At the mention of Montgomery Burr's face falls, and he rolls away. Words at the tip of his tongue: we were engaged, just before they marched into battle, or he was a good man, or I loved him.

But he says none of these things. Instead he rises from the bed, wincing once and stumbling at the burn between his legs, leaning against the dresser to find a new pair of smallclothes, a shirt, stockings.

Hamilton did fuck satisfactorily, but perhaps they should talk about gentleness in future engagements, and not listening to Burr when he was half out of his mind with want. Future engagements, there might not even be future engagements. Burr will be swollen large enough soon to be grotesque, that affliction no longer ignorable.

"And I suppose there will be no consequences when I tell Washington his most disappointing and dislike aide is nearly four months along with a wedlock, bastard child?" Burr stops, looks at himself in the mirror, looks at Hamilton behind him, looking at Burr. Something swells in him, thicker and more acute than shame, deeper. He doesn't know why he says what he says, but the words fall numbly. "oh, I suppose I forgot he quite likes bastards."