She crossed to the bed, sat again, and tried to breathe in even rhythm.
It was still just a brooch.
It had not changed.
But dear god, she had.
*
She didn’t sleep.Not in the way that mattered.
At some point in the night, she lay down fully dressed, the brooch locked in its velvet box, the box sealed in the drawer beneath her stockings. But her thoughts never slowed. They circled. They clung.
Her mother’s face would not come without the brooch. She tried to imagine what Gabriel might say. Would he demand answers, or worse, stop asking altogether?
The moonlight shifted across the floorboards. Once, she rose andstood at the window, as if she might find certainty in the darkness beyond the streetlamps.
But there was nothing to be done.
Until morning.
She remembered the errand her aunt had mentioned in passing, the clasp on her necklace, the need for a proper cleaner, the familiar name: Turnbull & Sons. The kind of shop that opened at dawn and closed before luncheon.
Leticia left a note with the maid just before six, her script tidy despite the tremor in her hand. She dressed plainly but carefully, choosing her simplest walking cloak and a wide-brimmed hat. If Aunt Margaret stirred and found her gone, she’d only think her prompt.
Not hiding or chasing something. Just a task, early and innocent.
By the time the street lamps dimmed, Leticia was already halfway to Cross Street.
*
Leticia arrived justas he unlocked the front doors, her gloved hand tightening around the handle of her reticule.
“Lady Salisbury,” Mr. Turnbull said with a deferential nod. “You’re early.”
“My aunt asked me to fetch some cleaner for her necklace,” she replied, careful to keep her voice light. “She wants to wear it today, and the clasp has dulled.”
He smiled and gestured her inside. “Of course. Just a moment. I keep it in the back. Please, make yourself comfortable while I fetch it.”
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as it shut behind her. She moved past the display case of rings and came to a stand of brooches near the window. They were delicate pieces, many antique. She scanned them absently and abruptly paused.
Letica stared at a brooch nearly identical to hers.
A circle of diamonds. A dark stone in the center. Not exactly like hers, but close enough to steal her breath.
When Mr. Turnbull returned with a small bottle wrapped in paper, she stepped aside but didn’t move away.
“That brooch,” she said, nodding toward the case. “The one with the sapphire.”
“Ah, yes. A fine piece,” he said, stepping around the counter. “Would you like to see it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
He opened the case and lifted the brooch with a velvet cloth, holding it carefully. “There’s a bit of a secret to this one,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Hold it to the light just so, and you’ll see.”
He angled it toward the windowpane, letting the light strike the gold backing.
Leticia leaned in. There, glinting faintly beneath the clasp, was an engraving.
