My heart, so egregiously taxed of late, rung in my breast like a great gong—I thought it must have been audible, so painfully glad was I to see my schoolmate, my companion, nay, my sister, again after so long a time.
Once the initial shock had worn off, I ceased marvelling and allowed happiness to spread like a virus through my chest. We had shared the same tastes once, Clarke and I, moved in twin orbits like binary stars. It was not very surprising, therefore, that in this labyrinth of a town I should stumble upon my lost great friend, particularly considering I had sought the place out because it reminded me of her.
Clarke was twenty-one years old, and where once she had been thin and ethereal, now she was beautiful—as freckled as ever, with the tiny mouth of an inquisitive porcelain doll. So many times had I pictured her starving that the sight of her hale was a gift, the unlooked-for sort which pierce deeper than the expected. Her clothing was fine but eccentric: a long bronze skirt, a close-fitted ivory waistcoat, a dark copper jacket with tails and lapels to it, a golden cravat. This elegant but oddly mannish ensemble was completed by a miniature top hat, and she peered through a pair of half-moon pince-nez at the afternoon edition of the Times.
My feet had carried me farther than I realised during this reconnaissance, and I found myself before her, my eager shadow brushing the hem of her skirt.
“Just put it on my account, if you—oh!” Clarke exclaimed, her cup clattering into its saucer as she glanced up.
Say something, I thought.
Nothing emerged.
I’ve missed you terribly and deeply regret the fact you learnt I am a homicidal maniac.
I hesitated.
Not that.
“It’s good to . . .” I swallowed, for Clarke had turned as pale as the milk brought for her coffee. “That is—we needn’t speak, only I saw you, and . . .” I battled the urge to prove myself the pinnacle of urbanity by throwing myself in her lap and sobbing. “You look well, and I’m glad.”
At this juncture, I considered that a sound from Clarke—any sound—would be taken as a boon. Instead, she stared at me with wide green eyes, her hands vibrating hummingbird-fast.
“I’m upsetting you.” The admission stung. “I can’t tell you what it meant to see you again. I’ll just—”
“No.” Clarke trapped my wrist with the strength of a steel manacle. “Sit down.” She blinked, hard. “I mean, won’t you sit down?”
Slowly, she released me.
I sat down.
Clarke folded the newspaper with care; then she took a long breath and sat back, nodding at the silver coffeepot. “Would you like a cup?”
“Please.”
A waiter came with an additional service and poured, a civilised piece of pageantry which enabled us both to pretend we were friends meeting for coffee to discuss our summering plans, rather than friends meeting for coffee to discuss whatever we were going to discuss. My teapot and sandwiches appeared, and I gestured for her to help herself; Clarke shook her head, eyes wide under pale lashes, and I looked away.
“You look well too,” said she.
“Hmm?” I had been studying my coffee with more interest than that beverage had ever previously inspired.
Clarke smiled—the indulgent one which meant I had journeyed too far into the wilderness of my head. “You look very smart. I’m happy over that, your clearly having plentiful coin. So often I wondered whether—”
“Me too, every single day,” I blurted.
When she blushed, she looked more herself again, for her previous pallor had been alarming. Clarke had never blushed often, however, and never lacking a sound purpose, so I wondered at the expression.
“Well.” She pretended to polish her pince-nez as I pretended to add sugar to my coffee. “I probably did not wonder quite as much as you did, for I used to hear news of you.”
“You have the better of me, then,” I marvelled. “How?”
Clarke’s head found the much-loved angle it adopted when thinking harder than usual; as if remembering something, she spoke. “‘I always knew my grip upon the thread of time was tenuous, and the harder I clutched, the sooner it would break. Therefore, do not weep for me, my tender sweet love—we must all resign ourselves to the final snapping of that bond between soul and breath, and though it is a present unworthy of your grace and beauty, you must know that I gift my soul to you.’”
Jaw dropping, I laughed. Clarke gave me a faint smile.
“I wrote that!” I exclaimed. “John Jacob Holdworth, hanged at Newgate in eighteen forty-seven.”
“Precisely so. When your gallows confessions started selling at newsagents’ and tea shops, occasionally I would purchase them, though I never caught a glimpse of you delivering the papers or picking up your earnings.”
“But of course my name wasn’t on them, only the names of those executed—however did you know it was me?”
“That wasn’t very difficult,” she said quietly. Brightening, she attempted to adopt a brisk air. “And now what are you doing with yourself? Good Lord, that frock and those jewels—I didn’t suppose last confessions brought in ready enough chink for those togs.”