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“There’s more to life than keeping yourself cooped up behind a desk, you know. I thought perhaps we could see the New Year in, start afresh.”

Edward looks up at this. In the half-light of the doorway Fingle seems to be trying for a kindly smile. Edward forces a smile of his own.

“I’m visiting Mr. Ashmole this evening.”

Fingle hesitates, seems to make to say something then thinks better of it. Instead he says, “Are you sure? The boys were all set to have a meal, too. It would be a shame if you didn’t come along.”

Edward resumes his stamps. “I doubt they’d miss me.”

“I might. For...” The man pauses. “For old time’s sake. I think it would be good for you.”

To this Edward does not answer, concentrates instead on his patterning. A tendril of smoke curls upward as the hot metal sinks into the leather. He has always liked the smell of that.

Fingle hovers a moment more before he closes the door, leaving Edward in peace.

Edward works on.

When the distant bells of St. Paul’s church finally strike five, Edward packs his things away, douses the stove, blows out the candles. As he makes his escape he senses the other men’s eyes on him like gnats. He ducks his head, continues by them without a word.

***

The Ashmole townhouse in Mayfair matches its owner perfectly: bright and warm and altogether ostentatious. Cornelius—even in a loose cravat, half-unbuttoned shirt and stockinged feet—makes a regal picture, and he greets Edward with a tight clasp of his hand, an affectionate look spread across the handsome plane of his face.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he says as Edward follows his friend into the library. “I was ready to come to your lodgings last night but somehow I felt you wanted to be alone.”

“I almost came to you, but the weather turned.” Edward is apologetic. “Cornelius, I—”

Cornelius raises his hand, shoots him a look of mock reprimand. “Don’t. I understand completely.”

“I know you do,” Edward says, shamed, “but I want to apologize anyway. I was a complete fool and acted like a bad-tempered child. I’m sorry, Cornelius.”

His friend grins, saunters over to the sideboard with a grace that makes Edward feel woefully inadequate.

“Never apologize to me, there is no need.” Cornelius pours Edward a tumbler of brandy which he hands to him along with a small bowl of walnuts. As Edward takes the bowl he looks down at them, is reminded of tiny wrinkled vertebrae. Cornelius throws himself into an armchair, gestures for Edward to take the other opposite him by the fire. “You’re allowed, on occasion, to have your moments of chagrin.”

Edward grimaces as he settles into the rich leather. “You permit me far too many allowances.”

Cornelius raises his glass from the table beside him, smiles softly over the rim. “Perhaps. But I certainly don’t begrudge you them.”

“There will come a point, you know, when you can’t protect me. In fact, I’m pretty sure that moment has come and gone. You’ve done far more for me already than you should have.” Edward sighs, turns his glass this way and that in his hand, and his friend’s eyes narrow; in the firelight his pupils look almost black.

“Don’t think on it.”

“But—”

“Look, do not trouble yourself. You’ll ruin my surprise.”

“Surprise?”

Cornelius’ expression falls once more into a lazy grin, and from the small table next to him he produces a little black box. He leans across the rug—a skinned tiger, magnificent head still intact—and passes it to him. His shirt gapes at the neck, revealing a smooth hard chest. Edward takes the box from Cornelius’ fingers.

“What have you done now?”

“Don’t question,” Cornelius responds, sitting back again. He plucks a walnut from his own bowl and pops it into his mouth, bites down on it with a show of teeth. “Just open it.”

And Edward does so with a resigned shake of his head, for Cornelius often does things like this—if he has not secreted money in his coat then he is sending food parcels from Mrs. Howe to his lodgings, or...

Edward lets his breath out.