Ill. He thinks he's ill! Ill, when he makes that sound at Hamilton's touch. No wonder he was so amorous early this morning, and no wonder Hamilton was so ardent in his response. No wonder the flush on him is so fetching, and his perfectly elegant form has such appeal. He wants Burr's throat in his teeth. He wants to feel his husband's purr from inside his cunt.

He is flushed, too, now. "You're not ill." He lowers his voice. "You're in season." Is it early, for a heat? Just on time? He wishes he knew, that there was a mother to advise Burr and counsel him.

He turns to Washington, who is pretending not to have heard. "Sir..."

Washington clears his throat. "You are both excused," he says. "Take rations enough, as, for the sake of troop discipline, your cabin should be sealed until the... illness is done."

Them both. Not Laurens. But Hamilton cannot think of any way to ask for Laurens to be added to their tally, not without revealing things best left unrevealed. Perhaps they can sneak him in at night?