He perks up an eyebrow, mimicking a chorus of voices: “Miss Alice, Miss Alice…”
I stifle a reluctant smile. The walls must be thinner than I realized.
I wait. If he knows mine, it seems fair he gives his. After a silence that stretches a breath too long, I ask, “And you are?”
“William Archer. Arch, if you like.”
He says it without hesitation, but something about it rings hollow. I smile anyway. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Archer.”
“Thank you. For the drink. And for stitchin’ me up.”
“You’re most welcome.”
He pours a measure, winces as he tips it back, then lets the rye sit a moment on his tongue. I clasp my hands behind me.
“Where are you from, Mr. Archer?”
He laughs—not unkindly, but as if the question itself were a jest. The sound is low, rusty. “I move around. Wherever there’s work.”
“Do you have people who will worry for you?”
“People?” He rolls the word around like a pebble. “Oh, I suppose folks don’t count on me bein’ in a place long enough to miss me.”
“That is a lonely answer.”
He glances at me over the rim of the glass. “Lonely ain’t the worst thing. Easier on others.”
I busy my hands with the tray, though there’s nothing left to straighten. “Do you prefer cities, or the open country?”
“Country,” he says, easy as breath. “So you run this inn?”
He seems eager to turn the talk, so I let him. “I suppose you could say that. I manage the staff. Keep the books, the linens, the kitchen when needed.”
“Busy hands,” he says, as if approving the notion. “You make a fair broth.”
“You’ve Mrs. Baxter to thank for that.”
“I’ll be sure to thank her next I see her.”
He’s wry. It startles a laugh out of me. Awkward, this—making small talk with a man my husband has chained in irons. I ought to ask what happened on the road, but before I can, he nods at the shackles.
“You said this weren’t your notion. Whose was it?”
“My husband’s,” I say, smoothing a napkin that needs no smoothing. “For the safety of the house.”
“Safety of the house,” he repeats, turning it over once. He sets the glass down. “How long you reckon I’m to wear ’em?”
“Until you’re mended I suppose,” I say. “Or until he decides.” I hate the sound of it.
He studies me a beat, nodding pensively.
“I’ll be right back with that dressing, Mr. Archer,” I say, and step out.
That night, after tending to him again, I steal away to the observatory. I pray he’ll be free before the Astral Society arrives. Their visit is the one bright ember in this gray life I lead. I need that peaceful reunion with the stars. Not a sickroom.
I adjust the telescope and lean in. Aquarius glitters across the darkness.
Then, a streak.
