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He could almost see her mind racing to formulate a reason strong enough to claim her belongings.

“If ye don’t, I guess I’ll just put it back—”

“Wait,” she interrupted, reaching out. She winced, no doubt having hurt herself by moving so swiftly. “I…I think I do recognize it.”

She was a terrible liar. With knowing eyes, he took a step into her room. “Are ye certain? After all, I know your memory ain’t reliable.”

Her brow lowered. “It be reliable enough, I assure ye.”

“Reliable enough to know that this be yours?” He raised the portmanteau.

Before Miss Hollow could respond, Poppy cleared her throat behind him. He glanced back to see her shaking her head, and he sighed. Fine, he’d stop teasing the woman. If only so Poppy wouldn’t feed more of this to Mother when she saw her again. He was sure to be scolded fiercely already.

“If ye be sure then, I’ll just leave it ’ere for ye.” He walked the rest of the way to the table beside the bed. Miss Hollow’s eyes focused on the portmanteau as carefully as a feral cat watched a floundering pilchard on land.

He set the bag on the table, moving to walk away, but his hand caught the edge of the portmanteau, and it tumbled to the floor.

The clasp popped open, and a few items fell forth across the wood—a brown glove, a bonnet pin, and a spare piece of paper.

“Forgive I,” he mumbled, hurriedly picking up the items and setting them inside the portmanteau. As he was doing so, however, his eyes caught sight of a scrap of paper that appeared to have been folded and refolded a great number of times with writing scribbled across it.

He hadn’t meant to pry too greatly, but in the brief moment that he glanced at the crumpled paper and put it in her bag, he saw the writing as clear as day.

Prout’s Apothecary

No. 4

Sennen

Sennen. Was that where she was from?

Not wanting to be accused of snooping—by Poppy or Miss Hollow—he slipped the paper back into the portmanteau, secured the clasps, then placed the bag more carefully upon the table.

“We’ll let ye sleep now,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away. “Sorry for disturbin’ ye.”

“Wait.”

Miss Hollow’s soft voice made him pause in the doorway, and he turned to face her once again.

“Do ye have a carriage, per’aps?” she asked. “Or a wagon?”

He nearly laughed. “No, we ain’t got the funds to keep one o’ them.”

She nodded, as if she’d expected his reply.

“Why, do ye remember where ye be from?” he tested. Had she seen him find the address?

She stared for a moment, then cast her gaze down again. “No, just wonderin’.”

Another lie. Instead of accusing her of such, however, Trevik merely nodded, then left the room with Poppy. As he closed the door behind them, he stole one final glance at Miss Hollow.

She had brought an arm to rest over her eyes and appeared to be sleeping straightaway, but he paused when a trail of moisture glistened down her pale cheek.

His stomach knotted. Had he been the cause of her tears? Or was she merely crying due to physical pain? But then, he was responsible for that, too.

He tried to justify his actions—after all, she was withholding the truth from them—but regret still folded over him in an endless wave. Whether she was lying or not, the woman was clearly in turmoil. And he’d no doubt just made it worse.

Curse his stubborn pride. He never should have gone into that room.