It quietened as we slipped through the front door, up the stairs and down the hall to my apartment. We narrowly missed one of the other tenants, marked by a closing door, and Mrs. Temberley was nowhere in sight.
The door was locked, the handle hung with the crest of the constabulary and a warning not to enter, which we naturally ignored.
“Hieronymus?” I called softly into the quiet, stuffy room.
There was no answering yowl, no rustle of cloth or thump of tiny, padded feet. The cat was not here, which both worried and consoled me. At least he hadn’t become locked in the small space.
I surveyed my former home with a knot in my throat. My rooms were rarely tidy, but at that moment everything was a disaster. The police had spared no consideration for my possessions, nor even Mrs. Temberley’s furniture. The upending of the latter might have satisfied me under other circumstances, but the sight of my haven in shambles was enough to make my eyes burn.
Pretoria followed my gaze in sober silence, then picked her way across the main room. She glanced into the closet-like kitchen and the tiny water closet (which probablywasa re purposed closet) and then stationed herself by the balcony doors.
“Open those, please,” I said, gathering myself. “With any luck Ronny will wander back before we leave.”
She nodded and I went to work. I retrieved several carpetbags and packed them, waging an inner battle between the need for efficiency and the desire to give Hieronymus more time. I noticed Pretoria eyeing my possessions as I went, feeling her quiet judgement at their quantity and nature, but she offered no criticism.
Finally, with three laden bags beside the door, I came to stand next to Pretoria, surveying the balcony. There was still no sign of the cat.
“We can return another time,” Pretoria offered.
“Just one more minute.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but silenced as I took her hand and squeezed it. Her fingers were soft and just slightly cool. They reflexively tightened around mine.
A minute, then two passed as the cello twined. Laughter and the clink of porcelain came every so often, chased by a baby’s contented coos. It was idyllic, despite the chill—a moment of peace and stillness amid the upheaval that defined my life.
“I am sorry,” Pretoria said. By unspoken agreement we released one another’s hands and turned, leaving the balcony door open, and took up my bags. “I can see you were comfortable here.”
“When the landlady did not lock me out.” I forced a smile and glanced out into the hallway.
A shadow and a creak made me pause. I shot Pretoria a meaningful glance and stepped away from the door, wishing yet again I still possessed Mr. Stoke’s revolver.
Pretoria advanced on the door with one hand raised, palm open, fingers relaxed. She stuck her head out into the hallway, paused for a moment, and then waved me on. “Just one of your neighbors. They went into an apartment.”
I accepted this with a nod. I sent one last longing look at the open balcony door, the slice of cool light across worn floorboards and scattered bedding, and walked out.
***
When we returned to the hotel, Perry was still gone. I contemplated trying to slip away to go see Dr. Maddeson, but theweekend had arrived. There would be no classes at the university to ensure Maddeson was there, and I had no idea where he lived. Breaking into the administration office or some such place to find his address would be unwise in my condition. I had no time or energy for fool’s errands.
So, I spent my time in regaining strength. I ate a great deal, took a long bath, and nap.
I felt refreshed and restless by the time darkness fell and the city took on its nightly patterns of lamplight and shadow. My threads twined as, from the hotel window, I parted the curtain to watch the Opera House spill the melodious cacophony of a rising orchestra into the street. Men and women filed inside arm in arm, laughing and chattering and simpering, heedless of the looming conflict all across the city. Their world glittered and glistened, and brimmed with music. Mine was hushed now, with the curtains drawn.
Melancholy weighed upon me. Its roots were not simply Mr. Stoke’s demise, the Guild, our plans, or Hieronymus’s absence, though those were heavy enough.
Mr. Howell and the Guild would still be searching for me. Wake, too, was still in play. Perhaps he had heard of my arrest, perhaps not. Perhaps if he had, he would eventually unravel who and what I was, and learn of my escape. Either way, he was likely hunting me in earnest.
Furthermore, Perry still had not reappeared from his mission to Stillwell. Pretoria lay on the bed on her side, propped on a stack of pillows, and perused a newspaper while pretending not to worry.
“He seems a capable man,” I said at length. Darkness had fully settled now, and my threads had gone dormant in the room’s cautious gaslight. “Try not to fret.”
“Fret?” Pretoria waved her newspaper dismissively. “I will fret tomorrow. For the moment, I am peevish. Look.”
She pointed to a headline, which read in bold, capital letters, ‘GUILD AGENTS PLUCK MURDER SUSPECT FROM PRISON–THE HARROW HERALD SPECULATES.’
“Does theHeraldever do anything other than speculate?” Imuttered. “Mr. Wake will certainly know I am not in prison now.”
“A common thug is the least of our concerns.” Pretoria folded the paper with a snap and sat up. “We are wasting a perfectly good night, so I shall no longer wait. Shall we hunt down Lord Stillwell ourselves? Perhaps we will find my errant husband along the way.”
