosack suggested, “and hope.”
*
Alexander bumped into a well-wisher outside his front door.
The man was holding a bouquet of yellow flowers, vibrant and smelling strongly of pollen. When he saw Hamilton, he bowed his head, “Excuse me, sir. I was just leaving a gift for the Seer.”
Alexander looked past him. The front of the garden was piled with a small mound of colourful flowers, letters in crisp white paper, ribbons, scraps of lace, even some coins gleamed from between the grass.
“It’s to wish him good luck,” The man said, setting the bouquet down on top of one of the others very gently. “You know, I know Seers don’t live forever, but I don’t want him to think we’ve forgotten about him, just b’cause the war’s over. Sorry about the mess, your missus didn’t open the door to nobody.”
“Why now?” Alexander asked.
The man blinked, “You haven’t read the papers, sir? His wound’s infected.”
*
The first time Alexander Hamilton met Aaron Burr, it was wartime.
For the longest time America’s great Seer didn’t cross paths with him, but he had heard so much about the man. Soldiers that had met him seemed unable to talk about anything else. They talked about Aaron Burr as if he was a myth. Said his eyes were as deep as the starless sky, his voice crackled like thunder. Said when he looked at you—he looked through you. His unfathomable eyes stopped you in your tracks as surely as a bullet would. Once you had met him, you would want to come back.
One long evening, Alexander had to pull one of the men who refused to go to a doctor out of bed and drag him halfway across camp to the medical tent.
And there he was, America’s great Seer, caked up to his elbows in blood and viscera, looking wholly unremarkable.
Burr scrubbed his hands clean before tending to Alexander’s subordinate. He didn’t talk, washing the wound with alcohol before spreading a cooling paste across it. The doctor wrapped it in crisp bandages and tied them off neatly.
Alexander watched him work, more than a little stunned. From all the stories, he had built Aaron Burr in his mind to be haughty and powerful, lauding his gifts over gullible and awe-struck soldiers. That notion was quickly replaced by another feeling, one that was harder to pin down.
Alexander came back. He understood, now, the notion the soldiers had talked about. There was something about Aaron Burr, some kind of quiet mystery that drew you in. Something pulled at all people—medics, soldiers, generals—tugged them towards him like planets orbiting a sun.
Aaron Burr was of average height and build, with eyes so dark it was hard to tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. His work was good, but not impressive or inventive. People forgot what his voice sounded like until they heard him speak again.
It was his manner that enthralled Alexander.
When the Seer dealt with patients, he was so calm and detached it was impossible not to trust him. He could tell them the sky was green and the grass was blue and they would believe him without hesitation.
But more than anything, Burr was a good man. He was kind in a way only really powerful men could be. Kind without the need to be. Kind despite the capacity to be so cruel.
*
The night Aaron Burr was to die was a long one.
The Hamilton guest room was warm and dark, the air smelling strongly of rubbing alcohol. It took Alexander’s eyes a moment to adjust. The embers in the fireplace glowed brightly, leaving speckles of white on the backs of Alexander’s eyes. He stooped by the dusty stone and pulled some matches from the mantle. With three sharp strikes, a flame burst into life. He dropped it in the cradle of ash, followed by a few more logs.
There was a hoarse cough from the bed. Burr pushed himself upwards with one arm, shaking. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
Alexander pulled a chair up next to the bed, “You know, people have been leaving gifts for you in the grounds.”
“I asked Eliza not to let them,” Burr mumbled, closing his eyes.
“Why?” Alexander asked.
Burr said nothing.
“You know, there are a lot of people who really want you to stay alive,” Alexander said, “you’ve got the whole nation of states swaying to your tune. I don’t know how well the government will function without your guidance. Why should we cut your life short before we can really see where the infection is going? It might not even spread to the brain, there’s no guarantee you’ll even lose your mind from the infection, let alone die.”
“This world will survive without me,” Burr said, softly.
“But we don’t have to,” Alexander pushed.
Burr’s head turned towards him. In the gaze of those big, mournful dark eyes, Alexander quietened. “You built this country, Hamilton,” he said, “have faith in it.”
The fire crackled and popped. Cold air wafted into the room from the window. Outside, every star in the heavens was on display, soft pinpricks of light like scattered sugar.
Slowly, Hamilton unbuttoned his coat and slipped a hand into his inner pocket. He sat like that for a moment, like old Napoleon, before sighing and producing a metal flask from inside. He held it in his hands for a long moment and then passed it too Burr.
“What is it?” Burr asked, uncapping the flask with his teeth and sniffing it.
“It’s opium-laced tea,” Hamilton said, “it’s very easy to overdose on.”
Burr frowned, “Will they trace it back to you?”
“No,” Hamilton said, softly.
“Hmm,” Burr took long draught from the flask, draining it, “so much of our nation has been trouble by tea.”
Hamilton smiled.
Burr capped the flask and pushed it onto the night stand. He pulled the covers up, settling into the sheets. His eyes drifted shut.
Hamilton wanted to shake him back awake, but settled for talking instead. “Can I asked you a question?”
Burr paused, and nodded.
“Do you know what it’s like to die?” Hamilton asked.
Burr hummed in affirmation, “I’ve died many times.”
Hamilton frowned, not quite sure what he meant. “Are they all different?”
“Naturally,” Burr murmured.
“What’s the worst way to die?”
“Drowning.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Burr’s eyes opened, “It’s terrifying, the sea at storm. The waves are humongous and angry, like living things, great muscles of water. It’s so, so cold… you can feel yourself freezing. You would think you’re numb, but the spitting seawater still stings your eyes. It’s chaos. It’s so loud. You’re so cold. And then—a waves come straight for you, the weight of the water slams you against the mast…”
Burr grimaced. “...then, this sudden—… heat. It’s so sudden and intense, you think you’ve been struck with lighting, but a second passes and you realise it’s pain, white-hot. Almost all of your ribs are broken... You can’t breathe, it hurts so much... Then the wave comes back, buries you in so much water it feels like you’re caving in. It forces its way into your mouth, your nose… crushes your skull… Then it drags you out of the boat and down, into the water.”
Hamilton watched the old doctor. Slowly, the lines of pain in the man’s face softened. As he relaxed, he seemed to shed years, settling even further back into the sheets.
“Does it scare you?” Hamilton asked, “You might’ve died like that.”
“It’s hard to scare me, these days,” Burr admitted quietly.
The fire waved gently, filling the silence. It spat sparks which died on the hearth, fading to nothing. The log collapsed on itself with a soft crunch.
Burr’s chest rose and fell, but barely. It seemed to take forever for his chest to fill, like the air he was breathing was much too thick. Each exhale was a long, whistling sigh through his nose.
“Can I ask another, Burr?” Hamilton asked.
Burr said nothing.
Hamilton found Burr’s wrist and squeezed, “Burr?”
Burr’s eyes opened again, half-lidded.
“How will I die?”
Burr let out another long sigh, “I… always sawing you dying as your son did, in a duel.”
“As my son would have,” Hamilton corrected, gently.
Burr smiled fondly and closed his eyes again.
“Would have,” he agreed.
-fin.