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“I’m leaving for Paris on Thursday with my sister. This was my only chance to come,” Ruby told her.

“Paris?” Viola said, still not sure why either of them were there.

“I’m being exiled,” Ruby said, her voice suddenly heavy with fury.

Viola frowned, not understanding.

“She’ll be out of the city for a while—a few months,” Theo explained. “Her family thought it best if she…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why would you bring her here?” Viola demanded.

Theo looked abashed. “She was quite insistent—”

“I threatened to come on my own if he didn’t,” Ruby clarified. “I couldn’t leave without knowing—” She glanced at where Abel stood, waiting a few paces beyond Viola. “Could we could go somewhere more private to speak? Ferrara’s, perhaps, or…”

“We have to go,” Abel reminded Viola. “Jianyu can’t wait.”

Viola glanced at Abel and knew from the unease shadowing his voice that this was no lie or bluff. Still, she turned back to Ruby. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

The color drained from Ruby’s cheeks, but she didn’t argue.

“With him?” Theo frowned at Abel. “Do you really think that’s wise?”

“Yes,” Viola said, but Theo’s expression still remained creased with doubt. “Mr. Johnson is a friend.”

“But we came all this way—”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Viola said, her heart firmly in her throat and her eyes burning with unshed tears. “Good-bye, Theo. Good-bye, Miss Reynolds.” She stepped around the two and started walking toward where she hoped Abel’s carriage would be waiting.

She hadn’t gone more than three paces, when someone grabbed her arm. Viola turned on her heel, expecting it to be Theo, but it was Ruby whose fingers were wrapped around her wrist. Suddenly the day felt too warm—her skin felt too warm. Suddenly Viola couldn’t breathe.

“I know what you must think of me,” Ruby said, pausing as though to steady her voice. “But please—” Her voice broke, and Viola realized that Ruby was pressing a folded piece of paper into her hand. “This is for you. Whatever you may think of me, read it? Please?”

Viola stood shocked and frozen. It would be so easy to reach for Ruby, to return the gentle pressure she felt as Ruby gripped her hand. Instead, Viola pulled away—turned away—and as her heart ached, she walked on.

Abel had caught up to her a few seconds later. At first he didn’t speak, but Viola could feel his interest. “He’s not happy you’re going with me,” Abel said finally, tossing a glance behind them as they rounded a corner. “Neither of them is.”

Viola felt strangely numb. The paper was still crumpled in her fist, the day was too warm, and yet she felt nothing at all. Nothing but an aching regret in the space where her heart had once beat steady and sure.

“You don’t think he’ll cause trouble, do you?” Abel asked.

Viola realized then that Abel was speaking to her and that he sounded strangely nervous. “Who? Theo?” She glanced up at Abel, who looked uncomfortable. “Why would he?”

“He seemed… concerned.” Abel frowned.

“He’s a man.” Viola gave him an impatient look. “Isn’t this what you men do? Interfere with the lives of women who aren’t asking for your help?”

“I think he might be more concerned about the color of my skin.” Abel’s voice had a strange dullness to it. “And the color of yours.”

Viola turned to him, understanding dawning, but she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “I’m nothing to Theo Barclay. He’s one of them—a rich boy, born con la camicia. And what am I? No one. An immigrant. An Italiana. And with the old magic as well.”

“I don’t think he sees it like that,” Abel said.

“You know what they call us, don’t you? Verme. Dagos. Filthy Guineas,” Viola told him, snapping the words out. “No better than—” She stopped, her stomach twisting.

Abel’s gaze was steady, as though he knew what she’d been about to say. “You sure look like a white woman to me. And whether you realize it or not, you become one to him the second we’re together.”

They stood there for a long moment, neither one looking away. Neither one willing to budge, even as the air grew tense between them.