Barclay nodded. “Yes, my lady. Of course.”
“Thank you.”
I stepped back from the table, steadying myself with a breath. The cold of the room seeped into my bones.
Steele touched my arm gently. “We have seen enough.”
“Enough for tonight,” I said.
We left the mortuary, the night air harsh against my cheeks. Across the darkened yard, the river shimmered faintly beyond the buildings—a silent conspirator to too many secrets.
At the carriage, I stopped. Steele turned toward me, waiting.
“The next girl might not be dead yet,” I said.
His answer came without hesitation. “She will not be. We’ll find her first.”
I met his gaze. A vow formed between us—wordless, fierce, absolute.
We climbed into the carriage, leaving the mortuary behind, though its weight came with us.
London slept while the river flowed, and a girl lay nameless on a metal table.
And Steele and I rode into the darkness, determined to break the cycle before another body washed ashore.
Chapter
Twenty-One
A House in Uproar
The carriage stopped in the mews behind Rosehaven House just as the first streak of washed-out grey seeped into the sky. The narrow yard lay enclosed on three sides, the house itself still hidden from view by the angle of the buildings and the service wall that separated the mews from the main gardens.
My limbs felt like stone, my eyes raw from lack of sleep. With Steele’s aid, I pushed myself down from the carriage step.
“Would you like me to accompany you?” he asked, his voice a soft whisper.
“Best not,” I said. “We don’t want to cause a commotion.”
He held my hand for a moment longer than necessary, as if memorizing the feel of it, then let go.
There was barely enough light to make out the path ahead, but I knew it by heart, having walked it more times than I could count. The moment I turned the corner toward the rear entrance, the house finally came into view.
Light blazed from half the windows.
And I knew at once that something was wrong.
As I drew closer, more details resolved themselves out of the gloom. Interior doors stood ajar where they should have been closed, light spilling into passageways never lit at that hour. Voices carried across the yard—not in conversation, but raised, disordered, edged with panic.
Then a sharp cry cut through the stillness.
Petunia.
My heart lurched.
I quickened my pace, gathering my cloak around me as I slipped through the servants’ door. Mrs. Hennessy, our cook, nearly collided with me, one hand clutching her shawl, her face pale.
“Oh, praise be!” she gasped. “My lady—thank heavens—you must go upstairs at once?—”
