“There is one other small matter,” said I.
It was, of course, highly unlikely that the Director had ever been detained by a woman within the very walls of East India House, but a man who is a veteran of foreign wars ought to prepare himself for the unexpected, I reasoned. Dumbfounded, the Director tapped his cane against the rug again, frowning darkly, as Mr. Sack’s complexion shifted from white to green.
“Mr. Sack was under the mistaken impression that he confiscated a piece of Karman Kaur’s treasure from me, when it was in fact my property. I should like the misunderstanding rectified, and the necklace returned immediately.”
Mr. Quillfeather hid a smile, and Mr. Thornfield chuckled.
My solicitor’s speckled head bobbed dutifully as he suggested Mr. Sack send the item round to his offices.
“Do as she says, Mr. Sack,” the Director commanded. “And afterwards, you can clear out your belongings and quit this establishment permanently. You need not expect a reference of any kind from us—I will not tolerate conspiracies fomenting under my very nose. Unless, that is, I am invited to take part in them—trumped-up politicos with delusions of importance have toppled entire empires. I think everyone here knows to which I refer specifically. Deliver Miss Stone what you owe her, and pray to God Charles Thornfield doesn’t whip you through the streets like a stray pup. He would certainly, I daresay, have ample cause.”
? ? ?
We found ourselves, Charles Thornfield and I, walking slowly down a wide avenue in Westminster after finishing a celebratory repast with Sam Quillfeather. The high-hung moon was as pearly as the oysters we had consumed, and the cold wind whistled along the cobbles. It was the sort of silver-lit midnight which always reminded me of my mother, and made me wish there had been more picnics before she left the cottage and our garden forever.
Not having been sure of the outcome of our adventure, we had made no plans; now we strolled under winter plane trees, their inky fingers grasping at the stars, watching the lights flickering from within the pubs and the parlours. Mr. Thornfield was quiet with the uneasy calm of learning a long ordeal was behind him, as if not quite believing his fortunes had altered; I was equally still, but with apprehension.
My desire to never be parted from him was as ardent as my desire for breath; but I knew, should I fail to broach the subject of my past, I could become a puppet Jane, all wooden limbs and painted smiles. Reader, I do not foolishly suppose any one person can ever achieve perfect eloquence regarding their memories and affections and fears; if I did not take courage, however, I should always be viewing the man I loved through four eyes instead of two, ever cognisant of the monster hid deep in the back of my head.
“You are troubled, Jane.”
I looked down in some surprise; his hand had caught mine within the folds of the cloak I had borrowed from Sahjara, as I had never made spectacular achievements in the realm of height and did not care it failed to quite reach my ankles. The fact that we were both gloved against the chill did little to diminish the pulse which surged through me.
“If this—if I—am unwelcome,” he attempted, “please tell me so quickly. I recall your feelings as stated with exact clarity, I promise you, but I am overwhelmed. When a chap announces, ‘I fancy that star in the sky,’ and the star is actually amenable—’tisn’t likely to be true, you see.”
“I resemble no star, sir.”
“Well, you’ve clearly never heard of mirrors, then. I’ll teach you to use ’em, they’re easy as anything.”
I gripped his hand harder and stopped us, staring up at him, because this all might be lost at any moment, and the idea broke my heart. His roughhewn face was tilted down in concern, his pale hair agleam in the light of the lamp, and he was everything to me, so if I was not to hear his gruff voice in the morning, in all the mornings, I wanted to paint a mental portrait of him on a London street corner with his hand in mine.
“Jane, you look as though you’re saying farewell, and it’s deuced disconcerting,” he said.
“Far from that.” I brought the back of his hand to my cheek, and we resumed walking. “Only I said I had to tell you a story, first. Before you kept me.”