When we are ready to leave, we are pleasantly drunk. Ambrose tips the waitress generously and leads me from the bar.

It’s late. There isn’t a carriage in sight and most of the town has gone dark.

“We won’t be able to find a ride at this time,” I tell him.

“We could walk,” he says.

“It’s three miles. No, thank you.” To prove my point, I sway unintentionally.

Ambrose tightens his grip on my arm, sliding ...