“You’re hobnobber with nothing higher than the privy pipe, Sauly, so spare us the suggestion of societal triumph. There was no marriage, and there is no deal. And if you ever threaten me or my family again—in person or with a hired man—I will turn in my evidence of the murder plot and then come back and kill you myself.”
“You’ll never see the marriage document if I’m dead!” Wrest threatened.
“You and your phantom license may rot in hell for all I care. Stay away from me and stay away from my wife. Do not mistake my seriousness,Your Grace.”
“Oh, why not simply kill me now?” the duke bellowed, rolling against the wall, turning his face to the plaster. “Run me through, see if I have a care. See if anyone in the world will care.”
“I won’t kill you,” said Stoker, reaching into his pocket for a £20 note, “for two reasons. First, I’m not a murderer, and second, I owe you one significant debt. You taught me the alphabet and gave me old newspapers, once upon a time. Literacy has made all the difference.” He flung the money at the old man.
“Eh?” asked the duke, craning around to swat the air for the fluttering money.
“That’s it, Wrest. No more, so do not make trouble for me, on threat of prison or the noose. I’m preparing my statement today and sealing it. It will go by private courier to the authorities if ever I hear so much as a gurgle in my direction.”
“Get out!” shouted the duke, and Sabine stepped forward, reaching for Stoker’s hand. He clasped it, and they wound their way out of the parlor, down the corridor, and out the front door into the sunny October afternoon.
Stoker was gasping for air, walking without direction, staring without seeing. He pulled Sabine along, keeping pace as if the duke might overcome forty years of bad habits and give a decent chase.
“Stoker, wait,” said Sabine, struggling to keep up on the uneven cobblestones.
He slowed down but did not stop. She wrapped her free hand around his wrist, trying to loosen his hold on her fingers, but he held her in a vise grip.
“Stoker, you are hurting me.”
He came to an abrupt halt and turned to her, taking both of her hands between his own. “That is not the worst of it,” he said, looking at every part of her face.Eyes, green,he thought, cataloging her features;nose, perfect; lips, pink; hair, ebony; skin, creamy.
“That is not the worst of it,” he repeated. “That interview was wretched and mean and an embarrassment, but I want you to be aware... before you take another step by my side... that Sauly New and his hateful memories and extortion scheme and ridiculous rants barely scratch the surface of what terrible things are part of me.”
“I do not see terrible as part of you, Jon. I see pain, survival, your love of your friends. I see you trying very hard to protect every part of me. There is noterrible.”
“It was all so bloody terrible,” he told her slowly.
“Yes, I’ve gathered that. I did discover you in a morgue. But it is not so terrible anymore. Is it?”
“There is no map for getting back from it.”
“Oh, but a map can be made for any journey,” she said. “And I am an excellent cartographer.”
“I don’t need a cartographer. I need... I need...” He scanned the small, out-of-the-way road lined with modest houses and struggling shops. An alley opened behind the next block, and he strode to it, dragging her along. When they reached the alley, he whipped around the corner and pressed her up against the wall.
“Ineed,” he breathed, pouncing on her mouth, kissing her with all the fervor that he’d locked away in bed last night. “I need a wife,” he finally said, coming up for air.
“I am here, Jon,” she gasped, kissing him back with the same ferocity. “I am here.”
