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“Hezekiah.”

“What.”

“What of Dora?”

“What of her?”

“You said you had a place for her. What did you mean by that?”

Hezekiah stares unseeing in front of him.

“I went to your old bawd. She has a room for her, when I’m ready.”

He hears Lottie’s intake of breath, the scratchy pull of air in her throat.

“No. You can’t.”

“I can, and I will.”

“But—”

Above them, there is an almighty hammering. The bell jingles loudly on its coil, a painfully tinny screech.

Lottie turns, pulls herself up the stairs—for Hezekiah the feat takes far longer—and by the time they both have reached the shop floor, the door is trembling dangerously in its casement.

“Hang on, hang on!” Hezekiah shouts, panting as he grapples along the shelves. A faux-Wedgwood bowl falls to the floor and shatters.

“Open up, Blake! Open this door, damn you!”

Hezekiah stops short; his innards turn a sickly somersault.

Hell’s teeth, it is Coombe.

Hezekiah swallows, raises a shaking hand.

“Lottie, don’t—” But it is no use, for Lottie has already drawn the bolt across.

The door is opened only by a mere crack, but instantly Lottie is flown aside as the door is flung wide and Coombe barges through it. The man stops as his eyes adjust to the gloom, searching through it for Hezekiah. When he sees him Coombe comes forward, arms outstretched, and Hezekiah cowers, must grip the shelf for support.

Coombe has him by the collar in an instant. Behind him the shelf tips, and there is a deafening crash as the rest of the forged Wedgwood falls to the floor.

“He’s dead!” Coombe is shouting, and Hezekiah smells rotting flesh. “He’s dead, he is dead, and it is your fault, yours!”

With each cry of “dead” Coombe gives him a hard shake, making Hezekiah’s teeth chatter in his skull. Above the hum of blood in his ears, Hezekiah thinks he can hear Lottie shrieking.

“Who is dead?” he gasps, and then he feels—to his utter shame—piss begin to soak through his trousers, begin to pit-pat-pit on the floorboards.

“Who is dead?” Coombe’s eyes widen, the whites of them stark in the dark. “Who is dead?”

The man breaks off into a laugh that holds no humor, and he releases his quarry. Hezekiah falls, cries out as he hits the ground, for he lands on the overturned shelf, on the shards of broken pottery. Coombe is turning away, tearing frantically at his hair.

“That’s just like you, isn’t it, Hezekiah Blake? To not remember, or even care, selfish bastard that you are.” He looks back at him. Hezekiah sees for the first time that his face is wet with tears. “Don’t you even know his name?”

“Samuel.”

Lottie’s voice. Coombe sighs.

“Yes. Samuel. The fever took him. You should have seen...” His voice cracks. Coombe puts his head in his hands, and for a time there is only the sound of his sobbing.