She did not move. She stayed against his shoulder with the light turning above them and the dark beyond the glass and the sea moving below. The flame burned above. They burned below. The gallery had been built to keep something bright through the longest nights, and tonight it was keeping two.
She closed her eyes. The beam swept the water. And they slept.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Shewoketoherown name.
Not close—below, carried upward through the tower’s stone throat, distorted by the spiral of the stair into something that took three repetitions before it resolved into a voice she recognised. Mrs Hargreaves on the eastern track. Calling for her.
The gallery was bright. The flame still burned in the lens, but the morning sun had overtaken it, flooding the glass with a white December light that turned the brass to gold and the floor to a pale, cold stage upon which two people were arranged in a position that could not survive the arrival of witnesses.
His arm was around her. Her head was against his shoulder. Her hair—the careful Longbourn arrangement, the three pins, the parted centre—had come entirely undone during the night and lay across his chest in dark strands that the morning light made visible from any angle. His coat was on the floor. He had put it around her shoulders hours ago, and it had slipped during sleep. His shirt was open at the collar. Her gown was creased from hip to hem with the sort of rumpling that only a night spent on a stone floor in another person’s arms could produce.
She was on her feet before the second call had finished. “William!”
He woke fast—the keeper’s reflex, five years of responding to sounds in the dark. His eyes found her face, then the gallery windows, then the quality of the light, and the calculation took less than a second: morning, visitors, and every visible surface of them both advertising exactly what had happened in this room.
“How many?” His voice was rough with sleep.
“Mrs Hargreaves. I cannot tell if she is alone.”
She could hear more than one voice below. A second—Meg Robson. And a third, male, younger. Joseph.
Her hands went to her hair. Two pins. She had two pins left—the other was on the floor somewhere, hidden in the shadows along the gallery wall. Two pins could hold atwist if the twist was simple, and she did not turn her head too quickly. She gathered the strands, wound them, pinned. It was not the Longbourn arrangement. It was barely an arrangement at all. But it was up, and up was the difference between a woman who had been working since dawn and a woman who had been sleeping on a gallery floor with her hair spread across a man’s chest.
He was already standing. Coat retrieved, shrugged on, collar turned up to cover the rumpled shirt beneath. He crossed to the mechanism and set his hands upon the housing—the instinctive retreat, the posture of a man engaged in work, the position she would find him in every morning if every morning were ordinary and this morning were not the furthest thing from ordinary she had experienced in her life.
“The stove,” she said.
He looked at her with a question in his eyes.
“The stove is cold. It has been cold all night. And my cottage chimney has not smoked since yesterday evening.” The implications arranged themselves in her mind with the swift, merciless logic of a woman who had been managing deceptions for months and could see them collapsing in real time. “If Mrs Hargreaves has walked past the cottage on her way up, she will have seen no smoke. She will have seen no light in my window this morning. She will come through this door and find a cold stove and me in the gallery and draw the only conclusion available to her.”
“Then we must provide a different conclusion.”
She descended the stair at a speed that risked her footing on every turn. The lower room was cold and dark—the fire dead, the grate grey, the room still carrying the chill of a space unoccupied for twelve hours. She could hear the voices outside the door. Close. Twenty seconds, perhaps less.
She seized the tinderbox from the shelf. Struck. The tinder caught on the second attempt—her hands were steadier than they had any right to be, but she singed her index finger in the process. There was no time to think of that now, so she fed the kindling in the grate and blew until a flame took hold. It would not warm the room in time. But it would smoke, and smoke was evidence, and evidence was the currency of respectability on this coast.
She straightened. Brushed her skirt. Touched the twist at her nape—holding, barely. Drew one breath. Opened the door.
Mrs Hargreaves stood on the step with Meg Robson at her shoulder and Joseph behind them both, his hands in his pockets and his face carrying the darkening expression of a young man who had been conscripted into an errand he did not entirely understand.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs Hargreaves’ eyes moved past her into the tower. Elizabeth could feel the inventory being taken—the barely lit fire, the cold room, the absence of any breakfast preparation, the two cups on the shelf that had not been filled. Mrs Hargreaves missed nothing. Mrs Hargreaves had raised four children and supervised the moral conduct of a fishing village for thirty years, and the machinery of her observation operated at a level of refinement that would have shamed the Bow Street Runners.
“The light burned strong last night,” Mrs Hargreaves said.
“It did.”
“Joseph was on the water. He says the beam was full from midnight onward. The channel was clean.”
“The keeper resolved the difficulty with the apparatus. I came up to assist.”
“At what hour?”
“Late. The flame was struggling. I could see it from the cottage.”
