Desperation, fear, and raw sadness were etched in every line of his face. His shoulders, normally so broad and straight, were stooped, and his big hands were fisted at his sides. He looked like a man that fate had punched repeatedly, and he was still standing only out of sheer stubbornness.
“Why are you awake?” His voice was a deep, ragged rasp.
“Have you been looking for your niece?” she asked instead, ignoring his question entirely.
“I have.”
“With your brother?”
He nodded. “We separated and asked anyone we could find. Neither of us heard any word.”
“Do your voices help you navigate your way around London?”
“My brother has a large mouth.”
“I believe you have lived with these people for many years?” Eliza persisted.
“I have,” he said.
“So why have you kept this from them when surely you know your voices would not have shocked them, considering what they are?”
Eliza busied herself finding mugs. What she actually wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and say everything would be all right. But she didn’t know that. So tea was the safer option.
Behind her, she heard the scrape of a chair and a deep sigh as he sat in it.
“Many people have voices inside their heads.” His tone told Eliza he had no wish to discuss the matter further.
“Did your voices lead you to me that afternoon?” The silence after these words was heavy in the kitchen.
“They did.”
“Then I’m grateful for them.”
He grunted.
“Where did you look for your niece this evening, Mungo?”
Neither of them commented on the fact that she’d finally started addressing him as he wished her to.
“Everywhere.”
“No word?”
“No.”
She filled the pot, brought it to the table, then returned for milk. When she took the seat opposite him, the air between them felt different. The animosity had gone. What sat between them now wasn’t tension but something softer. Eliza was under no illusion it would last.
“Drink your tea and warm up,” she said gently, nudging his mug toward him.
He wore only his shirt and waistcoat, and the scent ofLondon clung to him. She watched his large hands cradle the mug, absorbing its warmth.
“I am fearful for her,” he said at last. “How is she suffering?”
“Is she strong and intelligent?” Eliza asked.
He nodded, finally lifting his eyes to hers.
“That is good,” Eliza said softly. “And she is not alone. She’s likely with the maid, Polly. Until you reach her, she will use her wits. Hide. Run. Survive, if she must.”
