"I should think it more likely to fall onto Mr. Madison's shoulders," Burr says. Slighter even than himself, but no less broad. Stockier is perhaps the word for it. But Madison was, despite his height, the more able of them. As cool as he was dignified, in any setting Burr had seen him, if not prime to fits of extreme agitation in his personal affairs. When he had been younger.

Washington is right, though. Burr, who would at risk of his own death, ride to attempt to rescue Hamilton. And Hamilton, who would at risk of his own death and Burr's, ride out to avenge his own dignity.

He doesn't think there will be a way to mend the gap between them. But Hamilton needs him now, and Washington is tired. So Burr excuses himself, and knocks tentatively at the door to that sick room, light enough to be nearly unheard.

If he is granted entry--he will hit a wall of scents. Bad, desperate ones, that wrap around him like led. His face will pale, and he will be shaking, when he takes that seat again at Hamilton's side and offers his hand. And is Hamilton is feverish it will burn to the exclusion of Burr's own. One heat lost in another. And Burr won't have anything to say. But offer himself, in this little capacity he can. Because Burr's body is not his own. Because Hamilton has been so defrauded.