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“Slipped,” Jack muttered, folding his arms, then unfolding them to brush the droplets of tea and specks of porcelain from her skirt. She stepped back.
“Birdie,” he said.
She began to walk away, mechanically. Her ears were ringing.
“Where are you going?” he called, and she turned to answer him honestly.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Chapter Fourteen
Nina walked to Liverpool Street, Fritz gnawing a scavenged whelk too close to her ear. When the terminus came into view—towers rising to the sky, rows of arched windows reflecting the light—she stopped. She saw herself boarding the train to Norwich, traveling on to Hensthorpe, thumping through the cottage door, and throwing herself into Miss Lolly’s arms. She’d have a good cry as Aunt Sylvia tsked and laid out jam tarts. If Jack landed back in Pentonville, or got beaten within an inch of his life by Whitechapel roughs, so be it. He’d purchased his fate with her labor, at the expense of her dreams.
But then, in either case, she’d lose any chance of recouping her coin.
The world looked hard and cold, every person jostling past distinctly outlined.
She didn’t take the Great Eastern Railway to Norwich. She took the underground to Sloane Square.
Once she’d reached Casa De’Ath, she wavered again, veering away from the gate piers, crossing the street. As the setting sun rouged the clouds above the river, she stood on the embankment. A persistent foulness twitched her nose.
“Your breath is like brimstone.” She scowled at Fritz and scooted him off her shoulder. “Brimstone pickled in bad milk. No more whelks.”
She watched the river. Every now and then, a little yapping dog chased Fritz around her legs. He’d scale her skirts, then drop back down to play, his cries good-humored. As dusk descended, detail faded from the scene, which allowed memory to surge into the void. The time Jack had decided that Dutch still life was the next rage and covered every surface in their dingy flat with fish. They’d painted those fish for days, until the stink summoned the landlord. All those summer Saturdays they walked to the Strand and ate penny licks of ice cream in the sun. When she was very small, and Mr. Nelson’s horrible daughters pushed pillows on her face in the night, he’d let her sleep with him in the alcove under the stairs, giving her the cot, even though the space was so cramped he had to sit up all night, his back against the door.
Fritz regained her shoulder, and she gave him her fingertip and tilted her head, rubbing her cheek on his fur.
Maybe Jack had been wise to buy that factory. They’d make a fortune on forged bric-a-brac. His plan didn’t preclude her plan. The revenue would serve to increase her freedom, like he’d said. In the end, she’d lose nothing, except a little time.
And the remainder of her self-respect.
And her peace of mind.
All the smoldering embers of her anger burst into flame.
She turned away from the river. Casa De’Ath was lit up, windows glowing with warmth.
How would she be received?
The very idea of facing De’Ath turned her knees to water.
Somehow, her legs carried her back across the street and between the gate piers. She was reaching for the door knocker when Fritz ran down her body and pelted around the side of the house.
“Oh blast,” she said, and charged after.
She reached Signorina Bonaccorso’s chestnut tree several moments too late. Fritz was high in the branches.
“Fritz.” She put as much force as she could into a whisper. “Get down from there.”
Music was drifting faintly from the house, McAdams on the piano.
She placed her palms on the tree trunk and craned her neck. “You think this is funny?”
Now her knock at the front door would seem even cheekier.
Hallo, she’d say to Mr. Kuznetsov. I was held up a bit, but here I am, and first things first. Fyodor’s up the chestnut tree. Can you fetch some candied fruit? There should be a pound in the kitchen. I put it on the shopping list before I bolted. Fyodor likes the cherries best. My thanks.
“Fritz!” she tried again, louder. He gave a chirrup and leapt to a higher branch.
