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A sob escaped her. “This is all my fault. I didn’t think through the events well enough.”

His smile was weak, but he raised his hand to touch her face. “You are not accountable for the actions of others, my beloved one. Only your own.”

“But that’s just it. I should have known . . . I should have prevented you from coming here . . .”

“I had to come. Fawkes needed to be stopped.” He coughed and then grimaced with pain. “It is done, Isla. Knyvett and Doubleday will see him delivered to the king. My life may be over, but together we have saved innumerable others.”

“No!” She turned her head to press her lips to his fingers. “We will get you away from here. Sir Cecil’s men will come, and they can transport you to the Maidstones’ house. Martha will know what to do.”

Regret crossed his ashen face. “I fear that no matter my desires or yours, there is no recovering from an injury such as this.”

“Yes, there is! There is!”

A flicker of understanding filled his pain-filled eyes. “But not here. Not now.” He lowered his trembling hand from its position cupped around her face. “I love you, Isla.”

There was no stemming her tears now. “I love you too.”

He closed his eyes. She lowered her head, unaware that the door had opened wide until a gust of cold air swirled around her ankles.

“Ah, there you are, Isla!” A white-haired woman wearing a purple dress and purple shoes walked in carrying something made of pale-blue fabric over her arm. “I have found the Wendy dress at last.”

Isla blinked and then blinked again. “Mrs. McQuivey?”

“Yes, dear. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“It took you until now to find a dress?” Isla looked at her incredulously. “I’ve been here for weeks!” Indignation heated her chest. “You left me here all alone! You never answered when I called for help. The changing room door was gone. And . . . and now Simon is seriously injured, and I don’t know how to help him!”

“Oh my! I apologize if you’ve been waiting for me, but I’m here now, and I have what you need.”

“I don’t want the Wendy dress.” Isla’s voice broke. How could the woman talk about finding a costume with Simon lying beside her in a pool of blood? “Don’t you see?” she cried, gesturing at Simon. “He’s dying.”

“Good heavens!” Mrs. McQuivey stepped closer and gazed down at Simon through her wire-rimmed glasses. “What ever happened to this poor young man?”

“He was stabbed with a dagger.”

“Well, we must get him some medical attention right away.”

“I . . . I told him that too,” Isla said. “But he says there’s nothing that can be done for him.”

“Nonsense. The doctors at the Royal London Hospital will know exactly what to do.”

Isla stilled. “Are you talking about the big hospital on Whitechapel Road?”

“Of course I am.”

Was that even possible? Mrs. McQuivey was referring to a twenty-first-century hospital with twenty-first-century doctors and modern medicine. “Can . . . can we take him there?”

“We must! I wouldn’t want to attempt transporting him myself, you understand, not when he’s lost so much blood. But we can call an ambulance. It shouldn’t take them long to get to the shop.”

Isla was not sure how she could go from utter despair to overjoyed in a matter of seconds, but it had happened. “Simon. Simon, can you hear me?”

His eyes fluttered open. “Forgive me, Isla . . .” He licked his lips. “It is difficult to . . .” His voice trailed off, and he stared at Mrs. McQuivey. “Who . . . I beg your pardon, but who are you?”

“This is Mrs. McQuivey,” Isla answered for her. “From the costume shop.”

Simon’s eyes widened slightly. “The . . . the costume shop you visited?”

“Yes.” Isla met his gaze, willing him to understand even in his weakened state. “She says you can come back with me.”