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“No, damn you,” Dora chokes out. “I won’t hear this. I can’t hear it! You have broken my trust completely. What about my reputation? What of that? I could hang for this, don’t you see?”

It is as if she has slapped him. Edward sits back heavily in his seat. In the darkness she cannot see his face, nor that of Mr. Ashmole, and Dora is glad of it for seeing them may very well undo her completely. All that exists between them is the sound of their breathing, the thundering whistle of the wind.

“Dora...”

The sigh in Edward’s voice is too much. Decided, she thumps her fist on the carriage roof. She cannot stay another minute with them. Not one. The carriage judders from side to side a moment before slowing, its brakes creaking over the cobbled road.

“Dora,” Edward pleads now, “don’t, you’ll—”

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Lawrence,” she says coldly. “I dare say I can manage well enough without you. Better, I should think.”

The carriage comes to a stop.

“Dora, I—”

“Oh, Edward, leave her,” Mr. Ashmole interjects again. “It’s interesting, don’t you think, that Miss Blake should make such a fuss? Perhaps she has something to hide after all.”

“For pity’s sake, Cornelius,” Edward snaps, “not now. Dora, please!”

But Dora has already stepped down from the carriage, the wind a sharp bite on her cheek. With a pointed look at them both that could freeze water, she slams the door hard behind her and turns fast away into the night.

***

Dear Dora,

There are a great many things I wish to say to you, but I feel it best that I explain myself in person. Please know, however, that you are entirely mistaken in your beliefs. Cornelius has enlightened me as to the precise conversation which passed between you last night. I can only apologize for his behavior and, of course, for mine. I should have told you what I was writing, and why. I have been a complete and selfish fool. I sincerely wish to set things right between us, and that upon hearing my explanation I might in turn beg your forgiveness. You must understand how much your friendship has meant to me. I sincerely hope it may continue.

We are due to arrive at Lord Hamilton’s this evening for six o’clock. Cornelius has kindly agreed to send a carriage for you at a half past the hour of five, and I implore you to take it and join us there. The party will not be the same without you. I am sure Sir William only invited us for your sake, after all.

Yours,

Edward

Dora sits on the edge of the stool behind the counter, her head buried deep in her hands. Above her on his perch Hermes sleeps, his own head tucked beneath his wing.

It is a quarter to ten, and she has already cleaned and aired the shop by opening the door—has purchased sprigs of lavender from the hawker who stuck her head inside—in a bid to disguise the smell of fermented booze and the subtle stench of Hezekiah’s sodden bandages that have begun to filter their way through from the main house. Out here on the shop floor it is not so bad, but every now and then Dora catches an unsavory whiff.

Behind her she hears the distant sounds of Lottie clattering in the kitchen. The slice of bread and cheese she pilfered from the larder earlier this morning are not near enough to stem her hunger. Ignoring the grumble in her belly she thinks instead of Edward, and feels a rush of rage.

How could he? To do such a thing behind her back, to risk all she has and is for the sake of his own career, is unpardonable. She did not think this possible of him. After all they have shared together... And yet, what does she know of Edward, really? Dora thinks back on those times she felt he held himself at a remove from her, the things he left unsaid, the shared looks between him and Mr. Ashmole the day she visited them at Clevendale. Dora lifts her head from her hands. Oh, how can she have been so hideously misled?

She runs a finger over Edward’s letter on the counter in front of her, and her thoughts turn to Sir William. They barely exchanged words at all. No, indeed, Edward commandeered his attention completely. What was it he spoke to Sir William about? A part of Dora is tempted not to attend the dinner at all, but she knows her absence will achieve nothing, would only serve to torture her. No, she must go. And she must, Dora decides, speak with Sir William alone.

The bell sounds behind her. She need not turn to see who it is—she can smell him already, like a cadaver in a ditch.

“You returned late.”

Hezekiah croaks the comment and Dora has no sympathy. If he insists on drinking himself into a coma then it is nothing to her.

“I did,” she says, not looking at him.

There is a long pause.

“You cleaned.”

“Someone had to.”

He grunts, comes full into the shop, leg dragging. Dora folds Edward’s letter, slips it into the pocket of her skirts.