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“You’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow,” Cornelius says, some of the warmth returning to his voice.

“Perhaps,” Edward assents. “But it will be worth it.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. But I have faith it will all come right. Everything happens for a reason.”

Cornelius quirks a brow. “So, my dear friend, you keep saying.”

***

Later, when the grandfather clock in the hall has struck its tinny chime to call in the evening, Cornelius helps Edward on with his coat. When Cornelius’ fingers linger at Edward’s collar he shoots his friend a look. Cornelius’ lip twitches.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Bit of lint.” He lowers his hands, rocks a moment on his heels. “I don’t suppose you will allow me to go with you?”

Edward shakes his head. “I haven’t asked if someone else can come. Besides, I think it might be risky enough under the circumstances. One person sneaking around is bad enough. Two, then three...”

“Yes. Yes.”

“I can ask for next time?”

Cornelius reaches past him to open the door and the smell of his cologne—sandalwood—tickles Edward’s nose.

“No,” Cornelius says, terse again. “Don’t bother.”

Edward steps out into the dusk. The air is sharp, crisp, the mauve sky clear. He sinks his hands deep into his pockets and breathes out deeply, watches his breath plume white, then turns to look at Cornelius.

“You will speak to Gough?”

“I will. But I’d rather wait until you can confirm the state of the wares, either way. No point getting his back up unnecessarily.”

“Very well. Good night, then.”

Cornelius looks at him, says nothing. But when Edward reaches the bottom step, Cornelius calls his name. Edwards turns.

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

Then the heavy oak door shuts, and a light breeze scalds Edward’s cheeks with ice.

Chapter Eighteen

She has worried he might be late, but Mr. Lawrence is already waiting outside the shop by the time Dora unlocks the door. He steps over the threshold blowing air loudly into his hands and, furtive, she raises a finger to her lips. He nods, chin disappearing into the folds of his scarf, and Dora carefully closes the door behind him, one hand reached up to cup the bell and mute its chime.

Strains of coffeehouse merriment temper the dark quiet, drunken laughter penetrating the walls in a low almost-hum. Behind her on his perch Hermes chirps. Mr. Lawrence flinches.

“He will not harm you, Mr. Lawrence,” she murmurs, and her companion shoots the bird a wary look.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Quite sure.”

Dora put a hesitant emphasis on the word “quite” and Mr. Lawrence now looks at her sharply. Despite her apprehension of what they might find in the basement below—for their earlier conversation is still branded on her mind—she manages to chuckle under her breath.

“One can never be too sure. Come, we shouldn’t linger.”

“No,” he replies quietly, but as she turns to guide him to the back of the shop, Dora frowns.